Thanks to the knowledge of the naturalist, many vegetables were found on shore which contributed greatly to restore the health of the scurvy-stricken patients. Although in many respects the ship could not have remained at a more satisfactory place, a view to the eastward, obtained from some high ground, caused serious apprehensions. As far as the eye could reach were rocks and shoals without number, while it was evident that there would be great danger in navigating among the winding channels between them. The master, who had been engaged in surveying the mouth of the harbour, brought an equally unsatisfactory report, and it seemed surprising that the ship on entering the bay could have escaped the numerous dangers in her way. As provisions were running short, it was necessary to put to sea as soon as possible; but heavy gales kept the ship in harbour until the 4th of August, when at length she made her way out of Endeavour Harbour. For many hours, with the most vigilant care, she was steered among the reefs, until night approaching, and it coming on to blow, it was necessary to bring up. The gale increased, and she began to drive. By striking her yards, and then her topmasts, she at length rode securely. Here she remained for four days, until Captain Cook resolved to try and find a passage inside the reefs, close to the shore. At last, by the long rolling swell which set in from the eastward, he was convinced that he was free of the reefs; but the movement caused the ship to leak, and serious apprehensions were entertained that she would be unable to accomplish the voyage. His object was to ascertain whether the coast of New Holland, along which he was sailing, was or was not united to that of New Guinea. By standing on he was afraid that, should a passage exist, he might overshoot it. The ship was therefore hove to. The next morning a reef was seen, over which the surf was breaking with terrific violence. The current rapidly carried the ship towards it, the wind fell to a dead calm, and it was impossible to anchor on account of the depth of the sea. The only two boats fit for the service were sent ahead to tow, and the sweeps were got out; but all their efforts seemed to be unavailing, and her destruction seemed inevitable, when a light air sprang up, and she was able to get to some distance. Twice the breeze dropping, she was carried back towards the roaring breakers, until an opening was seen in the reef, through which she safely passed.

Day after day, keeping the land close aboard, Captain Cook sailed northward, until his perseverance was rewarded by the discovery of Cape York, the northern extremity of Australia, and the southern side of Torres Straits, through which he passed.

Having landed, and taken possession of the whole eastern coast in the right of his Majesty King George the Third, he called it New South Wales. Having found his way through the intricate navigation of the straits, Cook sailed northward along the coast of New Guinea, and at last came to an anchor in three fathoms of water, though still three or four miles from the shore. He then, with Mr Banks, Dr Solander, and others, landed, well armed. They made their way round a wood, until they reached a group of cocoa-nut trees, at about a quarter of a mile from the beach, when suddenly three blacks rushed out of the wood, the foremost of whom threw something from his hand which burnt like gunpowder, while the others darted their lances.

Though some small shots were discharged at the savages, they still came on, throwing their darts; but some bullets fired put them to flight, and it was hoped none were injured. On looking round, they saw the men in charge of the boat making signs that more natives were approaching, and presently a hundred appeared, shouting, throwing their darts, and sending out clouds of smoke from long tubes. As they were watched from the ship, it appeared that they were using firearms, though the sound was wanting. Some muskets being discharged over their heads, the savages retreated leisurely.

Besides other discoveries, Captain Cook on this voyage ascertained the size of New Zealand, also that the coast of New Holland was fit to become the habitation of civilised man, and that that vast territory was separated from New Guinea. The condition of the Endeavour made it now necessary to carry her to some harbour where she might undergo a complete refit. The nearest place was Batavia, belonging to the Dutch. He was aware of its unhealthiness, but he had no choice, and hoped that his crew would escape. Passing Timor, he came off the island of Savu, not at that time marked in the charts, but which had lately been taken possession of by the Dutch, though its native Rajah still remained its nominal ruler.

From this fertile spot abundance of provisions were obtained at fair prices. Java Head was reached on the ist of October. Poor Tupia was very ill, and Mr Banks at once sent on shore to procure fresh provisions for him. The ship proceeded on to Batavia. Here Cook was received with all courtesy and kindness by the Dutch Governor, and every assistance afforded him to repair the Endeavour. She was in a worse state than had been supposed. Her frame was much shattered, her pumps were rotten, and the planking in some places was not half an inch thick.

Tupia at first seemed to revive as he witnessed the wonders of a civilised community, but he soon experienced a reaction. Young Tayeto was also seized with an inflammation of the lungs, and Mr Banks, Dr Solander, Mr Monkhouse, and others were taken seriously ill. Tents were set up on shore for the invalids, but before long the surgeon succumbed. A few days afterwards young Tayeto died, and Tupia, who loved him as a son, was so much affected that he quickly followed him to the grave.

Mr Banks and Dr Solander rapidly recovered on being removed to a more healthy spot, but seven persons were buried at Batavia, and others imbibed the seeds of disease, which in the end proved fatal. When the Endeavour sailed from Batavia on the 26th of December, 1770, she had forty sick on board, and many others in feeble condition; and before she reached the Cape of Good Hope three-and-twenty persons died, in addition to those who were buried at Batavia.

On anchoring in Table Bay the sick were sent on shore, where most of them recovered. At that time Cape Town consisted of about a thousand brick houses with thatched roofs, and the inhabitants described the country as sterile, so as not to tempt the English to take possession of it.

Shortly after leaving the Cape, the master and first lieutenant, Mr Hicks, died. The latter was succeeded by Mr Charles Clerke, who accompanied Captain Cook in all his subsequent voyages.

Calling off Saint Helena, Captain Cook found there the Portland man-of-war, commanded by Captain Elliot, with whom he deposited his logs and other valuable papers, for fear that the Endeavour should not reach home.

The Portland and her convoy of twelve Indiamen were soon out of sight. Though the sails and rigging of the Endeavour were rotten, and she leaked considerably, she ultimately reached the Downs on the 12th of June.



Chapter Twenty Six.

Captain Cook's Second Voyage -- A.D. 1772.

Supposed great southern land -- Exploring expedition formed -- Captain Cook appointed commander -- Equipment of the Resolution and Adventure -- Sail from Plymouth -- Reported discovery by the French -- Steer south -- Land-like appearance of the ice -- Intense cold -- Separation of the ships -- Icebergs --  Sail from the Antarctic regions for New Zealand -- Reach Dusky Bay -- Health of the crew -- Intercourse with the natives -- Visit the ship -- Garden planted -- Live stock left -- Sail for Queen Charlotte's Sound -- Fall in with the Adventure -- Traffic with the natives -- Voyage continued -- Scurvy on board Captain Furneaux's ship -- Sail for Otaheite -- Nearly on a reef --  Natives visit the ship -- Propensity to steal -- Treatment -- Interview with the King -- Sail for Matavia Bay -- Sail for Huaheine -- Behaviour of the chief -- A native is taken on board -- Leave the Society Islands -- Steer for Middleburg and Amsterdam -- Reception -- Description of the country -- Object of the voyage continued -- Quantities of ice -- Illness of the commander --  Easter Island -- Ancient monuments -- Sail for the Marquesas -- Anchor at Nombre de Dios -- The Indians come on board -- A savage killed -- Return to Otaheite -- Native expedition against Eimeo -- Voyage continued -- Savage Island -- The Tonga group -- At Erromongo -- Quarrel with the natives -- Tamia --  Native cultivation -- A new island discovered -- Reception by the natives --  New Caledonia -- Norfolk Island -- News of the Adventure -- Reach Christmas Sound -- The natives -- Sandwich Land -- Vain search for Cape Circumcision --  Steer for the Cape of Good Hope -- News of an accident which befell the Adventure -- Sail for England -- Results of the voyage.

Before the return of Captain Cook to England it was supposed that New Guinea, New Holland, and New Zealand formed one great southern land, denominated Terra Australis Incognita. Though he had proved that these were islands, it was still supposed that there existed a great southern land, which had been seen by a French officer, Captain Bouvet, in 1739.

To determine whether such a land did exist, it was resolved to send out another expedition, the command of which was offered to Captain Cook. He gladly accepted it, and chose two vessels -- the Resolution, of four hundred and sixty-two tons, on board of which he sailed, and the Adventure, of three hundred and thirty-six tons, of which Captain Tobias Furneaux was made commander. Two astronomers, Messrs. Wales and Bayley; three naturalists, Mr Foster and his son, a Swede -- Dr Sparrmann; and a landscape painter, accompanied the expedition.

An abundant supply of provisions of an anti-scorbutic nature was placed on board. Each ship also carried a vessel in frame of twenty tons, to serve as tenders. The Resolution had a complement of one hundred and twelve officers and men, and the Adventure of eighty-one. Fishing-nets, hooks, and articles of all sorts to barter with the savages were put on board; indeed, no exploring expedition had ever left England so well equipped.

After frequent delays the two ships left Plymouth on the 13th of July, 1772, and shaped a course for Madeira. Merely touching at Funchal, they took in a supply of water at the Cape de Verdes. The two ships then sailed for the Cape of Good Hope.

Here the Governor informed Captain Cook that a French ship had discovered land in the meridian of the Mauritius, in latitude 48 degrees south, and that a French expedition, under Captain Marion, was now exploring the South Pacific. On the 22nd of November Captain Cook left the Cape of Good Hope, and steered a course towards Cape Circumcision, the name given to the point of land which Captain Bouvet supposed to be a part of the southern continent.

As the ships got farther south, the weather became so cold that much of their live stock died. On the 10th of December an island of ice was seen, after which thick hazy weather came on. While the Resolution was leading, an iceberg was discerned from her deck. It was about fifty feet high, with perpendicular sides, against which the sea broke furiously. Captain Furneaux, mistaking it for land, hauled his wind. Other navigators probably have been deceived as he was. Day after day the ship sailed on among icebergs, exposed to storms of rain and sleet and constant storms, although it was the middle of summer.

Captain Cook now steered to the west, hoping to get round the ice and reach the highest position of Cape Circumcision; but he finally came to the conclusion that Captain Bouvet had mistaken some lofty icebergs surrounded by field ice for land.

The ships were thus engaged until the 8th of February, when, during thick weather, the Adventure was separated from the Resolution. For three days Captain Cook cruised in search of her, and was at last compelled to proceed. Here numerous whales were seen, and flocks of antarctic petrels. While two of the boats were engaged in collecting loose ice off an iceberg, to melt for water, it was seen to lean over until it completely turned bottom up, though it thus lost neither in height nor size. The boats providentially escaped. By the middle of March, the antarctic summer being over, Captain Cook shaped a course for New Zealand, where he intended to recruit his crew and refit the ship. On the 26th he entered Dusky Bay in the middle island, having sailed over nearly ten thousand miles without having once sighted land. His crew had been kept in excellent health by the anti-scorbutic provisions on which they were fed, and by the frequent airing of the ship by fires. A snug harbour having been found, the ship was warped into it, and places forthwith cleared in which the observatories, forge, and the tents were set up. By the suggestion of Captain Cook, wholesome beer was brewed from the leaves of a tree resembling the American black spruce; indeed, he at all times attended to the most minute points calculated to maintain the health of his people.

A few families of natives only were met with. One of these having taken up their quarters near the watering-place, soon became intimate. They looked with perfect indifference on the trinkets offered them, but evidently set a high value on hatchets and spike nails.

The head of the family and his daughter paid a visit to the ship. Before stepping on board, however, he presented a couple of talc hatchets to the captain and Mr Foster, and the girl gave one to Mr Hodges. He also waved a green branch, with which he struck the ship, and made a speech before coming on board.

On a shooting expedition another party of natives was met with, the chief of whom approached with a plant in his hand, one end of which he presented to the captain, while he himself held the other. After making a speech, he took off his cloak, which he placed on Cook's shoulders. After this he and his companions attended the English to the boat, and assisted in launching her, and seemed much inclined to carry off anything they could lay hands on.

Captain Cook, according to his universal plan, here left five geese in a retired cove, hoping that by multiplying they might benefit the natives. He also had a garden dug, and sown with seeds of various sorts.

Leaving this harbour, the Resolution sailed for Queen Charlotte's Sound, encountering on the way no less than six waterspouts of unusual size. A gun was got ready to fire, but they all passed by without touching her. On reaching their destination, the Adventure, to the satisfaction of all, was found to have arrived there first. At Queen Charlotte's Sound a garden was also planted, and Captain Cook gave the natives some potatoes, explaining their use, and the mode of cultivating them. A boar and two sows, and a pair of goats, were likewise landed. The natives appeared to be friendly, and some came on board with their children, for whom they hoped to obtain presents, though at first it was supposed with the intention of selling them. To one of the boys, about ten years old, a white shirt had been given, and he went about showing it until he encountered an old goat, who knocked him over into some dirt. The boy was inconsolable until his shirt had been washed and dried. While a party of the natives were on board, a large canoe was seen coming into the harbour. Some of the natives hurried on shore to look after the women and children, but two who remained begged the captain to fight for them, and fire at the strangers.

The latter, however, came alongside without fear. Their first question was for Tupia. On hearing that he was dead, some of them expressed their sorrow. Among those he saw, Captain Cook did not recognise a single person he knew when there in 1770, and he concluded, therefore, that the entire population had changed since then.

The Resolution and Adventure once more proceeded on their voyage, on the 7th of June, 1773, it being Captain Cook's intention to explore the unknown part of the Southern Ocean between New Zealand and Cape Horn. After they had been the greater part of the month at sea, Captain Furneaux sent word that the scurvy had broken out on board his ship, that the cook had died, and that twenty men were ill. It appeared that her people had neglected to eat vegetables while at Queen Charlotte's Sound, and since they had been at sea, Captain Cook had from the first insisted on having wild celery, scurvy-grass, and other herbs boiled with the peas and wheat, both for officers and men. He consequently had only three men ill, and one alone of scurvy. Instead, therefore, of continuing the cruise to the southward, he determined to put into Otaheite. Several low islands, on which cocoa-nut trees grew, were seen on the way. Having reached the south-east end of Otaheite, the two ships being together, at daybreak they found themselves not half a league from a reef, towards which the send of the sea, the wind having fallen, was drifting them rapidly. To anchor was impossible. A passage was discovered through the reef, but a boat being sent ahead to sound, it was found there was not sufficient water for the ships to pass on. The horrors of shipwreck threatened the explorers. Closer and closer they drove to the reef. At last the anchors were let go. The Resolution was brought up in less than three fathoms, striking at every fall of the sea. The Adventure, however, remained afloat. Kedge anchors and hawsers were immediately carried out, which would have availed but little had not the tide turned, and a light breeze coming off shore, both vessels making sail, got safely to sea.

On anchoring close in shore in the Bay of Oaiti-piha, numbers of natives came off, bringing numerous fruits and vegetables, which they exchanged for nails and beads; but the petty chiefs were greatly addicted to pilfering and cheating in every possible way, and on one occasion the whole party being found stealing, they were turned out of the ship and two muskets fired over their heads to frighten them. They took to flight, leaving a little boy, who was at first greatly alarmed, but having been kindly treated and some beads given him, he was sent safely on shore. This at once restored the confidence of the natives.

On another occasion a native seized a musket from one of the sentinels and made off with it. He was seen, however, by one of the chiefs, and his prize restored. On the following day the chief brought a quantity of cocoa-nuts tied up in bundles, but on opening them it was found that they were empty. The chief did not seem disconcerted, but acknowledged, after opening two or three himself, that the inside had been extracted. He afterwards, to make amends, sent off a quantity of plantains and bananas.

After an interview with the King Waheatoua, whom Cook had formerly known under the name of Tearee, the ships sailed for Matavia Bay. Before they anchored, a large number of natives came off. Among them was the King Otoo. Next day Captain Cook and some of his officers set off to visit him. He was found seated on the ground under the shade of a tree, with a large crowd round him, all standing with bare heads and shoulders in mark of respect. Captain Cook having given the presents he had brought, King Otoo inquired for Tupia and for several officers who had been on board the Endeavour. Afterwards coming on board, when, entering the cabin, several of the chiefs who had been there before, uncovered their shoulders, although they showed no other mark of respect. He took an especial fancy to the bagpipes. In return for the civilities he had received, he entertained the voyagers with a dramatic performance, in which his sister, elegantly dressed in a robe of feathers, took part.

Leaving this place, the ships anchored in the harbour of Owharre, in the island of Huaheine. Abundance of provisions were exchanged, and the chief Oree, who had on Cook's former voyage exchanged names with him, was still living, and now seemed greatly rejoiced to see him again. Friendly intercourse was maintained with the people. Notwithstanding this, Mr Sparrmann, one day while wandering in the woods, was robbed of his clothes and hanger. Oree, on hearing of it, shed tears, and by his personal exertions recovered most of the articles.

From this island Captain Furneaux received on board his ship a young man named Omai, who was anxious to accompany him; but he was not a chief, and was inferior in figure, complexion, and manners to most of them.

Ulietea was also visited. Here also a friendly intercourse was kept up with the natives. Captain Cook, who had before praised the inhabitants of these islands greatly, now discovered many of their horrible habits and customs; among others he found that human sacrifices were offered up at their Morais, the victims frequently being persons to whom the priests had taken a dislike, and who, unsuspicious of their intended fate, were knocked on the head.

After leaving the Society Islands, Cook steered west for Middleburg and Amsterdam, discovered by Tasman. At the first island the explorers met with an enthusiastic reception. The chief conducted the officers to his dwelling, which was built near the shore at the head of a fine lawn, under the shade of some shaddock-trees, in a most delightful situation. Here they were entertained and invited to join in a kava feast. Cook was the only person who ventured to taste the beverage.

Leaving this island, they steered for Amsterdam or Tonga Taboo. The natives welcomed them with white flags. When Cook landed, their chief Attago conducted him over part of the country; and so fair was its aspect, that he could fancy himself transported into the most fertile plains of Europe; not a spot of waste ground was to be seen. Fences were often formed of useful plants, and the road occupied as little space as possible. In other places the inhabitants resembled those of the Society Islands.

As it was now time to prosecute his researches in high southern latitudes, he sailed on the 7th of October, and having sighted Pilstart, he on the 21st descried the land of New Zealand, though, owing to contrary winds, he did not reach Queen Charlotte's Sound until the 3rd of November, having in the meantime lost sight of the Adventure. He here remained three or four weeks, waiting for her appearance, and then sailed in the hopes of completing the circle round the pole in a high latitude.

This was a most dreary part of his voyage. Immense masses of ice were seen, and occasionally the antarctic petrels, grey albatrosses, and some other birds; but there were few other objects of interest to amuse the minds of the crew. Often the ship was in great peril from icebergs. At one time no less than ninety-seven were seen within a field of ice, besides a number outside, many of them very large, and looking like a range of mountains rising one above another until they were lost sight of in the clouds. The outer or northern edge of this field was composed of loose or broken ice, so closely packed together that it was impossible for the ship to enter it. Since therefore he could not proceed farther to the south, he determined to stand back in search of a more genial clime. Many of his crew were suffering, and he himself was seized with so dangerous an illness that his life was despaired of. Unable to leave his cabin, Mr Cooper, his first officer, took charge of the ship. When he began to recover, a favourite dog, belonging to Mr Forster, was killed to supply him with fresh meat and broth.

The first land made was Easter Island, which had been in vain looked for by Byron, Cartaret, and Bougainville. There was no anchoring-ground, and but a very small supply of fresh provisions or water. The inhabitants, numbering between six and seven hundred, had made less progress in the arts than any other tribes of Polynesia. The objects of chief interest in the island were gigantic statues, some from fifteen to twenty-seven feet in height; on the head of each was a cylindrical block of red-coloured stone, wrought perfectly round. The carving on the upper portion resembling a human head and breast -- was rude, though the nose and chin were fairly delineated, while the ears were of a length out of all proportion. The natives paid the statues no respect, and it appeared unlikely that they could have been carved by the ancestors of the present inhabitants.

From Easter Island Cook steered northward, until he came in sight of the Marquesas, discovered by Mendana. Passing between Dominica and Santa Christina, he came to an anchor in the port called Nombre de Dios by the Spaniards. A number of canoes immediately came off, their occupants richly tattooed, bringing bread -- fruit and fish, which they willingly exchanged for nails. In each canoe was a heap of stones, and every man had a sling tied round his hand. Next morning many more came off and began to barter, and the deck was soon crowded. One of the savages stole an iron stanchion, when, as a warning, Cook gave an order to the marines to fire over the canoe in which the plunderer was making off. Unfortunately a marine aiming at him, shot him dead.

They, however, returned after some time, and again began bartering; but some of the gentlemen incautiously introduced new articles of trade, which were eagerly sought for, especially red feathers. When these were not to be obtained, the savages refused to bring off more provisions. Cook had to sail away without them.

He now steered nearly south-west, until the most easterly of King George's Islands was reached. Hence he returned to Otaheite, where he was warmly welcomed by the natives. Here provisions had become very plentiful. Numerous new habitations had been erected, and an immense number of canoes, destined for an expedition against Eimeo, were drawn up along the beach.

Some of the war canoes were from fifty to ninety feet long. In all there were three hundred and thirty vessels, carrying nine thousand seven hundred and sixty warriors and rowers, dressed in breast-plates and turbans or helmets, while other warriors were armed with clubs, spears, and stones. Having refitted the ship, Cook sailed for Huaheine, where he found his old friend Oree as kind as ever. They were received in the most affectionate manner by him and his family. The old chief wept when he heard that Captain Cook was not likely again to return, and inquired where he would be buried. When Cook replied "At Stepney," a hundred voices instantly echoed "Stepney mariai no Toote!" Toote being the name by which the natives called Cook.

Here Oedidee, who had been so long on board, was landed, greatly to the grief of the young islander, who, as he looked up at the ship, burst into tears, and then sank down into the canoe which was conveying him ashore.

After leaving Olietea, the Resolution proceeded westward, sighting Howe Island, seen by Captain Wallis, and afterwards an island before unknown, to which the name of Palmerston was given. On the 20th of June she came in sight of an island eleven leagues in circuit. Keeping the ship well out to sea, Captain Cook in vain attempted to open a communication with the natives, who, regardless of the muskets pointed at them, rushed forward, shaking their spears. One man darted his weapon at Captain Cook, who, to defend himself, pulled his trigger, but his musket missed fire. Unwilling to shed blood, he and his companions retired to their boat. In consequence of the fierce behaviour of the natives, he named this Savage Island.

After leaving this place, the Resolution steered westward, or west-south-west, until a string of islands was seen ahead, which proved to be those of the Tonga group. A canoe came off. At first the inhabitants appeared to be friendly, but various thefts were committed. Mr Clark's gun was snatched out of his hand, and another savage seized a fowling-piece belonging to the surgeon, who was out shooting. The marines were therefore landed, and took possession of two large double sailing canoes; but the chiefs restored the articles, and brought on board a man who had been slightly wounded by small shot, stretched on a board as if dead. They seemed to think the captain wanted him. On examination, he proved to be very slightly hurt, and his wounds were dressed.

After leaving the Friendly Islands, the Australis del Esperito Santo of Quiros was reached. Sailing round it, Cook proved it to be an island. Passing another, which the natives called Ambrym, he anchored the next day off another island, of which he discovered the name to be Mallicolo. The natives were hideous in appearance and very dark, while their language differed entirely from that of the other South Sea Islands. Having passed several more islands, he again anchored, on the 3rd of August, on the south-east side of Erromango. Here a large number of people assembled as the boat pulled for the shore. Cook landed with only a green branch in his hand, and offered a number of presents to the chief, which were accepted. Still the natives were armed with clubs, spears, bows and arrows, and kept advancing in a suspicious manner. On this the captain stepped back into the boat, when the islanders, rushing forward, attempted to drag her up the beach. Others snatched at the oars. In this predicament he was compelled to raise his gun, but the piece only flashed in the pan. The savages now began throwing stones, darts, and shooting their arrows, one of the crew being wounded in the chin. Captain Cook now ordered his men to fire. The first discharge threw the savages into confusion, but a second was hardly sufficient to drive them from the beach. They then retired behind the trees, from which they continued to shoot their arrows. The boat succeeded in getting off, and returning to the ship. Cook now ordered a gun to be fired, and a shot was pitched among the crowd. Happily no one was killed, but it prevented all further communication with the savages, who too probably did not forget the way they had been treated.

After leaving Erromango, Cook steered for another island, which was called Tanna, and on which a volcano was seen in full activity. The natives, coming off, proved to be daring thieves, some attempting to steal even the rings from the rudder. An effort was made to carry off the buoys, but a musket or two, fired over their heads, had the effect of driving them off. One old man, who said his name was Paowang, continued to bring off provisions, and barter with the English. After some time Cook, with a well-armed party, landed, but the natives, instead of being frightened, began to use such threatening gestures that it was necessary to fire upon them. At the same time the guns opened from the ship. At first the savages dispersed, but soon came back in a humble manner, and there appeared every probability that they would prove submissive.

After this the English were able to make excursions in various parts of the island, while old Paowang enabled them to obtain as much wood as was required, as also bread-fruit, plantains, and cocoa-nuts.

Black and savage as were the inhabitants, every hill was covered with plantations. The vegetation was luxuriant, and the valleys watered by sparkling streams. Having surveyed the whole of the group, Captain Cook left Tanna on the 20th of August, and stood for New Zealand. On her course to the north-west a fourth island was discovered, and, passing through a reef, the ship came to an anchor. The natives, in numerous canoes, came alongside, and were invited on board. Although naked, with the exception of the usual wrapper, they were intelligent, and examined with much interest the goats, hogs, ducks, dogs, and cats. Some were invited into the cabin, but would touch none of the provisions except some yams.

Afterwards Captain Cook landed, and all the chiefs made speeches. One of them, Teabooma, especially, showing a friendly disposition, was of great use in obtaining water, fuel, and provisions. Though hundreds of natives came on board, not a theft was committed. In some respects the country resembled New Holland, but the sides of the mountains and other places had an especially dreary aspect. The natives had made some advances out of a purely savage state. They lived in well-thatched circular huts, some of which had two fireplaces, and some even two stories, while their canoes were of large size.

Such was the first knowledge obtained of New Caledonia, and it was considered, with the exception of New Zealand, the largest island in the Pacific. To the south of it a small island was seen, to which the name of the Isle of Pines was given, on account of the number of tall trees growing on it.

Some of these were cut down for spars, and the Resolution then bore away for New Zealand.

On the 10th of October a small island was discovered, rising to a great height out of the ocean, and bearing numbers of spruce pine and cabbage-palms. It was uninhabited, and possibly no human being had ever before landed there. The name of Norfolk Island was given to it, and it was afterwards used by the British as a station for twice-convicted prisoners.

On the 18th of October the Resolution anchored in Ship Cove, near Mount Egmont, in New Zealand. The conduct of the natives was suspicious. They found that the Adventure had been there, and feared from what was said that some accident had happened to her; what it was could not be made out.

On the 10th of November Captain Cook again sailed, and on the 20th of December reached a harbour at the western entrance of the Straits of Magellan, to which the name of "Christmas Sound" was given. Here a number of natives made their appearance in nine canoes: a little, ugly, half-starved, beardless race. Their clothing consisted of two or three seal-skins, forming a cloak. Some had only one sealskin, and the women wore a sort of apron. On the 28th the Resolution again sailed, and rounded Cape Horn the next morning. She afterwards put into Success Bay, in the Straits of Le Maire, where a notice was left for Captain Furneaux, should he call there. Vast numbers of sea-lions, bears, geese, and ducks were obtained, the former for the sake of their blubber, from which oil was made. On the 3rd of January, 1775, the Resolution was again at sea. Ten days afterwards two islands were discovered -- one being named "Willis's Island," from the man who first saw it, and the other "Bird Island," -- while beyond, land was seen extending for a considerable distance.

On approaching, they landed at three different places, -- the British flag was displayed, and possession of the country taken in his Majesty's name. It was a dreary region, bordered by perpendicular cliffs of considerable height, from which pieces were continually breaking off. Beyond, the country was equally savage and horrible, not even a shrub being seen large enough to make a toothpick.

At first it was supposed to be a continent, but proved, after they had sailed partly round it, to be an island, about seventy leagues in circuit. After passing other islets and rocks, land of considerable extent was discovered, to which the name of "Sandwich Land" or "Southern Thule" was given. It rose to a great height, covered everywhere with snow. While the Resolution was close in with the coast, a great westerly swell sent her nearer and nearer to it. No bottom was found, and a thick haze obscured the land. It appeared too probable that the ship would be dashed to pieces on one of the most horrible coasts in the world. When the fog cleared away, a point appeared, beyond which no land was visible.

After escaping this danger, Captain Cook looked in vain for the long-sought Cape Circumcision. Convinced, at last, that it did not exist, to the delight of all he steered for the Cape of Good Hope. On arriving there he found a letter from Captain Furneaux, giving an account of the massacre of a midshipman and a boat's crew by the natives, who had rushed down on them while at dinner, and clubbed them all.

After being treated with great courtesy by the Dutch, Captain Cook sailed for England on the 27th of April, in company with the Dutton East Indiaman, and on the 30th of July, 1775, he anchored at Spithead, having been absent from home three years and eighteen days.

Besides the numerous important discoveries made by Cook on this voyage, he had shown that, by due attention, the health of a ship's company can be preserved in all climates, and while undergoing extreme toil. His system was to make the crew keep their persons, hammocks, bedding, and clothes clean and dry; to air the ship once or twice every week with fires, or to smoke her with gunpowder mixed with vinegar and water. A fire in an iron pot was frequently lowered to the bottom of the well. The ship's coppers were kept constantly cleaned. Fresh water was taken on board whenever practicable, and vegetables, including scurvy-grass, and greens of all descriptions, were, when possible, obtained. As a remedy against scurvy, sweet wort was found most valuable, two or three pints a day being given to a man on the slightest appearance of the disease. Preparations of potatoes, lemons, and oranges were served out, and a pound of sour-krout was supplied to each man twice a week, while sugar and wheaten flour were found useful, but oatmeal and fish oil were considered to promote scurvy.

The voyage, now completed, was justly considered without a parallel in the history of maritime enterprise. Never, indeed, had any expedition been conducted with greater skill and perseverance. Cook received the honours which were his due. He was raised to the rank of Post-Captain, and named a Captain in Greenwich Hospital, and in February of the following year he was unanimously elected a Fellow of the Royal Society.



Chapter Twenty Seven.

Captain Cook's Third Voyage -- A.D. 1776.

A third voyage planned -- The Resolution and Discovery commissioned --  Expedition sails -- Omai taken on board -- Touch at the Cape of Good Hope --  Van Diemen's Land -- New Zealand -- The Friendly or Tonga Islands reached --  Acquaintance formed with Feenon -- His treacherous designs -- Cook's determined conduct checks the natives -- Visits Otaheite -- Omai shows his true character -- Astonishment of natives on seeing horses ridden -- Omai landed at Huaheine with his property -- His bad conduct and wretched fate -- Desertions at Ulietea -- Live stock landed -- Bolabola and other islands visited -- Unknown islands sighted -- Cook lands -- Natives receive him with deep respect -- Assist the watering party -- Name of Sandwich Islands given to the group -- Ships proceed to coast of America -- Natives come off at Nootka Sound -- Anchor in Prince William's Sound -- The ships enter Behring's Straits -- Turned back by the ice -- Anchor off Oonalaska --  Kind behaviour of the Russian authorities -- The expedition returns to the Sandwich Islands -- Sail round them, and come to an anchor in Karakavoa Bay -- Vast numbers of natives come off -- Cook supposed to be their god Rono -- Honours paid to him -- Ceremonies at a temple -- Ships put to sea --  Compelled to return -- Temper of the natives changed -- Attempts to coerce them -- Death of Captain Cook and several men -- His character -- Captain Clerke succeeds, and makes peace with the natives -- Ships sail in search of a passage round America -- Touch at Saint Peter and Saint Paul --  Courtesy of the Russians -- Ships again compelled to return by the ice --  Death of Captain Clerke -- Captain Gore takes command -- Sails for Macaohigh price obtained for seal-skins -- Commanders of French ships ordered to treat the Adventure and Resolution as neutrals -- Touch at the Cape of Good Hope -- Steer round Scotland, and reach the Nore 4th of October, 1780 -- Remarks on Captain Cook's discoveries -- Notice of his family.

It had long been the desire of scientific men to discover a passage round the north coast of America between the Atlantic and Pacific. In 1773, Captain Phipps, afterwards Lord Mulgrave, went to Baffin's Bay, but had returned without making any important discovery. At a dinner at the house of Lord Sandwich, to which Sir Hugh Palliser, Mr Stevens, Secretary to the Admiralty, and Captain Cook had been invited, the importance of the design was under discussion, when Cook, although he might justly have enjoyed quiet and repose, volunteered to command any expedition which might be undertaken. His offer was accepted. He was at once appointed to the command of the Resolution, and Captain Clerke, who had been with him on each of his previous voyages, received orders to commission the Discovery, a vessel of three hundred tons, fitted out as the Adventure had been. The ships were ready early in July, 1776. Everything that could tend to preserve the health of the crews was put on board, -- warm clothing, as well as numerous animals, garden seeds of all sorts, and iron tools to traffic with the natives, while many things, purely for the benefit of the people, were to be supplied. The chief object of the voyage was to find a passage from the Pacific into the Atlantic; but the Society Islands and other spots were to be visited on the way. The young savage Omai, who had been petted and made a lion of in London, but whose advancement in civilisation was entirely superficial, and who had imbibed no religious principles, was to be restored to his country, under the foolish notion that he would convey to the islanders of the Pacific an exalted idea of the "greatness and majesty of the British nation," as a writer of the day expresses it.

A very brief sketch of this voyage can alone be given. The two ships sailed from Plymouth on the 12th of July, 1776, and reached the Cape of Good Hope on the 10th of November. Again sailing on the 3rd of December, they sighted Marion and the Crozet Islands, and coasted along Kerguelen's Land, which was found to be an island, desolate and sterile in the extreme. On the 24th of January they anchored in Adventure Bay, on the coast of Van Diemen's Land. A few natives appeared, whose only weapons were pointed sticks, and who were black and perfectly naked. Sailing on the 30th of January, the ships reached Queen Charlotte's Sound in New Zealand on the 12th of the next month. The natives were somewhat shy, fearing that Cook had come to punish them for the murder of the boat's crew belonging to the Adventure. Some of those who had not taken part in it urged him to do so; but, as he remarks, "the natives of one part were constantly requesting him to destroy their neighbours -- indeed, the tribes were living in a state of warfare among each other."

Leaving Queen Charlotte's Sound, Mangeea was reached, a pleasing fertile island, and beyond it another called Wateea, a spot of great beauty, diversified by hills and plains. The inhabitants were in general remarkably handsome, and were of the same race as those of the Society Islands. Thence a course was steered for Hervey Island, seen on the previous voyage. Though then supposed not to be inhabited, several canoes came off, carrying men of a somewhat darker hue and a more fierce and warlike aspect than the natives of Mangeea, though probably of the same race.

On the passage to the Friendly Islands, the ships called off Palmerston Island, where scurvy-grass, palm-cabbages, and fodder for the animals and birds, and cocoa-nuts for the crew, were obtained.

Passing Savage Island on the 1st of May, they dropped anchor at Annamooka. Here Cook made the acquaintance of Feenon, who, though then only a tributary, afterwards became lord of the whole group. By his means an abundant supply of provisions of all sorts was obtained. Feenon and another chief, Omai, accompanied him to Hapai, belonging to the same archipelago. Here Cook accompanied them on shore, and a large concourse of people, numbering three thousand, assembled, whom the chief addressed, urging them to bring such provisions as were required.

They were entertained with various games, such as wrestling and pugilistic matches. Some warriors engaged in a succession of single combats, in which they fought with clubs. Cook, on landing, suspected from the behaviour of the chiefs that something more than ordinary was in agitation. In fact, friendly as they appeared, they had formed a plot, instigated by Feenon, to massacre their visitors and take possession of their ships, as they did some years afterwards of the vessel in which Mr Mariner sailed. Fortunately, disputes arose amongst the conspirators, and they either abandoned or put off their design. Feenon, notwithstanding his intended treachery, accompanied their other visitors on board ship, and dined with the captain. Afterwards he sent a present of two large hogs, some yams, and a considerable quantity of cloth. Notwithstanding this apparently friendly intercourse, the natives, who came on board in considerable numbers, stole whenever they had an opportunity. At length, to put a stop to this, Cook seized three canoes which were alongside, and then going ashore with a strong guard, and having found the King, his brother Feenon, and some other chiefs in a house, immediately placed a guard over them, and made them understand that until the things were returned they must remain under restraint. This had the desired effect, and most of the articles were brought back. Cook then invited the King and other chiefs to accompany him on board to dinner. The King set the example, although the others at first objected, and in a short time the remainder of the things were brought back.

Cook remained at the Tonga Islands for nearly three months. Having left with them several useful animals and various seeds, he sailed on the 17th of July for Otaheite. Here Omai found several relatives, who showed him little affection until he presented them with some coloured plumes and other treasures he had brought. Cook here induced his crew to take cocoa-nut liquor in exchange for part of their allowance of spirits, with beneficial results. Omai showed his true character by associating with the lower orders of the people; and had not Cook interfered, he would have given everything he possessed away to his worthless companions. Some horses had been brought out, on two of which the captains rode daily over the plains of Matavai, to the great astonishment of the natives, who on all occasions assembled to witness this, to them, extraordinary feat.

Leaving Otaheite, Cook the next day landed at Eimeo, where one of the goats he carried to stock their islands was stolen. It was not until several war canoes and six or eight huts had been burnt that the natives restored the missing animal.

On the 12th of October, he anchored at Huaheine, where it was arranged that Omai was to be left, though he himself wished to settle at Ulietea, where his father had possessed some land, which he hoped to be able to recover through the means of the English. He was very indignant on finding that the captain would not consent to do this, but was at last reconciled to the plan proposed for him. The grant of a piece of land being obtained from the chief, a house was built, a garden stocked, and the young savage was sent on shore with various firearms, toys, a portable organ, an electrical machine, fireworks, with other things, as well as a horse and a mare, a boar and sow, and a male and female kid. Being thus established, it was hoped that with these advantages he would be able to maintain himself, and instruct the islanders in some of the arts of civilisation. He exhibited the deepest grief when he was at length landed, and would gladly have remained with his friends.

How different was the conduct of Omai to that which was expected! Abandoning his European dress, he quickly sank into idleness, barbarously employing his firearms either to assist the chief in his wars or to shoot those of his countrymen who had offended him. In three years he died, despised even by the savages it was supposed that he would have improved.

At Otaheite, where Cook afterwards touched, three or four of his people having deserted, several members of the chief's family were seized and kept as hostages until they should be delivered up. Oreo, the chief, fearing that the runaways might not be discovered, formed a plot to seize the captain and some of his principal officers; but, as they wisely took care not to put themselves in his power, this was prevented, and fortunately the deserters were discovered and brought on board.

Bolabola was the next island visited, for the purpose of recovering an anchor which had been lost by Bougainville at Otaheite, and brought here as a tribute to its warlike inhabitants; Cook's object being to manufacture it into iron tools to trade with. It was easily obtained from the chief Opoony for some axes and other articles.

Cook here landed, as at other places, goats and hogs, in hopes that the archipelago would in a few years be stocked with all the valuable domestic animals of Europe. Sailing from Bolabola on the 8th of December, he steered northward, and on the 24th saw a low island, of barren appearance, to which the name of "Christmas Island" was given. It was uninhabited, though nearly twenty leagues in circumference. No fresh water could be found here, but three hundred green turtles were taken.

On the 18th of January, 1778, an island appeared north-east by east, and soon after another was seen bearing north, and the next day a third, in a west-north-west direction. From the second some men came off to the ships in a canoe. They were of a brown colour, but the features of many differed little from those of Europeans. As the vessels steered along the coast, several villages were seen, and the inhabitants brought off pigs and fine potatoes. From the looks of amazement with which they regarded the ships and everything on board, it was evident that they were unused to European visitors; at the same they exhibited remarkable intelligence. On rowing ashore with three armed boats and a party of marines, the instant Cook landed, the natives fell flat on their faces, until by expressive signs he prevailed upon them to rise. They had brought a number of small pigs, which they presented on plantain-leaves, one of the party making a long speech. The people willingly assisted the sailors in rolling the casks to and from the watering-place, and made no attempt to cheat or steal.

To this group, now first visited by civilised man, the name of the "Sandwich Islands" was given, in compliment to the First Lord of the Admiralty. On leaving these islands, -- destined to be so fatal to the discoverer, -- the ships steered for New Albion, which had been visited by Drake. After tacking on and off the shore for several days, they put into a harbour, which received the title of "Hope Bay." The morning afterwards three canoes, shaped like Norway yawls, came off from a village, and a man, dressed in the skin of an animal, with a rattle in each hand, make a long speech. Others followed, and one of the party sang a pleasant air in a soft tone. When the voyagers moved to a safer anchorage, a large number of inhabitants made their appearance. They willingly supplied the ships with such provisions as they possessed, but would receive nothing but brass in return, and all brass articles to be found on board were bartered away. Nearly a month was passed in uninterrupted friendship among these savages. The inlet was called "Nootka Sound," from the native name.

Again putting to sea on the 4th of May, Mount Saint Elias was seen. Nine days afterwards the ships came to an anchor in a bay, on which was bestowed the name of "Prince William's Sound." The most remarkable feature of some of the inhabitants on its shores was a slit through the lower lip, parallel with the mouth, through which were worn pieces of carved bone. Sometimes the natives would remove this bone, and thrust out their tongues from the opening, which had a most hideous effect.

After examining an inlet, which it was hoped would lead round the north coast of America, the vessels sailed south-west round the promontory of Alaska. At length the discoverers reached the entrance to Behring's Straits, although not aware at the time of the fact. About the 9th, the most westerly point of America was reached, to which the name of Cape Prince of Wales was given. On the same evening the coast of Asia came in view, and on the following morning the ships anchored in a harbour of the Tschutski territories. Here the natives, though alarmed, made their visitors profound bows. A few days after this the ships encountered a dense field of ice, extending across their course as far as the eye could reach. To proceed farther was impossible, and the ships' heads were therefore turned to the southward. Coasting the shores of Asia, Cook anchored off Oonalaska. Here the natives were most inoffensive. Their stature was low, their necks short, their faces swarthy and chubby; whilst they had black eyes and small beards. Their houses were large oblong pits, covered with a roof thatched with grass and earth.

A few days after the arrival of the ships, the Captains were surprised by a present of a salmon pie, baked in flour, and a note in Russian, which was delivered to them by two natives. John Ledyard, a corporal of marines, afterwards known as a traveller, volunteered to proceed with the messengers and discover who had sent the gift. In two days he returned with three Russian traders, and shortly afterwards Mr Ismyloff, the principal person in the island, arrived. Through him Cook transmitted to the Admiralty a letter enclosing a chart of his discoveries. Intending to make another attempt to find the long-sought-for passage, Cook returned to the Sandwich Islands. On the 26th of November he discovered Mowee, lying farther west than the islands before visited, and on the evening of the 30th a much larger island to windward, called Owhyhee or Hawaii. Several weeks were passed in sailing round this island in search of a harbour. At length the ships came to an anchor, on the morning of January 17th, 1779, in Karakavoa. Here a vast number of people were assembled to witness, to them, the so novel spectacle. Multitudes came off in canoes, crowding into the ships, many hundreds swimming round like shoals of fish, and the shores were thronged with eager spectators, who expressed their pleasure in shouts, songs, and various extravagant motions. It was supposed they fancied Captain Cook to be their god Rono, who after a long absence had returned to their island. At the time this he of course did not know, or he would not have received the worship paid to him. No sooner was the Resolution moored, than two chiefs came, accompanied by a priest named Koah, who approached the captain with much veneration, and threw over his shoulders a piece of red cloth, and then made an offering to him of a small pig, and landing, they conducted him to a Morai or temple, where he was presented in due form to their idols, arranged on a platform within it.

After various other ceremonies, the priest presented him with a large live pig and a piece of red cloth, and the men who brought it prostrated themselves before him. He now descended from the platform, and led the captain before a number of other images, each of which he addressed in a sneering tone, snapping his fingers at it until he came to the centre, when he threw himself before it and kissed it, requesting the captain to do the same, who throughout had suffered himself to be directed by the priest Koah. After this, a feast having been prepared, the two captains were fed by the priests.

After distributing some presents, the captains returned, being conducted to the boats by men bearing wands, the people falling down before them as they walked along the beach. It is sad to reflect that a man of judgment and intelligence should have submitted to this idolatrous worship. Captain Cook probably expected that by yielding to the natives, he should obtain greater facilities for trading and keeping up amicable relations with them. After this the King Terreeoboo, with his wife and child, came on board. He had previously paid the Resolution a visit, when the ships were off Mowee. The following day he came in state, he and his chiefs dressed in rich feathered cloaks, and armed with long spears and helmets. In the second canoe sat the chief priests, with idols of wicker-work of gigantic size, covered with feathers of different colours and pieces of red cloth. Their eyes were large pearl-oysters, and their mouths were marked with double rows of dogs' fangs, giving them a hideous appearance.

When Cook returned the visit the King threw a superb cloak over his shoulders, and placed a crown of feathers on his head, spreading six other cloaks at his feet, of great beauty, while his attendants brought four hogs, sugar-canes, and cocoa-nuts. After this the ships sailed, but, meeting with very bad weather, were compelled to put back into Karakavoa. On their return it was observed by some of those on board that a change had taken place in the minds of some of the natives. Instead, however, of trying to win back the people by gentle means, force was resorted to directly any offence was committed. Some of the people having stolen several articles from the Discovery, were trying to escape, when she opened fire upon them. The articles were returned, but an officer on shore not knowing this, seized a canoe belonging to one of the chiefs, who, in a squabble, was afterwards knocked down. Captain Cook, also ignorant of what had taken place, followed the supposed thieves into the interior, although he returned unmolested. The next day the Discovery's cutter was carried off, and Captain Cook, in order to recover it, resolved to seize the King. With this object he landed, carrying with him his double-barrelled gun, accompanied by Mr Phillips and nine marines. Mr King ordered the marines to keep their pieces loaded, and to be on their guard. He then, going to the huts of the priests, endeavoured to quiet their alarm. Captain Cook in the meantime reached the old King's house, and persuaded him to come on board; but as they were embarking one of his wives came down and induced him to give up his intention. A vast number of armed men now began to collect, and Captain Cook, seeing that matters were growing serious, considered how he might best prevent bloodshed, and endeavoured to draw off his party.

Meantime the boats stationed in the bay had fired at some canoes, and a chief of high rank had been killed. The hostile natives soon heard of this. Mr Phillips, on seeing the state of affairs, had withdrawn his men to some rocks close to the water. The anger of the natives being excited, they now began to throw stones, and one of them threatened Captain Cook with his dagger. In defence he fired one of his barrels, loaded with small shot. He then discharged the other, and a man was killed. The marines had now begun to fire, and Captain Cook had turned round either to order them to cease or to summon the boat, when a savage struck him on the back with a large club, and he fell forward on his hands and knees, letting his fowling-piece drop. A chief next plunged his dagger into his back, and he fell into the water, the natives who crowded round preventing him from rising.

From that moment nothing more was seen of him. The natives rushing on, four of the marines were killed before they could reach the boats; another was saved by the gallantry of Lieutenant Phillips, who, though wounded himself, leapt overboard, and dragged the man who was struggling in the water into the pinnace.

Lieutenant King had remained near the observatory with a party of his men. Though the natives attacked him, he drove them off, and they at last willingly agreed to a truce. He afterwards tried to obtain the body of his captain, and in a few days some human flesh was brought off by a man, who said that this was all that remained, the head, bones, and hands being in possession of the King. With the exception of the head the greater portion of the remainder was subsequently brought on board, and they being placed in a coffin, were committed to the deep with the usual naval honours.

So angered were the crews of the two ships at the loss of the captain, that it was with the greatest difficulty the officers could restrain them from hurrying on shore and wreaking their vengeance on the heads of the natives.

Thus died Captain Cook in the fifty-first year of his age, surpassed by none as a seaman, and was probably equalled by few as a marine surveyor and draughtsman; while, if he was at times hasty, he was kind-hearted and humane, and possessed the important power of attaching both officers and men to his person. Captain Clerke, who succeeded to the command, made peace with the chiefs, many of whom came on board expressing their sorrow at what had happened, while the natives brought off provisions as usual. Indeed, as the ships sailed away they expressed every mark of affection and good-will.

Two other islands of the group, Woakoo and Atooi, were visited, when the natives behaved in the same friendly way as elsewhere. After this, on the 12th of March, the ships sailed for Behring's Straits, in search of a passage into the Atlantic.

Captain Clerke, who had been suffering for some time from consumption, was evidently fast sinking, but he still persevered in his undertaking. On the 28th of April the harbour of Saint Peter and Saint Paul was reached. The Russian inhabitants, on finding that the explorers were English, treated them with the greatest possible kindness, and through Major Behin, the Governor of Bolcheretsk, Captain Clerke sent home an account of the proceedings of the expedition, with that of the death of Captain Cook. Both ships, after passing through Behring's Straits, encountered an icy barrier, against which the Discovery was nearly lost.

Every effort having been made in vain, Captain Clerke resolved to return. Before the ships again anchored in the harbour of Saint Peter and Saint Paul he had breathed his last. He was there buried on some ground on which it was intended to raise a church. The command of the expedition now devolved on Captain Gore, who went on board the Resolution, while Lieutenant King took charge of the Discovery. That ship, on being examined, was found to have suffered seriously from the ice. It seemed surprising, indeed, from the injuries she had received, that she had kept afloat.

She was repaired as far as possible, some time being spent in these necessary operations, as also in exchanging civilities between the officers of the Russian garrison and the English.

The ships sailed on the 9th of October, and steered a course for Macao. While in Behring's Straits sea-otter and other skins had been obtained; these realised altogether upwards of two thousand pounds. The report of the high prices obtained on the return home of the expedition, probably set on foot the fur trade with the west coast of North America, which afterwards became of such considerable importance. Here Captain Gore heard that war had broken out between England and France; but soon afterwards, being informed that the commanders of the French ships had been directed to treat the expedition under Captain Cook as belonging to a neutral power, he put to sea, resolved to preserve the strictest neutrality during the remainder of the voyage.

Touching at several places in the Indian seas, the ships at length reached Cape Town, where they were treated with the same kindness as on former visits. Sailing thence on the 9th of May, they made the coast of Ireland on the 12th of August. Strong southerly winds compelling them to run to the northward, they rounded Scotland, and at length, on the 4th of October, arrived at the Nore, after an absence of four years, two months, and twenty-two days.

It is remarkable that during this time the two ships only twice, for a short time, lost sight of each other.

Owing to the admirable arrangements for preserving health, during the whole time the Resolution had lost only five men by sickness, three of whom were ill when she left England, while the Discovery had not lost a man.

Although one of the objects of the expedition had failed, that of finding a way through Behring's Straits round the north coast of America, during this and his previous voyages Cook had made far more discoveries than any previous navigator. He had surveyed the whole eastern coast of New Holland, and proved it to be an island, as also that of New Zealand. He had discovered New Caledonia, and surveyed the islands of the New Hebrides, and other islands in the Austral Ocean. He had made known the Marquesas and Tonga group, and completed the survey of the Society Islands. He had succeeded in finding Easter Island, had visited the groups of the low archipelago, and had discovered numerous separate islands, -- Norfolk, Botany, Palmerston, Hervey, Savage, Mangaia, Wateeoo, Allakootaia, Turtle, Toobania, and Christmas, as also the magnificent group known as the Sandwich Islands. He had ascertained the strait between America and Asia to be eighteen leagues in width.

It was not until many years after that any navigator penetrated as far north as he had done. In the Antarctic Ocean he had brought to light Sandwich Land, settled the position of Kerguelen's Land, as also of Isla Grande, on which he justly prided himself; and his survey of the southern shore of Tierra del Fuego was long unsurpassed, while he rendered the greatest service to the cause of humanity by the way he maintained the health of his crews. During all previous expeditions numbers of the men had perished. During his long and protracted voyage he lost none by scurvy, and very few from any other disease.

The nation, grateful to him, bestowed a pension of two hundred pounds a year on his wife, and each of his children had twenty-five pounds a year settled on them, though the latter did not live long to enjoy it. Three died in infancy. Another, a midshipman, was lost on board the Thunderer. The second, intended for the ministry, died at Oxford, in the seventeenth year of his age; and the eldest, who became a commander, was drowned while attempting to get on board his ship off Poole during a gale of wind. His widow survived until the year 1835, when, she died at the age of ninety-three.



Chapter Twenty Eight.

Parry's Three Voyages In Search Of A North-West Passage -- A.D. 1819.

Ancient voyagers in arctic seas -- Parry's voyage in command of the Alexander -- Under Captain John Ross -- Parry's first expedition with the Hecla and Griper -- The ice reached -- Danger among icebergs -- The vessels freed -- Steer westward -- A way cut through the ice -- Enter Lancaster Sound -- Sail up it till stopped by the ice -- Reach longitude 110 degrees west -- A passage cut through the ice into a harbour in Melville Island -- Preparations for passing the winter -- A paper established -- Plays acted -- An observatory and house built on shore -- The former catches fire -- Many of the men frost-bitten while extinguishing the flames -- All animals quit the country -- Scurvy appears -- Mustard and cress grown --  Employments of officers and men -- Excursions on shore -- Ice begins to break up -- Get out of harbour -- Attempt to sail westward defeated --  Return -- Parry's second expedition with Fury and Hecla in 1821 to Hudson's Bay -- Dangers among icebergs and floes -- Visited by Esquimaux --  Fox's Channel and Repulse Bay reached -- Further explorations made -- No opening found -- More natives appear -- Ships frozen in near Lyon Inlet --  Plays acted -- A school established -- Natives come on board -- Native village -- Honesty and intelligence of natives -- A clever woman -- Iliglink and her son -- The Esquimaux leave them -- Ships again put to sea -- In fearful danger -- Fury and Hecla Strait reached -- Attempt to pass through it -- Go into winter quarters -- Natives appear -- Winter less pleasantly spent than the former -- Great difficulty in escaping -- Parry's wish to remain overruled -- Ships swept along by the current -- Sail homewards --  Reception at Lerwick -- Parry's third voyage in the Hecla and Fury, 1824 -- Accompanied by the William Harris transport -- Call off Lievely --  Reach Lancaster Sound -- Are frozen up in Port Eowen -- Masquerades -- Good conduct of the men -- Progress in the school -- Expedition on shore -- Ships get out of harbour -- In fearful danger -- The Fury wrecked and abandoned -- The Hecla refitted, sails homeward, and safely reaches England -- Remarks on Admiral Sir Edward Parry.

From the days of Edward the Sixth, and even before that period, attempts have been made to discover a passage eastward along the northern shores of Europe and Asia to India from the westward, and from the Atlantic into the Pacific, as well as to reach the north pole.

Among the gallant men who commanded these expeditions the names of Sir Hugh Willoughby, Richard Chancellor, Sir Martin Frobisher, Barentz, Henry Hudson, and Baffin stand out pre-eminently. Captain Cook, as we have seen, made attempts to penetrate from the Pacific into the Atlantic, and at the same time Captain Phipps, afterwards Lord Mulgrave, accompanied by Nelson, then a midshipman, was engaged in an attempt to reach the north pole along the coast of Spitzbergen. For some time after this the interest in arctic discovery died away, but was at length revived in the year 1818 by the reports of the state of the ice, which was said to have broken away from the coast of Greenland in places where it had been attached to the shore for centuries. In that year four ships were fitted out -- two, the Isabella, commanded by Captain John Ross, and the Alexander by Lieutenant Parry, to explore the north-west passage, and the Dorothea, commanded by Captain Buchan, and the Trent, by Lieutenant John Franklin, -- for the purpose of attempting to reach the north pole. Many of the officers who subsequently became well known as arctic explorers were employed in these expeditions; among others were Mr Beechy and Mr Hoppner, both sons of eminent artists, and themselves excellent draughtsmen.

Neither of the expeditions was successful. Captain Ross sailed up Davis's Straits into Baffin's Bay, passing the entrances to Smith's and Lancaster Sounds, across both of which he was persuaded that a lofty range of mountains extended. These he called Crocker Mountains. The openings, he was convinced, were merely the mouths of deep inlets. Lieutenant Parry differed entirely from his commanding officer, and deep regret was expressed by many on board that an opening, by examining which important discoveries might have resulted, should have been abruptly quitted.

The reports brought home satisfied most scientific men that an opening existed through Lancaster Sound. On the following year, therefore, the Admiralty fitted out an expedition, which was placed under the command of Lieutenant Parry, who had Mr Beechy as his lieutenant.

As Parry takes the highest rank amongst arctic explorers, it is proposed to give a sketch of his three voyages to the polar regions in search of a north-west passage.

The expedition being determined on, two vessels, the Hecla, of three hundred and seventy-five tons, carrying fifty-eight men, and the Griper, a gun brig of one hundred and eighty tons, with thirty-six persons on board, were forthwith got ready for sea. Both vessels were strengthened as much as possible, and stored with provisions for two years, including an ample supply of anti-scorbutics, and everything which could be thought of to enable the crews to endure the extreme rigours of a polar winter. Captain Sabine accompanied Lieutenant Parry as astronomer, and Mr Beechy as lieutenant. Among the midshipmen were Joseph Nias and James Clark Ross, who became eminent arctic explorers. The Griper was commanded by Lieutenant Siddon, and his first lieutenant was Mr Hoppner.

The two vessels sailed from the Nore on the 11th of May, 1819, and having rounded the Orkneys, stood across the Atlantic. Having contrary winds, they made but slow progress. On the 18th of June they first fell in with icebergs, flying amid which were numberless petrels, kittiwakes, tarns, and other winged inhabitants of the northern regions. Some of these bergs, of which fifty were seen at a time, were of great size. The heavy southern swell dashed the loose ice with tremendous force against them, sometimes raising a cloud of white spray, which broke over their tops to the height of more than a hundred feet, accompanied by a loud noise, resembling distant thunder. As the Hecla was drifting on with a southerly current, she was nearly nipped by a detached floe, which drove her against a berg aground, one hundred and forty feet high, where the depth of water was one hundred and twenty fathoms, so that its whole height must have exceeded eight hundred feet.

Parry at first attempted to force his way north and west, amid the masses of ice, in the direction of Lancaster Sound; but as the vessels were sailing on, the floes suddenly closed round them, and on the 25th both were so completely beset that it was impossible to turn their heads in any direction. Here they were fixed, though in no danger, until the morning of the second day, when the violence of the sea loosening the ice, it was driven against the ships' sides with such force that, had they not been strongly built, they would probably have been destroyed. At this time, from the crow's nest, upwards of eighty-eight enormous icebergs were seen, besides many smaller ones. The vessels being at length freed, Lieutenant Parry came to the resolution of abandoning the attempt to reach Lancaster Sound by a direct course, and instead steered northward along the border of the great ice-field, in the hopes of finding open water farther to the north. He steered on that course until he reached latitude 73 degrees, when he resolved upon making a determined push to the westward.

A favourable breeze springing up, the ships stood on among the detached floes, through which they were warped by securing ice-anchors with hawsers to the more solid pieces ahead. Before they had made much progress, a thick fog came on, which prevented the open lanes ahead being seen. Still they continued to make way, sometimes dangerously beset by masses of ice; yet by persevering efforts, they first got into one lane, then into another, till, the fog clearing, they saw only one long floe separating them from the open sea. The ice-saws were therefore set to work, and with great labour cutting through the floe, they had the satisfaction of seeing the shore clear of ice extending out before them. They now steered for Lancaster Sound, and on the 30th of July they gained its entrance. As they sailed on, under a press of canvas, westward, the mast-heads were crowded by officers and men, eagerly looking out to ascertain if the supposed mountain barrier lay across their course.

The sound continued open, and it was calculated that the two shores were still thirteen leagues apart, without the slightest appearance of land to the westward.

Again and again a report was received from aloft that all was clear ahead, and the explorers began to flatter themselves that they had fairly entered the polar sea. Several headlands were passed, and wide openings to the north and south. With a strong breeze from the eastward, running on until midnight, they found themselves in latitude 83 degrees 12 minutes, nearly one hundred and fifty miles from the entrance of the sound, which was fully fifty miles in breadth. The Griper, which had fallen astern, joining the Hecla, they together reached latitude 86 degrees 30 minutes, when two other inlets were discovered, and named Burnet and Stratton; and then a bold headland, to which the name of Fellfoot was given. A lengthened swell rolling in from the north and west, gave them hopes that they had now really reached the wide expanse of the polar basin, and that nothing would stop their progress to Icy Cape, the western boundary of America.

While their hopes were at the highest land ahead was seen, but it proved only to be a small island. Very soon afterwards more land was seen, with a broad inlet, named Maxwell Bay. Still the sea stretched out uninterruptedly before them, but their hopes fell when, in a short time, they saw to the south a line of continuous ice.

Shortly afterwards an open passage appeared, through which it was hoped the ships would make their way westward. On proceeding on, however, the explorers discovered, to their sorrow, that this ice was joined to a compact and impenetrable body of floes, completely crossing the channel. They had therefore to haul their wind and stand away from it, for fear of being caught in the ice, along the edges of which a violent surf was beating.

As soon as the weather, which had been thick, became clear, an open sea, with a dark water sky, was seen to the south. In the hopes that this might lead to a passage, unencumbered with ice, the commander steered for it, and shortly reached the mouth of a large inlet, ten leagues broad, with no visible termination. The names of Clarence and Seppings were given to the two capes at its entrance.

Avoiding the ice on one side, the ships entered a broad open channel. The coast was dreary in the extreme, while the irregularity of the compass showed that they were approaching the magnetic pole, and increased the difficulties of navigation. They had run one hundred and twenty miles up this inlet, to which the name of Prince Regent was given, when the ice was found extending across it. Standing out of it, Parry steered across the channel, until he came off another broad inlet, leading north, which was called Wellington Inlet.

The great channel through which they were passing was called Barrow Straits, in compliment to the promoter of the expedition. The wind again becoming favourable, the ship sailed triumphantly along; three islands they successively passed being named Cornwallis, Bathurst, Byam Martin. The compass had now become perfectly useless, and they judged that they had passed the magnetic meridian at about 100 degrees west latitude, where it would have pointed due south instead of north. The cold also greatly increased, and thick fogs enveloped them. They had also to saw a passage through a thick floe.

Still forcing their way on, they discovered a large island, to which the name of Melville was given. Though the wind failed, by towing and warping, on the 4th of September they reached the meridian of 110 degrees west from Greenwich, in latitude 74 degrees 44 minutes 20 seconds, and became entitled to a reward of five thousand pounds, voted by Parliament to the first British ship's company who should obtain that meridian. To the bluff headland where the observation was made the appropriate name of Bounty Cape was given.

Encouraged by their success, they continued their course, until it was crossed by an impenetrable barrier of ice. In vain for a fortnight they attempted to pierce it, until about the 20th the young ice began to form rapidly on the surface, and Parry was convinced that a single hour's calm would be sufficient to freeze up the ships in the midst of the sea. Reluctantly, therefore, he was compelled to return, not without encountering great danger and difficulty. On the 24th he got off a harbour on the western side of Melville Island. A large floe, two miles wide, guarded its entrance. To get through this floe, it was necessary to form a channel with the ice-saws. To do this two parallel lines were first marked with boarding-pikes on the ice, at a distance from each other of somewhat more than the breadth of the Hecla. Having cut along these lines, large pieces were detached by cross-saws, and then again cut diagonally, in order to be floated out. Sometimes the boat's masts and sails were placed on them to hasten their movements. In two days the channel was cut, and the ships carried in and anchored in five fathoms of water, about a cable's length from the beach. At first the ice round them was every morning cleared away, but it was soon found that the task was useless, and the two ships became frozen up for the winter. They were immediately unrigged and housed over, snow walls built round them, and other plans adopted for keeping out the cold.

As they had ample provisions, preserved meat and concentrated soup were substituted for salt beef, and beer and wine were served out instead of spirits. They also had sour-krout, pickles, and vinegar. Every day the seamen were mustered and compelled to swallow a certain quantity of lime-juice in the presence of their officers, while their gums and shins were examined to detect the first appearance of scurvy. The stove for baking was placed in a central position, and by other arrangements a comfortable temperature was maintained in the cabin. At a distance from it, however, and in the bed-places, steam and even the breath soon turned into ice, which had to be carefully scraped away. To amuse the people, a newspaper was started, under the editorship of Captain Sabine, and a school was established, at which many of the men, who had never before handled a pen, learned to write well. Plays were acted, a fresh one being performed every fortnight, sometimes by the officers, and sometimes by the men. The theatre was on the quarter-deck, where, however, the cold was often as low as freezing-point, except close to the stove, -- a position eagerly sought for.

Lieutenant Beechy became stage manager. The theatre received the name of the North Georgian, and was opened on the 5th of November, with "Miss in her Teens." The ships' companies were highly delighted, and Lieutenant Parry took a part himself, considering that an example of cheerfulness, by giving a direct countenance to everything that could contribute to it, was not the less essential part of his duty, under the peculiar circumstances in which they were placed.

It was by this means that Parry established a character for ready and happy expedients, accompanied by a sound judgment, which kept alive the active powers of the mind, and prevented it from falling into the worst of all conditions, -- a state of morbid torpor. His plan was completely successful, and the crew, as well as the officers, were as happy as, under the circumstances, could possibly be expected.

One of the first works carried out, after the ships had been made snug for the winter, was the erection of an observatory, at a spot convenient for communication with the ships; and a house was also built on the beach, for the reception of the clock and other instruments. The walls of this were of double plank, with moss between, so that a high temperature could be kept up in it, without difficulty, by a single stove. To induce the men to take exercise, the band played, and they tramped round the deck to the music. While thus engaged, one day, what was their dismay to see the house containing the valuable instruments on fire! The crew, without stopping to put on their extra warm clothing, hurried to the shore, pulled off the roof with ropes, knocked down a part of the sides, and, by being thus able to throw in large quantities of snow, succeeded in extinguishing the flames. So bitter was the cold that, though thus actively employed, the noses and cheeks of all the men were white by frostbites. The medical officers were compelled to run from one to the other and rub them with snow, in order to restore animation; even thus it was found necessary to cut off several fingers of one poor fellow, and sixteen others were added to the sick list. Hunting excursions were organised, and reindeer, musk oxen, partridges, and ptarmigan were met with. Some of the former were killed. No bears had been seen, until one day Captain Sabine's servant being at a distance from the ship, a huge white monster started up and pursued him. The man ran as fast as his legs could carry him, until he got on board, when the bear, coming close to the ship, was shot at and wounded, but notwithstanding made its escape. It was the only one seen during the long stay of the ships on that desolate shore. The animal tribes disappeared early in the winter. On the 15th of September a herd of deer was seen lying down, except a large stag. This, after the rest had risen, guarded the herd in their flight, frequently going round them, sometimes striking them with his horns to make them move faster.

On the same day the last covey of ptarmigan was met with. What no one would have expected to see in that frozen region -- three specimens of a caterpillar were obtained one of which, as an arctic curiosity, was brought to England.

For some months the crew retained excellent health, but early in January the gunner showed symptoms which indicated scurvy. The immediate cause appeared to be a collection of damp which had formed round his bed-place. At once all the anti-scorbutics were put into requisition, such as lime-juice, pickles, spruce beer; a quantity of mustard and cress had also been raised from mould placed over the stove-pipe, which rapidly grew. So successful were these remedies that, in nine days, the patient could walk about. The only animals remaining were a pack of wolves, which nightly surrounded the ships, although they cleverly avoided being captured. A beautiful white fox, however, was caught and made a pet of, and became very much attached to the commander, in whose cabin it took up its quarters. Every day, indeed every hour, had its allotted duties. On Sundays divine service was invariably performed, and a sermon read on board both ships, the men attending with evident satisfaction. The officers, unless when there was wind, took walks on shore, but were not permitted to go beyond two miles from the ship. After the ordinary duties of examining the berths and bed-places, the crews had their suppers, and the officers went to their tea, and after this the men were allowed to amuse themselves with games of various kinds, as well as dancing and singing, until nine o'clock, when they had to turn in, and all lights were extinguished. The officers employed their evenings in reading and writing, with an occasional game of chess, or a tune on the flute or violin, until half-past ten.

For forty-eight days they were entirely deprived of a sight of the sun, the long-continued night being lighted up only partially by the moon and occasionally by the aurora borealis. Thus the months went by until the middle of May arrived, and the ptarmigan began to appear. A considerable number were shot, their flesh having a beneficial effect on the crew. Under the snow was found an abundance of sorrel, a most potent antidote against scurvy. Footsteps of deer were seen, the animals evidently moving northwards. As soon as the cold decreased, the commander made an excursion across Melville Island, on which the vegetable productions were dwarf willow, sorrel, moss, grass, and saxifrage.

Captain Sabine fell in with a ranunculus in full flower on the western side of the island, evidently the most genial. The crew had in the meantime been employed in cutting away the ice from round the ships.

Soon after the commander's return, on the 15th of June, from his excursion, the ice in the offing began to move with a loud grinding noise, and by the middle of July the thermometer rose to 60 degrees, the highest point it reached in Melville Island. By the 24th everything was ready for sea, but still it seemed very probable that the two ships would be much longer detained, while it was known that in eight or nine weeks from that period the navigable season must come to a conclusion. Before the expiration of July the thermometer again fell, and the pools of water froze over in the night, but there were channels through which the boats could pass. On the ist of August, however, the outer mass of ice suddenly broke up and floated out. With eager haste the anchors were weighed, the sails spread, and the two ships, after being shut up for ten whole months and a part of September, sailed out of Winter Harbour, and stood round the shore of Melville Sound. They were still not free from danger, as the masses of ice were whirling about in all directions. To avoid them the ships stood close into the shore, but at length, off a point of land surrounded by hummocks of ice, some vast masses were seen driving down upon the Hecla. The Griper was in the same dangerous predicament, and there appeared every probability that she would be nipped and destroyed. Escaping these dangers, they pushed their way westward until they arrived at very nearly the most western point of the island, when all further progress was barred by the density of the ice.

The commander having consulted the officers of both ships, it was agreed that any further attempt to proceed in that direction would be useless. It was also arranged that they should run back along the edge of the ice, to look out for any opening which might lead them to the American continent. None, however, was found, and on the 31st of August they repassed Lancaster Sound.

They now, not without some risk of being frozen up after all, made their way to the southward, and on the 28th of October came in sight of Fair Island and the Orkneys.

The commander reached London on the 3rd of November, 1820, after an absence of eighteen months. Out of both ships' companies only one man, who had left home in ill health, died; the rest returned in excellent health and strength.

Scarcely had Captain Parry returned than it was resolved to fit out another expedition without delay. For this purpose the Hecla was again commissioned, and as it was considered that vessels of the same size were best calculated for the work, the Fury, of three hundred and seventy-seven tons, was appointed to accompany her instead of the old Griper.

Several of the officers who had served in the former voyage were again employed, and Commander Lyon was appointed to the command of the Hecla, while Commander Parry took charge of the Fiery. Among the midshipmen were F.R.M. Crozier and James Clarke Ross, both of whom were arctic explorers of note, the former ultimately destined to perish in the realms of ice.

The two ships were accompanied by the Nautilus transport, filled with stores and provisions, to be transhipped on arriving at the ice.

Parry was directed to proceed towards or into Hudson's Straits. He was then to penetrate to the westward until he should reach Repulse Bay, or some other part of the shores of Hudson's Bay to the north of Wager River, or some portion of the coast which he should feel convinced to be a part of America. Failing this, he was to keep along the line of this coast to the northward, examining every bend or inlet which should appear likely to afford a practicable passage to the westward.

The three ships sailed from the Nore on the 8th of May, 1821, but it was not until the 14th of June that they came in sight of the first iceberg, or until the 2nd of July that they reached Resolution Island, the valleys of which were filled with snow, while a dense fog hung over the land, rendering the scene before them indescribably dreary and desolate. In a short time the ships were surrounded by no less than six hundred and fifty-four icebergs, one of which rose to two hundred and fifty-eight feet above the sea. Among them were large floes, which were turned round and round by the strong tides and currents rushing in from the ocean. At the same time, fearful as they are in appearance, they are less dangerous to approach than those aground, against which a ship is liable to be carried with the whole force of the tide.

Captain Lyon, on one occasion, having fixed an anchor to a mass of ice with two strong hawsers, both were carried away, and the anchor broken off as if it had been made of crockeryware. The ships were here separated to the distance of eleven or twelve miles, and became closely beset by the ice, where they remained for eight or nine days. During nineteen days only seventy miles were made. At length they reached, on the 21st, the Savage Islands. Next afternoon a loud shouting was heard, and shortly afterwards a large number of natives were seen paddling their canoes through the lanes of open water, or occasionally drawing them over the ice. These were chiefly kayaks, rowed by a single man. There were also five oomiaks or women's boats, of considerable size, formed of a framework of wood and whalebone, covered with deer-skins, and having flat sides and bottom. One of these contained no less than twenty-one women, boys, and young children. They were of a wild tribe, and evidently more debased than those of the Greenland shore. They laughed, and shouted, and skipped, and then commenced traffic with the greatest eagerness, some of them stripping off the skins which formed their only covering, until they were almost in a state of nudity; the women, however, always retaining their breeches. They drove, as they fancied, a hard bargain; yet, being ignorant of the value of the skins, they raised shouts of triumph when they exchanged them for a nail, saw, or razor. Hideous as were the old women, some of the children looked almost pretty, although, being thrown carelessly into the bottom of the boat, they more resembled young wild animals than human beings. The men were especially addicted to practical jokes. One of them, getting behind a sailor, shouted lustily in his ear, then gave him a hearty box on the other. Captain Parry formed a very unfavourable opinion of the moral character of these natives, who seemed to have acquired, by an annual intercourse with our ships for nearly a hundred years, many of the vices of civilisation, without having imbibed any of the virtues or refinements which adorn it. Notwithstanding all obstructions, the expedition, early in August, came in view of Southampton Island, at the entrance of Fox's Channel, and from thence forced its way to Repulse Bay, through which it was supposed that a passage westward existed; but, after it had been thoroughly explored, Captain Parry proved that the land round it was continuous. The appearance of the land was not altogether uninviting. It rose to seven or eight hundred feet, and there was the usual vegetation found in the arctic regions. Reindeer and hares were plentiful, as were ducks and other birds. In one spot were the remains of no less than sixty Esquimaux habitations, consisting of stones laid one over the other, in regular circles, eight or nine feet in diameter. There were besides about a hundred structures, --  fireplaces, store-houses, and other rough enclosures, four or five feet high, -- used to keep their skin canoes from being gnawed by the dogs.

Getting out of Repulse Bay, Captain Parry commenced a career of discovery along an unknown coast. An inlet was discovered, on which the name of Gore was bestowed. At the mouth of the opening the valleys were richly clad with grass and mosses. The birds were singing, the butterflies and other insects displaying the most gaudy tints; so that the seamen might have fancied themselves in some happier clime, had not the mighty piles of ice in the frozen strait told a different tale.

While the ships were at anchor, hunting parties were sent out, and the game laws of the preceding year were strictly enforced, by which every beast and bird was to be given up for the general good, the capturer only retaining the head and legs. The head, however, was sometimes greatly extended, so as to include several joints of the back-bone. At length the explorers found themselves among a complete labyrinth of islands, amidst which strong currents set in various directions, while fogs and drift ice made navigation perilous in the extreme. Successive masses assailed the Fury. At one time her anchor was dragged along with a grinding noise, two flukes being broken off. She was afterwards carried forward by a violent stream amid thick mist, while it was found impossible to steer her in any direction.

At length the ships emerged into the open sea, but a strong northerly gale compelled them to run before it, when, on the 6th of August, they found themselves close to the spot where they had been on the 3rd of September. Still Captain Parry persevered, examining every opening, in the hopes that each might prove a passage into the polar ocean.

Lyon and Hoppner Inlets were surveyed. When near the shore, a number of Esquimaux came off to obtain some iron tools. The behaviour of one of the fair sex created considerable surprise. She had sold one boot, but obstinately retained the other. At length the suspicions of the seamen being aroused, she was seized and the buskin pulled off, when it proved to be a receptacle of stolen treasure. Besides other articles, it contained a pewter plate and a couple of spoons.

The end of September was now approaching. The summer was far from genial, and now, at any moment, the icy hand of winter might grasp the ships. Pancake ice began to form on the surface of the ocean. As the ships rolled from side to side, the ice clung to them in vast masses, and the various pieces which were tossing in the sea around became cemented into one great field, which threatened every moment to bear down upon them and dash them to pieces.

As it was important, without delay, to secure the ships for the winter, a small island lying off the northern point of the entrance into Lyon Inlet was fixed on. The distance was about half a mile, but the soft state of the pancake ice rendered the task not a very laborious one, though often dangerous, as it bent like leather beneath the feet of the seamen as they were working. At length it was accomplished, and the two ships were frozen in for another winter.

As there was no time to be lost, arrangements were at once made for passing it comfortably. Both ships were more thoroughly heated than had been the case on the previous voyage. They were both more amply provisioned, and anti-scorbutics against scurvy had been more bountifully supplied.

To amuse them, the theatre was opened on the 9th of November. The play of "The Rivals" being chosen, the two captains appeared as Sir Anthony and Captain Absolute.

A school was also established, and it was interesting to observe the zeal with which the hardy tars applied themselves to their books.

Sixteen of the men who had before been unable to form a letter could by Christinas write very well. That day was passed with the usual festivities, the seamen being amply regaled with fresh beef, cranberry pies, and grog, when they drank, with three hearty cheers, the health of each officer in succession. The shortest day was scarcely observed; indeed, the sun did not entirely leave them.

A few hares were caught, with a purely white covering, which resembled swans'-down rather than hair, and about a hundred white foxes were snared in the nets. At first they were perfectly ungovernable, but in a short time the young ones threw off their timidity, and became tame.

The sky was frequently brilliantly lighted by the aurora borealis. The light had a tendency to form an irregular arch, which in calm weather was very distinct. When the air became agitated, showers of rays spread in every direction with the rapidity of lightning. Sometimes long streams of light were spread out with inconceivable swiftness. No rule could be traced in the movement of the light parcels which are called the "merry dancers." The sun and moon were often surrounded with haloes and concentric circles of vapour, tinted with the brightest hues of the rainbow. Parhelia, or mock suns, frequently shone in different quarters of the firmament. Still the life the explorers were compelled to lead was becoming very monotonous, when, on the morning of the ist of February, a number of figures were seen in the distance, moving over the ice. The spy-glasses were turned towards them, and they were pronounced to be Esquimaux.

As it was important to establish friendly relations with these people, the two commanders, attended by a few men, proceeded towards them, walking in file behind each other, that they might cause no alarm. As the natives approached, they formed themselves into a line of twenty-one; then they advanced slowly, until, making a full stop, they saluted the English by the usual movement of beating their breasts. They were well clothed in rich deer-skins. On coming to the ships they immediately began to strip; and the females, finding that they could obtain knives, nails, and needles for their dresses, pulled them off, when it was discovered that they had others of a similar character beneath the outer ones.

A visit to their village, at their invitation, was paid; but at first no one could discover their habitations. They, however, led the way to a hill in the snow, through which they crept, on hands and knees, along a winding passage of considerable length, until they reached a little hall with a dome-shaped roof, the doors of which opened into three apartments, each occupied by a separate family. This curious structure was tenanted by sixty-four men, women, and children. It was formed entirely of slabs of snow, about two feet long and half a foot thick. On the outside a series of cupolas rose about seven feet above the ground, and were sixteen feet in diameter. A plate of ice in the roof served as a window.

When first seen the village appeared like a cluster of hillocks among the snow; but successive falls filled up the intervening spaces, and converted it into one smooth surface, so that the boys and dogs were seen sporting over the roof. In each room, suspended from the roof, a lamp was burning, with a long wick formed from a species of moss, the oil being the produce of the seal or walrus. This lamp served at once for light, heat, and cooking.

A few hours had been sufficient to put up the village. The natives were as desirous of pleasing as they were ready to be pleased, and a favourable impression was thus made at the first interview, which was not diminished during a constant intercourse of between three and four months. They were strictly honest, and frequently returned articles which had been dropped by accident.

During a visit to the Hecla, the fiddler having struck up a tune, these merry people danced with the seamen for an hour, and then returned in high glee to their huts. They were highly delighted with the tones of the organ, as with the songs of the seamen and music of every description. They were very ingenious in employing such materials as they had at their disposal. A sledge being required to carry a lad to some distance, one of them set to work, and in a short time cut out of ice a serviceable little sledge, hollowed like a bowl, and smoothly rounded at the bottom. The thong to which the dogs were secured was fixed to a groove cut round its upper edge. Among the women was one named Iliglink, the mother of a lad called Toolooak, who had frequently come on board. She was a superior person, of great natural talent. Her voice was soft; she had an excellent ear for music, and a great fondness for singing. It was somewhat difficult, indeed, when she once began, to stop her. She made beautiful models of canoes, sledges, and other articles; but she showed her superior intelligence by the readiness with which she communicated her knowledge of the geographical outline of the sea-coast of the country and of the islands. Several sheets of paper were placed before her, and she drew roughly, on a large scale, an outline of the land about Repulse Bay and Lyon Inlet, continuing it northerly to the present winter station of the ships. Sheet after sheet was tacked on until she had completely lost sight of Winter Island, at the other end of the table. She afterwards drew, on a smaller scale, with wonderful accuracy, a chart embracing a much wider extent of coast. With intense interest it was found that she drew the extreme northern boundary of America, or rather its north-east extremity, round which Captain Parry had received instructions to proceed, if possible.

The armourer's forge especially attracted her attention, and she expressed great astonishment at seeing two pieces of iron welded together. She was rather spoiled, however, by the attention paid her, and seemed to claim as a right her privilege of coming on board whenever she pleased.

Early in April some of the tribe deserted their habitations, proceeding to the westward in search of food, and at the end of May the whole party announced that they were about to migrate to the northward. On receiving what they considered the most valuable presents from the commander, the women broke into such immoderate fits of laughter as to be almost hysterical, finishing by bursting into tears.

The men were thankful, but less noisy in expressing their satisfaction. As these good-humoured and very cheerful people took their departure, they greeted the voyagers with three cheers, in true English style.

While preparations were being made for sailing three deaths occurred, two on board the Fury, and one seaman of the Hecla.

On the 2nd of July the ships moved out of their winter quarters, but they did not put to sea until the 8th. They were almost immediately exposed to most terrific danger, being driven along the ice at a furious rate, frequently almost nipped by it. At one time the Hecla's stern was lifted more than five feet out of the water, and her rudder unslung by a violent jerk. Had another floe backed the one which lifted her, the ship must inevitably have turned over or parted amidships. Providentially she righted, and drove several miles to the southward before her rudder could be again slung. The Fury was exposed to almost equal peril of destruction. By long and unremitting perseverance, and by taking advantage of every opening and breeze of wind, the ships moved to the northward as far as latitude 67 degrees 18 minutes, to the mouth of a fresh water river. The boats were lowered, and parties landed and proceeded up the banks of the river, where, at about two and a quarter miles from the entrance, they found a fine waterfall, the scenery being romantic and beautiful in the extreme. It was named Barrow, after the Secretary of the Admiralty. Its beauties were enhanced by the vegetation on its banks, the enlivening brilliancy of a cloudless sky, and the animation given to the scene by several reindeer, which were grazing beside the stream.

On the 14th of July the ships reached the island of Amitiske, which by Iliglink's chart appeared near the strait which they had reason to believe would conduct them to the polar sea. Here they saw an enormous herd of walruses, lying piled up over each other on the loose drift ice. A boat's crew from each ship was sent to attack them, but the animals --  some with their cubs on their backs, -- making a most determined resistance, kept their assailants at bay. One of them, rushing forward, tore the planks of a boat in several places, and very nearly sank her. Three only were killed.

Sailing on, a strait was seen stretching westward in long perspective; but the hopes of the explorers were soon disappointed, when the ice was discovered extending in one unbroken line across it, from shore to shore.

This passage was named Fury and Hecla Strait. Hoping ultimately, however, to force the ships through, Parry made an expedition along the surface of the strait, and from an elevation saw a wide passage opening out to the west, inducing him to believe that he saw before him the polar sea. Scarcely, however, had he returned when the ice began to break in rents and fissures, and, soon entirely disappearing, the vessels floated in open water. With a brisk breeze he stood on, but at the end of five days it was announced from the crow's nest that ice in a continuous field occupied the whole breadth of the channel. On examining it, however, it was found to be rotten, and the captain, therefore, determined to try and force the ships through it. With all canvas set, they had proceeded three or four hundred yards, when they stuck, and, in spite of all their efforts, were unable to make the slightest advance during the remainder of the season. With the greatest difficulty they were at length extricated, and proceeded to the neighbouring harbour of Igloolik, into which, by the usual operation of sawing, they made their way. Here they prepared to spend another winter. The two ships were at some distance from each other, though not sufficiently so to prevent constant intercourse. They were prevented, however, from continuing their theatrical entertainments, but schools were carried on as industriously as before. A wall of snow, twelve feet high, was built round the Fury, at a distance of twenty yards from her, forming a large square, like that of a farmyard, by which not only was the snow-drift kept out, but a good walk, sheltered from every wind, was afforded. Before long the Esquimaux appeared, among whom were several of their old friends; but Iliglink did not arrive, nor was any reason given for her not coming. The winter was less pleasantly spent than the former, while some slight cases of scurvy appeared, arising from the want of fresh anti-scorbutic plants. At length, when the month of August arrived, the ships were as securely confined in the ice as in the middle of winter, except that a pool of water, about twice their own length and diameter, had opened round them. There was a distance of four or five miles between the ships and the sea, yet notwithstanding, Captain Parry determined to commence the laborious task of sawing his way through it.

By the 6th of August, about four hundred yards of ice were sawn through, leaving a broad canal, eleven hundred yards in length. By this and the disruption of the floe on the 8th of August, the Fury floated once more in open water, and was followed on the 12th by the Hecla.

Captain Parry had come to the resolution of sending the Hecla home, and by taking such stores and provisions as could be spared from her on board the Fury, with her alone to brave a third winter in the polar regions; but on desiring the medical officers to furnish him with their opinions as to the probable effect that a third winter passed in these regions would produce on the health of the ship's company, they expressed it very strongly to the effect that it would be dangerous in the extreme. Captain Lyon fully agreed with this, and the ships, therefore, stood out eastward. The current rapidly hurried them along to the southward, their drift being twenty-one miles in twenty-four hours, though closely beset, without a single pool of water in sight the whole time. As they approached a headland, they were whirled round it at the rate of two or three knots an hour, and on passing Barrow River were drifted nine or ten miles off land by the current setting out of it.

On the 17th of September, a strong westerly breeze clearing them from the ice, enabled them to shape their course for Trinity Islands in a perfectly open sea, from whence they ran down Hudson's Straits, without meeting with any obstruction. The favourable wind still continued, and on the 10th of October they anchored in Brassa Sound, off Lerwick, where they enjoyed their first sight of civilised man, after an absence of seven and twenty months.

They were received by the people of Lerwick in the warmest manner. The bells were set ringing, the town was illuminated, and people flocked in from all parts of the country, to express their joy at their unexpected return.

On the 18th Captain Parry arrived at the Admiralty, and the ships were paid off on the 16th of November.

The idea being entertained that the passage westward into the Pacific might be made through Prince Regent's Inlet, Captain Parry was appointed to the command of another expedition for the purpose of ascertaining if this could be done. The Hecla was re-commissioned, he taking command of her, while Commander Hoppner was appointed to the Fury, with Horatio Thomas Austin and James Clark Ross as his lieutenants. The Hecla carried sixty-two and the Fury sixty persons.

The ships sailed from the Nore on the 19th of May, 1824, accompanied by the William Harris transport. Captain Parry received his instructions to make the best of his way to Davis Straits, to cross over to Lancaster Sound, and, proceeding through Barrow Straits, endeavour to make through Prince Regent's Inlet a passage into the sea which bounds the American continent on its northern coast, and thence westward to the Pacific. At the Danish settlement of Lievely the ships received their stores from the William Harris, which returned home. On leaving the harbour, the Hecla struck on a sunken rock, but without receiving much damage. On the 17th of July the ice began to close round the ships, and from that time forward the crews were constantly employed in warping or sawing through the frozen mass. On several occasions the Hecla received awkward nips, and it was not until the 9th of September that they got into open water. On the 10th of September they entered Lancaster Sound, and found it free from ice; but on the 13th they had the mortification of perceiving the sea ahead covered with young ice, through which they made their way until they came to the entrance of Port Bowen, into which the ships were warped by the ist of October, and here took up their winter station. The usual preparations for passing that dreary season were made. Numerous whales were seen off the coast, which would have afforded a rich harvest to a whaler.

Parry's first care was to find occupation and diversion for the seamen. As many of their former amusements were worn threadbare, he proposed a masquerade, in which officers and men alike took part. Admirably dressed characters of various descriptions made their appearance, and were supported with a degree of spirit and humour which would not have discredited a more refined assembly. It does especial credit to the disposition and good sense of the men that, although the officers entered fully into the spirit of these amusements, which took place once a month alternately on board each ship, no instance occurred of anything that could interfere with the regular discipline, or at all weaken the respect of the men towards their officers. Mr Hooper, purser of the Hecla, superintended the school, aided by other officers. The progress of the men was surprisingly great. He also attended to the cultivation of that religious feeling which so essentially improves the character of seamen, by furnishing the highest motives for increased attention to their other duties. The officers also found full employment in the various observations to which their attention was directed. An expedition was also made to the eastward, under Commander Hoppner. On his return, two other parties, under the respective commands of Lieutenants Sherer and Ross, travelled, the former to the southward, and the latter to the northward, along the coast of Prince Regent's Inlet, for the purpose of surveying it accurately. The travelling along the shore was so good that they were enabled to extend their journeys far beyond the points intended. On returning, Lieutenant Ross brought the welcome intelligence that the sea was perfectly open at a distance of twenty-two miles northward of Port Bowen. On the 12th of July the ice began to break up, and by the 20th, owing to the sudden separation of the floe, the ships got free. They first crossed over to the western shore of Prince Regent's Inlet, then proceeded southward, close in with the land, having alternately open water and floating ice, to which they had occasionally to make fast. Before long, however, the ice was observed to be in rapid motion towards the shore. The Hecla was immediately beset, in spite of every exertion, and, after breaking two of the largest ice-anchors, in endeavouring to heave in to the shore, she was compelled to drift with the ice. Both ships were in extreme danger. The cliffs next the sea, four or five hundred feet in perpendicular height, were constantly breaking down, and the ships lay so close in shore as to be almost within range of some of these falling masses. The following day the Hecla managed to get to a greater distance; but the Fury remained where she was, and on the 31st a hard gale brought the ice closer and closer, until it pressed with very considerable violence on both ships, though mostly on the Fury, which lay in a very exposed position. Shortly afterwards the Fury was forced on the ground, where she lay, but was got off again at high water. A broad channel appearing and a fresh breeze springing up, an attempt was made to reach the water; but the ice came bodily in upon the ships, which were instantly beset in such a manner as to be literally helpless and unmanageable.

Thus they were carried southward, when the Hecla, driving close in shore, struck the ground several times, and remained immovable. The Fury was seen driving past, narrowly escaping being forced on board her. She was driven about three hundred yards, powerfully pressed by the ice, until she became so severely nipped and strained as to leak a good deal, when she was again forced ashore. Both ships, however, got off at high water, but on the 2nd of August the Fury was again driven on the beach, and the Hecla narrowly escaped. Captain Parry went on board the former vessel, and found four pumps going, and Commander Hoppner and his men almost exhausted with the incessant labours of the last eight and forty hours. They were now looking out for a spot where the Fury might be hove down, when again the ice drove down upon them. Once more freed, however, the ships proceeded to a place where there were three bergs, at which it was determined to heave down the Fury. The formation of a basin was at once commenced, and completed by the 16th of August, and on the 18th all the Fury's stores, provisions, and other articles, were landed, and she was hove down. Scarcely, however, had this been done when a gale of wind came on, which destroyed the bergs, and made it necessary to tow both the ships away from the land. The Fury was again reloaded, but on the 21st was once more driven on shore. It was now seen that any attempt to carry her to a place of safety, even should she be got off, would be hopeless and productive of extreme risk to the remaining ship, and that an absolute necessity existed for abandoning her. Her crew, with such stores as were required, were transferred to the Hecla, and every effort was made to carry the surviving ship into clear water.

Five and twenty days of the time when navigation was practicable had been lost. As soon, therefore, as the boats had been hoisted up and stowed, they sailed away to the north-eastward, with a light air off the land, in order to gain an offing before the ice should again set in shore. The Hecla was at length worked out of Prince Regent's Inlet, and arrived safely at Melville Harbour, where the necessary repairs were effected for enabling her to cross the Atlantic.

Weighing anchor on the 1st of September, the Hecla entered Barrow Strait, where the sea was found perfectly open, and she was thus enabled to bear away to the eastward. In crossing Lancaster Sound more than the usual quantity of icebergs were seen. For ten miles she had only to make one tack, when she reached the margin of the ice, and got on its eastern side into the open sea. On the 10th of October the Orkney Islands were sighted, and on the 12th Captain Parry landed at Peterhead.

This last voyage to discover the north-west passage, though less successful than the former ones, equally exhibited the courage, perseverance, and hardihood which had before distinguished the officers and crews employed; while we cannot help contrasting the admirable discipline maintained with the sad want of it displayed in so many of the voyages described in the preceding pages.

In 1827 Captain Parry commanded an expedition, which was fitted out in the hopes of reaching the north pole by way of Spitzbergen, when, accompanied by Captain Ross, he performed a long and hazardous journey over the ice; but, after travelling six hundred miles, it was found that they had only made good, owing to the drift of the ice, one hundred and seventy miles.

As a reward for his laborious services, he received the honour of knighthood, and Admiral Sir Edward Parry will ever be remembered as one of the bravest, most sagacious, and enterprising officers who have done honour to the British Navy.

The voyages of Sir John Franklin will now occupy us in succession to the heroic Parry.



Chapter Twenty Nine.

Sir John Franklin's Expeditions.

Birth and youthful career of Franklin -- His service at sea -- Appointed to survey the Coppermine River -- His expedition -- His second expedition to the Arctic regions -- Made Governor of Tasmania -- His return -- The last Franklin expedition.

Sir John Franklin, whose Arctic expeditions and their consequences will form the subject of this chapter, was born at Spilsby, in Lincolnshire, on the 16th of April, 1786. He was the youngest son of most respectable parents and intended for the Church, but as he preferred the sea service, his father yielded, and got him appointed a middy at fourteen years of age. Young Franklin soon saw some service. He was present at Copenhagen in 1801, and was appointed to the Investigator, which, under his cousin Captain Flinders, explored the Australian coast. The Investigator went to grief, and when the crew were transferred to the Porpoise she was wrecked, the ship's company and officers living on a sandbank for fifty days. After being taken off, Franklin was carried to Canton, and when he eventually reached England he was appointed to the Bellerophon, and was present at the battle of Trafalgar, where he was signal midshipman, and behaved splendidly.

For several years he served in the Bedford, and was engaged and wounded at New Orleans. In 1818 he was put in command of the Trent to find an Arctic passage to India, and in this Captain Buchan, in the Dorothea, took command. But the latter vessel being damaged, the expedition returned to England, though Franklin wished to proceed alone.

After this, his reputation having been well established, not only as a thorough seaman but as a man of science, he was appointed to the expedition to cross the continent from Hudson's Bay to the Coppermine, and explore the coast eastward.

We will now, as briefly as possible, give the interesting narrative of Franklin's Arctic expeditions.

While Sir Edward Parry, whose expedition we have already detailed, was endeavouring to cross the Polar Sea westwards, Lieutenant John Franklin was commissioned by the Admiralty to ascertain the sources of the Coppermine River. At the same time Doctor Richardson and Messrs. Hood and Back were also nominated, with two English sailors, to accompany him. This small party embarked on board the Hudson Bay Company's vessel Prince of Wales on the 23rd of May, 1819, and after some perils they arrived off York Factory, on the Hudson Bay shore, in August of the same year.

On the 9th of September the party commenced their exploration, and reached Cumberland House on the 22nd of October. Franklin, notwithstanding the advanced period of the year, determined to push on, and after a delay he set out, accompanied only by Lieutenant Back, on the 18th of January, 1820. Doctor (afterwards Sir John) Richardson and Mr Hood were to bring up the baggage and more stores in the early spring. The enterprising pair then journeyed more than eight hundred miles in the terrible Arctic winter, and reached Fort Chepeywan on the 26th of March following.

Meanwhile Doctor Richardson and Mr Hood remained at Cumberland House engaged in congenial pursuits and studying the Cree Indians, with other natural history subjects. The notes they give concerning the manners and customs of the Indians are extremely interesting, but are by this time pretty well known. Their dexterity in hunting and hawking are particularly commended, and much useful information concerning the fauna of the district was collected by Doctor Richardson and his companion.

When spring began to appear Doctor Richardson and his friend, with the Indian hunters, set out to join Franklin, and the "misery" -- there is no other name for it -- which the party endured, not from cold but from the mosquitoes, must be read about in detail to be even partially appreciated. This is a fearful plague of the northern regions just as Nature is beginning to clothe herself anew in green, and the white mantle of winter has disappeared in those places where snow is not perpetual.

On the 18th of July, 1820, the whole party was assembled at Fort Chepeywan, and they set out together, so as to reach the mouth of the Coppermine in time to establish winter quarters for the next cold season. But tremendous difficulties beset them -- lakes and rivers had to be crossed, portages had to be made, as rapids had to be avoided, and shallows had to be circumvented. Thus it was the middle of August again ere they reached a place whence further progress was impossible that season. The signs of approaching winter could not be disregarded: a house was constructed as a winter residence, and called "Fort Enterprise."

Their objective point was still many, many miles away, and those miles they could not traverse with their boats and stores. So, after a hurried peep at the head of the river, they made ready to winter, and with that view laid in a stock of provisions. This consisted chiefly of pemmican, which is frozen or dried reindeer-flesh kneaded with the fat into a kind of paste. Fish was added to this, but as people came along -- natives and their families, who "made for" shelter as quickly as possible -- the stock was not enough. Ammunition gave out, many necessary stores had not come up, and at length Mr -- afterwards Admiral Sir George -- Back determined to return, and bring up the required stores.

After a lapse of five months this intrepid young officer returned to Franklin. In the meantime he had travelled one thousand miles in snow-shoes, had no covering at night except a blanket and a deer-skin, the thermometer at 40 degrees to 50 degrees below zero, and on occasions he was for two or three days without food! This was indeed intrepidity, but he knew his friends were waiting for him, and that without some such self-sacrifice they could not have remained in their winter quarters, where, during Mr Back's absence, they suffered greatly from the climate.

The young voyager brought back with him two interpreters, whose names in English were "Stomach" and "Ear," but who were called Augustus and Junius, in preference to the British equivalents of their baptismal names. During the winter all played games and wrote out their journals -- a favourite occupation with all travellers in their forced idleness. They subsisted on reindeer meat without vegetables, and drank tea or chocolate. The Indians were very kind and friendly all the time. Many instances are related of their good-nature and simplicity.

The 14th of June had come before the travellers considered the icy river navigable. Some difficulties occurred with the hunters as to the procuring of provisions by the way, but when all had been arranged comfortably, a start was made, and the rocky river attempted.

The party arrived at the Copper hills, where the ore was searched for, and then the expedition continued its course, though the Indians would not go on after a while for fear of meeting the Esquimaux; and even the Canadian hunters wanted to go back. The sea was reached on the 18th of July, and the party paddled their own canoes towards the east. For more than five hundred miles they coasted, until, instead of finding themselves in the Arctic Ocean, they were only in an immense bay. So they turned back and went up Hood's River, with the intention to go as far as possible by water, and then strike overland to Fort Enterprise again.

This was a hazardous attempt, but it was their only chance. They were soon stopped by a waterfall, and then the pilgrimage began. The large canoes were made into two smaller ones, for the crossing of rivers and lakes, and, with only provisions for two days, they started overland.

In three days they encountered quite a wintry climate, and from the 5th to 26th of September they had to march through snow and live on mosses, without any guide, or observation, to show the way, and many days they had no food at all. Frozen, and eventually almost in despair, the Canadians grew impatient. One canoe was disabled, the other lost, and, at length, when they all reached the Coppermine River, they had no means of crossing it.

In this emergency, Doctor Richardson volunteered to swim the hundred and thirty yards of icy water (38 degrees), and carry a line over. He made the attempt, and had almost succeeded when the cold overcame him, and he was dragged back nearly drowned. He was with much difficulty restored to animation. A kind of basket was then rigged up, and in it Saint Germain, an interpreter, paddled over, carrying the line. He managed to reach the opposite bank, and with no more than a wetting the rest all crossed in safety after him.

This was in the beginning of October, and winter was upon them. So Franklin sent on some of the men with Mr Back to find the Indians near Fort Enterprise, and the rest followed. But the lichens disagreed with two men, and though Doctor Richardson went back and endeavoured to cure them and bring them along, he was obliged to abandon them to die in their tracks. Things looked so serious that Richardson and Hood pluckily proposed to remain at the first convenient halting-place with the weaker brethren, and let Franklin push on to the fort, and send back help and food. This was agreed to. Franklin went on, but Hepburn, the English sailor, volunteered to remain with Richardson. This parting took place on the 7th of October, twenty-four miles from the fort. Of the eight men who left with Franklin, four were taken ill and returned to Doctor Richardson, but only one man, the Iroquois Michel, reached the tent in rear.

On the 11th Franklin, with four men, reached the fort, and found it completely empty and deserted -- no food, no friends, nothing! After a while a note was found from Mr Back saying he had gone after the Indians, but he was unsuccessful in finding them. Others were sent afterwards, and so for eighteen days Franklin lived miserably on the skins, bones, and remains of the reindeer which had been eaten the previous winter!

On the 29th of October Richardson and Hepburn came in -- walking skeletons. Where was poor Hood? Where were the others? A tragic tale had to be told by Doctor Richardson. Here is the account of what happened.

For two days the party left by Franklin had no food. Michel then brought a little game. Then another day and no food, and Mr Hood was very ill. Next day the Iroquois carried home some "wolf-meat," but Richardson believes it was a part of the body of one of the wanderers who had been killed by the Iroquois. This man now became very ill-natured and got worse and worse in his conduct, refusing to supply his companions with food or to share what he had procured. One day after being remonstrated with while Doctor Richardson and Hepburn were absent from the tent, this wretch shot Hood in the back, and Michel was so evidently the murderer that afterwards, in self-defence, Richardson shot him unexpectedly as he was coming to the fort. Hepburn had noticed certain acts which left no doubt of Michel's intention to murder his companions, and Richardson anticipated the murderer's aim.

After this Richardson, emaciated and half dead, with Hepburn a perfect skeleton, found Franklin as bad as themselves. Utterly unable to find any food they gnawed skins and bones. They were on the point of death when on the 7th of November assistance came. Three Indians sent by Back appeared with food. They afforded material assistance, and finally conducted the remainder of the party to the next fort. The survivors reached York Factory in July, 1822, having been absent from it just three years.

Many Arctic expeditions were sent out after this for the north-west exploration. Commander Lyon, in the Hecla, has been already mentioned. We shall hear of the Blossom in connection with Sir John Franklin. The Victory, under Captain John Ross and Lieutenant Ross, Captain Back in the Terror and in boats, the Hudson Bay Company's employes in 1836-39, and Doctor John Rae, 1846-47, all added their "notable voyages" to the record of Arctic expeditions, and were we to detail them there would be a sameness in the narratives, though the adventurous spirit breathed through them all. But later on we will mention Doctor Kane's expedition.

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We will at present confine ourselves to Sir John Franklin's expeditions undertaken in 1825-27 and 1845-50, with the search made for him by various vessels.

Not contented with what had been done, and was being done, by Parry and others in the North, Franklin undertook to conduct a second expedition, which Captain Beachey was appointed to meet by going round Cape Horn, and through Behring's Strait to the eastward, so as to unite with Franklin, who hoped to come overland. Four expeditions, including these, were fitted out; but we have already seen what Parry did. Captain Lyon's attempt to survey the coast failed; so we will follow Franklin in his second venture.

The explorer was again accompanied by Doctor Richardson and Lieutenant Back; Mr Kendall and Mr Drummond also went as members of the "staff." Their object was to descend the Mackenzie River to the sea. There it was determined the party should divide, one portion going eastward, the other westward to Behring's Strait.

The whole expedition reached Fort Chepeywan once again in July, 1825, and pressed onto the Great Bear Lake; then, following the river which runs out of it to the Mackenzie River, they took up winter quarters; but, as there was still time to explore a little, Franklin descended the Mackenzie to the sea, and returned to the Fort (Franklin) before the severity of winter had overtaken him.

Winter passed over in the usual manner, and in June, 1826, it was judged that an advance might safely be made. On the 15th June all were ready. Two parties were formed. Franklin and Lieutenant Back, with fourteen men, were to go westward in the Reliance and Lion (boats); Doctor Richardson and Mr Kendall, with the Dolphin and Unicorn, were to proceed eastward. They all descended the Mackenzie together, and when they reached the mouth they separated as agreed on. Franklin's party proceeded westward, and met with some opposition from the Esquimaux, who tried to steal the stores and other things.

Eventually the explorers got free, and sailed on in continually thick, foggy weather. It was the middle of August before the boats reached the half-way point between the Mackenzie and the Cape. After a careful consideration of the circumstances, and being ignorant of the vicinity --  comparatively speaking -- of Captain Beachey in the Blossom, which had been directed to unite with him, Franklin made up his mind to return, as the winter was already beginning to manifest its approach.

Beachey was at that time actually expecting Captain Franklin. Only one hundred and forty-six miles intervened between them, and the brave explorer afterwards declared that had he known of the Blossom being so near he would have risked the meeting. But he had no reason to think that Beachey had got nearer than Kotzebue Sound, whereas a party from the Blossom had even ventured round Icy Cape in the search for Franklin.

The result was that Franklin returned, encountering severe weather, and on the 21st of September again gained the shelter of Fort Franklin. Beachey, meanwhile, waited in Kotzebue Sound as long as he dared, and then retreated to Petropavlovok. The extent of Franklin's survey had extended over three hundred and seventy-four miles of dreary coast without discovering a single harbour for vessels. He penetrated as far as latitude 70 degrees 24 minutes, and longitude 149 degrees 37 minutes West.

Doctor Richardson's party made some very valuable observations in his survey of five hundred miles -- a much more pleasant journey than Franklin's. In the account of the expedition are many interesting details of Esquimaux life. Doctor Richardson and his companions reached winter quarters in safety on the Great Bear Lake. In 1827 Captain Beachey again made his way up to Kotzebue Sound, in the expectation of encountering Franklin, but, of course, did not meet him. These three parties traced the coast down to Return Reef westward, from the Mackenzie eastward to Cape Kensurstern, and circumnavigated the Great Bear Lake, this, "if continued eastward, would have solved the North-West Passage."

Before considering the several Arctic expeditions which made attempts to discover the desired North-West Passage, we will speak of Sir John Franklin's third and last expedition to the Icy Regions. In the year 1829, Captain Franklin had been created a Knight, and received the degree of D.C.L. at Oxford. In 1830 he commanded the Rainbow in the Mediterranean, which ship was known as "Franklin's Paradise," so well did he treat his crew. In the year 1836, he was appointed Governor of Van Dieman's Land (Tasmania), and in that colony he remained until 1843, where he was, and is still, gratefully remembered. He returned to England in consequence, it is said, of some misunderstanding with the Colonial Office, and in 1845 he claimed the command of the new expedition.

The Last Voyage Of Franklin.

In 1844 public attention was again directed to the discovery of the North-West Passage. The expedition under Sir James Ross, in the Erebus and Terror, to the South Polar regions had reopened the Arctic question. The vessels had been proved sound; they were available for a new advance. Sir John Franklin had returned from Tasmania, and when the Admiralty had decided to send out an expedition, he laid claim to the post of commander of it.

It was not until May, 1845, that the Erebus and Terror, fitted with auxiliary screws, were ready to go. A store-vessel accompanied them as far as Disco, on the Greenland coast, and there the two ships entered Baffin's Bay. Along the coast and into the ice they go, meeting it as it is making its slow way to the south. At length the ships are completely surrounded, and anchored to the snowy floes which extend in all directions.

By the end of July they have managed to press on out of the track of all the whaling vessels, and make for Lancaster Sound, westward. The desolate coast of North Devon is skirted, and subsequently Beachey Island is reached. From hence they move northward again, and to Wellington Channel, only to be turned back again by the ice.

But the signs of coming winter made it absolutely necessary that some sheltered place should be found in which the long dreary months might be passed. Day after day the Erebus and Terror sought such a resting-place, and found none. Any advance was now out of the question; the "massing" ice prevented that, and threatened them daily. At length it was decided to run for shelter to Beachey Island, and in Erebus and Terror Bay the expedition was made as snug as possible for the winter. The daily record of the passed months tells us of a continual struggle with ice and snow; checks and renewed efforts; storm-tossed seas, and icebergs innumerable.

At Beachey Island the vessels remained after their exploration of nearly three hundred miles of new ground. Plans, no doubt, were made for the following year, while the cold death-like hand of winter came and grasped everything in its iron grip. The sun, of course, left the ships, and after climbing the hills to see the last of him, the crews went back in darkness to the vessels. How the crews amused themselves during the winter we can imagine, and we find plenty of testimony to the games, the acting, the reading, and study, in which time was passed. The great thing to be aimed at was occupation -- action. Stagnation meant death.

Three men died during the winter, and when the sun reappeared, when the creeks in the ice warned the crews that the time of release was at hand, a good and anxious look-out was kept. At length the ice-floes moved away, and after a while the channel was cut out for the release of the Erebus and Terror. The open water was at length gained, the instructions were to go south-west from Cape Walker, and that was now the point aimed at. When the Cape had been gained, and quitted for Cape Herschel, the ships fell into the Melville Island ice-stream, and they struggled on till King William's Land was sighted. But unfortunately by that time another winter had began to reform the ice. So there was nothing to do but find winter quarters, which were finally established northward of Cape Felix, in anything but a happy place, for the ice there is described as of a most fearful nature, and of terrible pressure.

Here there was a fearful prospect -- nothing but ice in mountains, and in masses which tossed the ships -- slowly indeed -- and threatened to "nip" them in halves. But notwithstanding all the hardships, the men bore up, and prepared for the overland journey to Cape Herschel -- a hundred miles only! -- as soon as the spring should open. As soon as possible, a pioneer party, under Lieutenant Gore and Mr Des Voeux, of the Erebus, started off to see the channel or path by which they might reach America. When they rapidly returned to tell their comrades the good news they had gathered, they found Sir John Franklin dead!

Shortly afterwards, in a deep crevasse in the ice, the body was laid while the burial service was read over it by Captain Fitzjames. Franklin, "like another Moses, fell when his work was accomplished -- with the long object of his life in view."

The movement of such ice as was still around the vessels would not take place till very late. The ice will move, but winter may again shut the ships in before they have traversed one half of the ninety miles still remaining. Captains Fitzjames and Crozier consult accordingly.

The floe moves, and the imbedded ships go south with it, but there is no water. No sailing is possible. Drifting helpless with the ice, the Erebus and Terror are carried along, but unless open water be found, they will drift back again in the autumn, or at any rate remain imprisoned in it.

Autumn has arrived -- the new ice is forming, the floe no longer moves at all. Thirty miles have been passed over by the floe; the explorers are so much nearer, but then the drift ceases. Sixty miles or less of ice intervene, and then the open sea will be reached. But the doom has gone forth. Winter closes again on the brave, the sick, and the suffering; cold, disease, and privation are fast decimating the available hands. The snow-cloud settles down upon the vessels, darkness shrouds them; and when the curtain again rises, and the sun shines out, we find twenty-one officers and men had been laid to their long, last rest in the Arctic solitudes. One hundred and four men still remain -- hungry, frozen, patient, brave. Alas that all the bravery was no avail!

It is pitiful to dwell upon the remainder of the sad story of the expedition. We can picture the band now reduced to such extremity that they must all remain to die, or struggle on across the ice and snow to Cape Herschel. They must go. They pack the boats, and put them upon sleighs, and then wait for spring to set about their weary work.

April comes, and has nearly gone, when the command is given. The men look their last upon the Erebus and Terror, give them three cheers, and go away into the desolate waste -- to die! Point Victory their object. They gained it, and then their helplessness came and stared them in the face. In a cairn on the point Fitzjames placed a brief record, and that is all. They have only food for a month more, and day by day the strong are growing weak and the weak are dying.

The increase in the number of the latter necessitated a division. The sick must remain till help comes, or go back to the ships. We can picture the fearful alternative. Many remained, and of that number two skeletons were afterwards found, and on board one of the ships the "bones of a large man with long teeth!" That is all!

The remainder pushed on to Cape Herschel, and left a record in a cairn. They were desperate and dying men, yet they endeavoured to reach the Great Fish River, but alas! alas! the skeleton found lying face downwards, left unburied as he fell, tells us as much of the fate of the whole party as if the record had been kept.

"The Polar clouds uplift One moment, and no more."

For a long time no one knew the fate of the Erebus and Terror, until Lady Franklin sent out McClintock in the Fox to lift the veil which hung over the last voyage of the intrepid John Franklin. But before giving the account of McClintock's successful search we will enumerate the various attempts made by Government to ascertain the fate of Franklin. Our summary must be a very brief one.

Three years after Franklin had set out considerable uneasiness was felt in Great Britain concerning him. In 1848 two ships, the Herald and the Plover, were sent out by the Admiralty to afford assistance, but Sir John Richardson and Doctor Rae had anticipated the Government vessels, and gone via New York to the Mackenzie, which he had already twice visited with Franklin. Captain Sir James Ross also was searching by the Lancaster Sound, and he experienced many hardships; but in 1850 his vessels (the Enterprise and Investigator, under Collinson and McClure) were sent, and later on an international squadron was dispatched to Lancaster Sound under Captains Austin and Penny, Sir John Ross in the Felix, and Mr Grinnell's two American ships under Lieutenant De Haven, as well as the Albert, sent out by Lady Franklin at her own cost, commanded by Commander Forsyth.

This mixture of royal and mercantile naval commands gave rise to some unfriendly feelings, but Captain Penny succeeded in finding many traces of Franklin's crews, and the tombs of those who had died in 1846. Many most useful surveys and some geographical discoveries were made, but beyond the traces found by Ommaney and Penny nothing of the fate of the Franklin expedition was discovered.

In 1852 Sir E. Belcher sailed on the same errand. Lady Franklin also dispatched the Isabel. Doctor Rae in 1854, however, discovered, through the information afforded by the Esquimaux, that some white men had been seen in King William's Land a few years previously, "dragging boats across the ice," and "looking thin." The Hudson's Bay Company then sent Mr Anderson, in accordance with a request of the English Government, to explore the district; and on Montreal Island he found the remains of a boat, and obtained from the Esquimaux many relics of Franklin's expedition, with articles which had belonged to the crews. This intelligence decided Lady Franklin to make another attempt to learn the actual fate of her brave husband.

Before Doctor Rae had returned with the intelligence he had gained concerning the Franklin Expedition, a very important Arctic Expedition had been undertaken by Doctor Elisha Kane. To this we must turn our attention in a new chapter, as he went out to the limits of the Arctic Zone in search of Sir J. Franklin, and accomplished a most adventurous journey.



Chapter Thirty.

Dr Kane's Voyage To The Polar Regions.

American exploration -- The "open Polar Sea" -- Dr Kane's voyage in the Advance -- Sledge-work -- The Advance in winter quarters -- Incidents of the winter -- Abandonment of the ship -- Terrible suffering -- Drifting --  Rescued.

The Americans had already sent out an expedition to search for Franklin, which was commanded by Lieutenant De Haven. These vessels were the Advance and Rescue, and the expedition, which we have referred to as the "Grinnell Expedition," was accompanied by Doctor E.K. Kane as "surgeon, naturalist, and historian." In the spring of 1853, when more search expeditions were being sent out, Mr Grinnell, Mr Peabody, and other gentlemen, dispatched Doctor Kane as leader of this important undertaking.

Doctor Kane had minutely studied the Arctic problem, and he entertained the idea that around the Pole is open water -- a theory afterwards acted on by Doctor Hayes, and set forth in a pamphlet by Captain Bent, called "Gateways to the Pole," which sustains the belief that the Gulf Stream, by its warm water, keeps the northern channel free from ice, and by following the Gulf Stream the Pole may be reached.

But this is a digression. Doctor Kane had accepted the conduct of the expedition, and at once embarked upon it. He went upon the supposition of the "open Polar Sea," and sailed in the Advance from New York, on the 30th of May, 1853. He had determined to penetrate as far up "Smith's Strait" as possible, and by it enter the Polar Sea. His party consisted of eighteen officers and men, including Doctor Hayes.

At Saint John's, Newfoundland, they paused to embark some dogs for sleigh-hauling, and steered thence for Baffin's Bay. Early in July the ship entered Frikernaes, in Greenland, where the people received the crew gladly. On the 16th the promontory of Swartchuk was passed; and, later, icebergs were met with in considerable numbers, under one of which they were nearly swamped, the warning fragments only giving the ship time to cast off her icy moorings. Melville Bay was however navigated, and by the 3rd of August the North Water, through which Kane wished to reach Smith's Strait (or Sound), was opening to their view.

The "Red Snow," or Crimson Cliffs mentioned by Sir John Ross, were safely passed, and then doubling Alexander Cape, Smith's Sound was fairly entered. When Littlebow Island was at length reached, Doctor Kane determined to form a store depot there, and leave a boat, in view of future contingencies. Stones, and sand, and water were placed and poured upon the covered stores, blankets, etcetera. This cache was soon frozen solid, and thus preserved from the weather and the Polar bears. The boat was left near what proved to be an old Esquimaux camp.

When these far-seeing preparations had been made, Doctor Kane endeavoured to press on, but all attempts were defeated by the ice which pressed upon the vessel; so an advance along the coast was tried. A storm arose, and the bergs came dashing along before the wind. The brave Kane determined to utilise his threatening foes, and, making fast to one fine iceberg, the Advance was towed along, while the storm lasted, through the ice which the drifting berg cleared away merrily. Thus, after considerable peril from storm and ice, the vessel lay at rest in temporary shelter under another iceberg, which, fortunately, protected them from the hurricane.

They had come fully ten miles in the track of the convenient iceberg; and, when the storm abated -- which it did on the 22nd -- the crew took the Advance in tow, but made little progress along the ice-belt. Doctor Kane was too impatient to stay with the vessel, so, with a few followers, he hurried on in front to survey the coast in a boat, somewhat unpleasantly named the Forlorn Hope, which, however, they soon abandoned for a sleigh.

The journey in this conveyance was neither so easy nor so rapid as perhaps may be expected, but some progress was made, though eight miles a day does not come up to our European notions of sledge-travelling. Finding the ice more and more difficult the sleigh was in its turn quitted, and the party advanced on foot. In this manner, in not very cold weather, they proceeded rapidly. They passed Cape Thackeray, which they named, and reached Cape George Russell; whence they viewed the great Humboldt Glacier, Cape Jackson, and Cape Barrow, all illustrious titles in the archives of the world.

When Doctor Kane had made a search for a harbour, and found none so convenient as the place he had left the Advance, he made his way back again, satisfied that he had as good winter quarters as he could reasonably expect to find. But he, perhaps, overlooked the fact that had he discovered a convenient inlet in the ice fifty miles from the ship, how was the Advance to be brought into it over an ice-pack, where a boat or a sleigh could not travel? So, perhaps, all things considered, it was fortunate that he did not find a better shelter.

Doctor Kane and his men returned to the Advance, and had her warped in between two islands for the winter, which was then rapidly approaching. Soundings were taken in seven fathoms, and when all had been made snug, the vessel was secured, laid-up in harbour -- a shelter which she was destined never to quit -- at any rate, not as a "commissioned" ship.

Preparations were made for sleigh journeys. The dogs were trained, sleighs were constructed, while an observatory was also erected. Some of the party made excursions during the winter, and found their course barred by an immense glacier four hundred feet high. Varied means were resorted to to kill the usual monotony of the Arctic winter. A newspaper was started, "hare and hounds" was practised, and perhaps amateur plays were acted, beside the "Frozen Deep." They did get up a fancy ball, and enjoyed it very much.

A fire on board ship varied these more interesting proceedings. It occurred while an experiment was being made to kill rats with carbonic acid gas. The chief immediate effects were to nearly suffocate Doctor Kane and three others, a considerable fire, and some discomfort. Then some dogs went mad in consequence of the depression induced by darkness and the intense cold. The explorers encountered many dangers in their excursions, also in falling into crevasses, etcetera. Some dogs died owing to want of sunlight.

Never had any explorers wintered in such high latitudes before, excepting perhaps in Spitzbergen. We cannot picture to ourselves the intense Egyptian darkness which prevails in such places as Kane and his companions wintered. The thermometer was more than 100 degrees below freezing point. This was in February, 1854, and the "madness" of the dogs, though not harmful to their masters, was evidently attributable to the terrible cold, which affected the air passages, and to the continued absence of light.

At length Doctor Kane went with a selected party to meet the sun. He set off to find the light for which all were perishing. The sun was sighted, and the news was quickly followed by the orb, which revived the half-frozen crew and the remaining dogs, of which only six were alive, the rest had died mad -- "mentally" afflicted -- not with "hydrophobia," but with "brain" disease. As for the effect on the men, we may quote Doctor Kane, who says, "An Arctic night and an Arctic day age a man more harshly than a year anywhere else in all this weary world."

Doctor Kane had made preparations for his sledge expedition to the north, and a small party was sent ahead on the 19th of March to establish a depot of stores. But by the 31st of the month three men returned, swollen, haggard, and scarcely able to articulate. Four men had been left frozen in the ice in a tent, perfectly disabled. Even the direction in which they lay was uncertain, but Kane and nine men started to the rescue. They nearly relinquished the search in sheer despair until some footprints were discovered which gave them the clue. They reached the tent after a continued search of twenty-one hours.

After a brief rest -- some sleeping in the small tent by turns, while the rest walked about outside to keep themselves from freezing -- they set out on their homeward journey, but quickly became aware of their rapidly failing energies. They were still nine miles from home, and some men wanted to lie down and sleep, another was frozen stiff, and another lay down in the snow. A halt was necessary.

The tent was pitched: no fire could be lighted, as no one could hold the materials for striking the flame. The worst patients were put inside the tent, and then Kane and Godfrey pushed on to the camp for food. They could only keep themselves awake by incessant talking all the way, and Doctor Kane states they were neither of them entirely in their right senses during this trying walk. They remember a bear which tore a "jumper" that one of the men had thrown off on the previous day; however, the animal did not mind the explorers at all. But Bruin had upset the tent, and it was with much difficulty Kane and his companion raised it. They then went to sleep, and Kane's beard was frozen to the buffalo skin, so he had to be "cut out." By the time they had made preparations, the remainder of the party arrived, and they all made for the brig.

The remainder of the journey was scarcely accomplished with life. Many ate snow, and their mouths swelled fearfully. Nearly all were exhausted. At length they became delirious, and only reached the Advance by instinct, for they were all staggering along blindly when Peterson and Whipple met them with some restoratives. This expedition cost two men amputation, and two others died.

During the short summer some expeditions were organised, as the Advance remained immovable. Some discoveries were made, but the expeditions ended in disaster. The Humboldt Glacier and Tennyson Monument -- the latter a column of ice, like an obelisk four hundred and eighty feet high, on a pedestal -- were visited. But nothing resulted from the excursions but blindness, privation, and suffering. An attempt was made to communicate with Sir E. Belcher on Beachey Island, but it failed, and another winter in the ice had to be faced. Some men preferred to leave the ship, but they returned after a while.

The winter passed drearily, amid privations which brought the men almost down to the lowest pitch of despair but employment fortunately kept them from the last depth, and preparations for a spring excursion cheered them up. The Esquimaux were friendly, and a treaty was entered into with them, which proved useful.

At last summer appeared. The 17th of May was fixed for the start; the Advance was to be abandoned. The day was Sunday. Prayers were read, and then Doctor Kane addressed his men, hopefully pointing out their duty, and encouraging them to proceed, unselfishly helping the sick and behaving like men. The flags were then hoisted and struck; then the Advance was abandoned, and the retreat commenced to Littleton Island first, and thence to Danish Settlements.

It was Tuesday, the 19th of June, when the party took a last leave of the Esquimaux and put to sea; that first night a boat was swamped. The Eric went down in the ice; the Faith and Hope remained. On the 22nd, Northumberland Island was reached in a blinding snowstorm; but fresh provisions were fortunately procured.

They then succeeded, by dragging the boats over the ice, with occasional rowing, in crossing the Murchison Channel, and encamped for the night on the land ice-floe. Thus they proceeded, amid tremendous difficulties, on scanty food -- bread-dust and a lump of tallow about the size of a walnut -- and tea when they could procure water. At length they found the loads heavier, and came to the sad conclusion that their energies were giving way. Nothing in view, "we were sorely disheartened," says Doctor Kane.

No wonder! Utterly at the mercy of the ice, which at times broke up, and fell down, threatening to carry them to destruction with it, or bury them amid the hummocks. Hemmed in, and in imminent danger of death, they nevertheless clung to the ice until the rising tide should float them up and enable them to scale the icy cliffs into comparative shelter -- "Weary Man's Rest."

There they remained till the snow had abated, and then they struggled on amid ice and "sludge" until checked by a glacier. They had doubled Cape Dudley Digges, and after a survey, decided to wait in the ice at "Providence Halt." After a week's rest they again continued their way, past the "Crimson Cliffs," and into more cheerful regions. They were, however, nearly starving, but managed to secure a seal, which saved them for the time; their feet were badly swollen, and they had no desire to sleep. They were now drifting in the open bay (in the Atlantic "ice-drift") in leaky boats, a position sufficiently perilous, even without the accompaniments of hunger and sleeplessness.

On the 1st of August, however, they had reached familiar waters. Two days later a cry was heard, ending in a "hullo." Men were coming, in a small boat. "It is the Upernavik oil-boat," said Petersen. He was right. From the men they learned the news of the Crimean War, and the discovery of the remains of Franklin's party a thousand miles south of the places they had explored.

Next day they gained Upernavik in safety, after eighty-four days' travelling; in the open air all the time. In Upernavik they remained until the 6th of September, and then embarked for the Shetland Isles. On the way they fell in with some American vessels which had been dispatched to search for them, and they were soon welcomed in New York.

From a scientific point of view Doctor Kane's expedition had most important results in the discovery of a large channel to the north-west, and in many other discoveries and surveys of the American and Greenland coasts.



Chapter Thirty One.

The "Fox" Expedition.

Expeditions in search of Franklin -- The Fox commissioned by Sir L. McClintock -- The search by Hobson -- Relics found -- The fate of Sir John Franklin's expedition -- The North-West Passage discovered.

While Doctor Kane was away in 1853 the North-West Passage had been demonstrated by Captains McClure and Collinson, who it may be remembered went on in 1850 in the Investigator and Resolute to carry out the "Behring Strait Expedition." In 1853 Lady Franklin sent out the Rattlesnake and Isabel to find McClure. Captain Inglefield also went out, as already stated, to aid Sir E. Belcher in Barrow Strait. It was on this voyage that Lieutenant Bellot was lost (August, 1853). Belcher found no traces of Franklin, but they found McClure and his ships' company, who had been in the ice for three years. They had gone in by Behring's Strait and returned by Baffin's Bay, which established the fact of the so long doubted passage parallel with the American coast between these pieces of water. In 1854 the ships Assistance, Resolute, Pioneer, Intrepid, and the Investigator were all abandoned. The crews were taken on board the Talbot, Phoenix, and North Star, and reached England in 1854 without having found any true trace of Franklin, though it had been ascertained that he wintered upon Beachey Island in 1845-6.

The crews of the Erebus and Terror were given up. War was threatening in Europe, and the relics of Franklin were obscured in the smoke of the Crimean battles. Nevertheless, the idea that Sir John Franklin and his devoted followers were in the Arctic regions, and still alive, was entertained by a good many people. The Admiralty declined to inquire farther, but Lady Franklin again found means to equip and dispatch a fourth expedition. In 1857 the preparations were made. Captain McClintock, who had commanded former expeditions, undertook the post of leader. The Fox was purchased, and on the 1st of July, 1857, the search again was entered upon.

After an interesting voyage, the Fox arrived off Upernavik, and procured some dogs for the sleighs. On the 6th of August letters were sent home, and the yacht bore away for Baffin's Bay. Ice in quantities was encountered; and the ship was then steered along the "pack," till on the 12th of August the Fox was moored to an iceberg. On the 16th, the floes began to move off; but the vessel was soon beset by the floes again after a short progress; and on the 7th of September the Fox was quite hemmed in, and had to remain where she then was until the 17th of April, 1858. Then ensued the terrible silence and darkness of the winter, and the monotonous, weary cycle of the days, while drifting helplessly in the ice.

On the 26th of February daylight superseded the candles, and in March the ice showed symptoms of breaking up. The disruption at length came. The Fox was in imminent danger from the closing up of the ice, and the force with which the floes come together cannot be estimated by any who have not witnessed the scene. The dogs were alarmed, and many were lost. The Fox drifted and sailed on, was again beset, and in danger. At length the ice broke up, the vessel was put under steam, and before the wind; she pushed her way out, and on the 28th of April the Fox dropped anchor in Holsteinberg harbour, in Greenland, where the crews met with a warm and cheerful reception.

After many struggles and escapes Cape York was reached on the 26th of June, and then many places were visited, but no traces nor information concerning the lost expedition could be obtained. So, in August, the Fox sought Beachey Island, and erected a tombstone over the remains of those who lay there, close to Bellot's monument. Many days were occupied in endeavouring to pass Bellot's Strait, but again and again were carried back by tides and ice-drift. Some land expeditions were made and surveys taken, but at the end of September the strait was quitted, and a refuge sought within Kennedy Harbour.

Hobson, who had been exploring, had a very narrow escape of being carried away on the floating ice; but he got back safely to the ship. After this the ship's company sat down in winter quarters until the 10th of February. Captain McClintock and Lieutenant Young then left the Fox on searching expeditions. McClintock came back on the 14th with intelligence concerning some white men who had been seen off the north-west coast of King William's Land. Young returned early in March, and was off again on the 18th to Fury Beach. Afterwards three search parties were formed. Lieutenants Hobson and Young and Captain McClintock all started. The last resigned to the first-named the most likely field of discovery in King William's Land. McClintock went towards the Fish River, and subsequently found the dead man we have already mentioned, lying face downwards in the snow, near Cape Herschel. He then came across a boat which Hobson had already found, and left in it a memorandum to the effect that he had discovered the records of the Erebus and Terror, and had returned to the Fox. Along the shore by Cape Victoria Hobson had searched and found the memorandum left in the cairn which told of the death of Franklin on the 11th of June, 1847, and that, after quitting the ships, the one hundred and six survivors, under Captain Crozier, would start for the Great Fish River. Many relics were found by Hobson, and near Cape Crozier he discovered a boat with two skeletons, with matches, spoons, and money, prayer-books, etcetera.

Further investigation proved that all had perished in the attempt to make the North-West Passage, an attempt which may be said to have succeeded, though the poor men themselves never lived to tell of their success. They came down Franklin Straits, and had found the Passage they sought. The searchers were satisfied, and the Fox returned home.

Captain McClintock had well accomplished his mission. He found that the lamented Franklin had reached within ninety miles of success, for just that distance intervened between him and the place reached by Messrs. Simpson and Deane in 1838-9. Franklin's men died "in accomplishing their last great earthly task, and but for the energy and devotion of the wife of their great leader, it would in all probability never have been known that they were indeed the first Discoverers of the North-West Passage."



Chapter Thirty Two.

The German And Austrian Expeditions To The Arctic Regions.

The Germania and Hansa -- They part company -- The fate of the Hansa and her crew -- The Germania expedition and its return -- Voyage of Payer and Weyprecht in 1871 -- Austro-Hungary expedition -- The Tegethoff --  Discovery of Franz-Joseph Land -- Sledge work -- Incidents -- The return -- The Tegethoff abandoned -- Home again.

The Germania and Hansa constituted the second German expedition to Arctic regions. The first had been undertaken in 1868 under Koldeway and Petermann, but when the Germania returned another expedition on a larger scale -- the Hansa under Koldeway, and the sister vessel under Hegemann -- proceeded with all the necessary equipment from Bremen on the 15th of June, 1869, and on the 5th of July crossed the Arctic circle, where similar ceremonies to those practised when the "line" is crossed, were performed. Jan Meyer's Land was passed, and on the 10th of July the Hansa and Germania parted company in the fog, and met again no more. An error in signalling occasioned the separation.

The Hansa continued along shore and got in amid the ice. The winter set in, and the crew managed to exist as men usually do under such circumstances. They built a hut and killed bears, living with no very great discomfort till the middle of October, when the ice pressed on the ship and stove it in. The water gained when the ice retreated; the Hansa was doomed to destruction, and she sank, on the 21st, in latitude 70 degrees 52 minutes North 21 degrees West near the Liverpool coast amid the floating ice.

The crew escaped to the ice. They had already, Crusoe fashion, saved all they could from the ship. The field of ice in which they had encamped drifted away to the south. The floe was examined. It was about seven miles in circumference, about two miles in diameter, and about forty-five feet thick, five feet being above water. Christmas came, still they drifted. By the new year the ice gave symptoms of breaking up, the wind blew, and the danger was imminent. Though the floe had been considerable no mishap occurred to them. The boats were fortunately in good condition, but day after day the ice kept threatening, until at last the floe became so small that living on it any longer was out of the question. February, March, and April had passed thus, and on the 6th of May the latitude of Bergen had been reached. The ice raft was soon abandoned, the boats launched, but the ice again stopped them. On the 6th of June, after various adventures, the voyage was resumed, and the boats' heads put for Freiderichsthal on the south-west coast of Greenland, near Cape Farewell, which was gained in June, 1870. Schleswig was reached in safety in September via Copenhagen, where they were landed by the Constance.

The Germania meantime had continued her voyage, and endeavoured, though without success, to reach the east coast of Greenland. She wintered in Sabine Bay. The ordinary incidents of the winter occurred, and we need not mention the health-drinking and Christmas festivities in the Arctic Regions. The explorers quite disagreed with Kane's "open sea" theory after making some sledge expeditions to verify the suggestion. Ice was everywhere, as far as the eyes could see. Many surveys were undertaken, and much useful scientific information was obtained, but no new discoveries of any importance were made by either the Hansa or the more fortunate Germania.

The homeward voyage passed without incidents, and the surviving ship returned to Bremen on the 11th of September, when the stupendous results of their countrymen's arms in France were revealed to them in all their meaning.

Several expeditions other than the above were dispatched in 1869, but they did little. In 1870 there was no great voyage accomplished, but in 1871 the Arctic Regions were again looked at as the Ultima Thule of voyagers, and in June of that year Lieutenants Payer and Weyprecht sailed away to Novaya Zemlya, where they found an open sea with little ice. In October they returned to Tromsoe, after sighting the island they sought.

The North-East passage now became the idea. That it could be accomplished via Siberia, Lieutenant Payer believed, and the Austro-Hungarian Arctic expedition was soon an accomplished fact. Doctor Petermann said the work accomplished by the little expedition were very valuable, and it was decided to supplement it. The steamship Tegethoff was fitted out: the equipment was most complete, many well-known Arctic voyagers lending their assistance. Captain Carlsen was pilot, Captain Weyprecht commanded, and Lieutenant Payer was the land explorer.

The Tegethoff left Bremen on the 13th of June, 1872, and came in sight of Novaya Zemlya on the 29th of July. In August the Jabjorn yacht joined company; but little in the way of exploration was undertaken until August, when the yacht, with Count Wilczek, left the Tegethoff to her own devices. The gallant vessel pushed on, and was beset by the ice very soon on the north coast of Novaya Zemlya, where in many and great dangers the winter passed. On the 29th of October the sun disappeared for 109 days! The winter over, the months of May, June, and July were spent in trying to saw the Tegethoff out of the ice; but all the efforts made were futile. The north wind in July sent the ice southward, but in a month the return drift set in with southerly winds, and no hope of the breaking up of the ice was entertained. In August, 1873, the crew sighted land; it was approached, and named after Count Wilczek, the originator of the expedition.

The gloom of Arctic night prevented any more exploration. The vessel continued to drift northward, and at length the floe was driven on an island, where it remained with the vessel, three miles from the shore. The second winter now began. In January the cold was very severe: the oil froze, the lamps went out, and the brandy even was congealed into a solid mass. Bears paid the voyagers frequent visits, and many were shot; but all males, no female bears appeared.

In March, Lieutenant Payer and his party went on a sledge-journey in a north-west direction to Hall Island. The whole region seemed "devoid of life" -- ice and great glaciers everywhere. The cold was intense. This party returned, and another journey was undertaken to the north with the sleighs, equipped as directed by Sir L. McClintock. This expedition resulted in the discovery of Franz-Joseph Land, as it was named after the Emperor. It is like Eastern Greenland -- a "land of desolation," with high mountains and vast glaciers, of a greenish-blue colour. The vegetation is extremely poor, and the country is uninhabited.

Further on they reached another territory, which they named Crown Prince Rudolf Land, the habitation of millions of sea-birds, and thousands of bears, seals, and foxes. A great glacier was crossed, but as it was quitted an immense fissure engulfed the sleigh with the stores, while the others only narrowly escaped by cutting the traces. Lieutenant Payer hurried back for assistance, and at length dogs, men, and sleigh were pulled up, safe and nearly sound. Rounding Auk Cape, the explorers reached open water by the shore.

Pressing on to latitude 81 degrees 57 minutes north, the party reached their farthest point. From an elevated position the explorer made his observations, which led him to the conclusion that there is no open polar sea, yet that the ocean is not always covered with ice. There is a medium which a favourable year would improve, and render navigation, near the shore, possible. Having deposited a record of the visit, the party returned over the hundred and sixty miles they had come.

One more little journey was made, and then the thoughts of the officers and men turned to home. On the 20th of May the ship's colours were nailed to the mast, and the retreat was commenced. Provisions were packed in boats, the boats placed on sleighs, but little progress was made at first as all hands were required for each sleigh in turn. Two months were occupied in making a distance of eight miles -- and a third winter in the ice seemed probable.

At last, in July, they made a mile a day. In August they reached the edge of the pack, when the sleighs were abandoned, and the dogs killed, as no room could be spared. The boats then crossed open water to Novaya Zemlya, and at the end of three months from leaving the ship sighted a Russian vessel. The Nickolai brought them to Vardoe in Norway, where the voyagers landed in September, 1874.

The success of the expedition was unquestionable, for land was discovered two hundred miles north of Nova Zemlya. The success of the sleighing is due to Sir L. McClintock's advice.

[The Tegethoff we see drifted north -- other vessels we have read of drifted south. Does not that indicate a simultaneous movement of ice around the Pole on both sides? The American side going south as the ice-floe on the Asiatic side ascends -- as glaciers in Switzerland which are connected, advance and recede in turn. This idea would go to prove that no open sea exists there; the ice covers the whole of the Polar Ocean, and moves north and south correspondingly. This is, however, only speculation, but as the Tegethoff is said to have been drifted by the wind, which must have been southerly, and therefore northerly on the other side, the fact will not militate against the idea above suggested.]

The Austro-Hungarian Expedition did not succeed in discovering the North-East Passage. We will now turn to the great Nordenskiold, who did succeed.



Chapter Thirty Three.

The Voyages Of Erik Nordenskiold -- 1870-1878.

Expeditions to the North -- To Spitzbergen and the Yenissei -- The Discovery of the North-East Passage.

Nils Adolf Erik Nordenskiold was born at Helsingfors, Finland, in November, 1832. His father was a distinguished naturalist; Erik often accompanied him in his expeditions, and thus early acquired a taste for natural history and research. He entered the University at Helsingfors in 1849. The stern rule of Russia subsequently compelled young Nordenskiold to go to Sweden. The governor of Finland, fancying he detected treason in some after-supper speech, Nordenskiold was obliged to depart; but this was the turning point in his career.

The illustrious Mosander received the student cordially. Nordensk'iold studied hard, and in 1858 made his first acquaintance with Arctic seas in Torrell's Spitzbergen expedition. In 1861 he again accompanied Torrell to Spitzbergen. In July, 1863, he married. In 1864 he commanded an expedition fitted out by the Academy of Stockholm, and in 1868, aided by Government and Mr Oscar Dickson, he reached the highest latitude ever attained in the eastern hemisphere. From this expedition he brought home a rich collection of curiosities. Again, in 1870, Mr Dickson paid the expenses of a voyage to Greenland.

In 1872, Nordenskiold (whose name, we may mention, is pronounced Nordensholt) undertook another Polar expedition with two vessels, the Polhern and the Gladen. A quantity of reindeer-moss was provided and stowed in a third ship, the Onkel Adam. Nordenskiold was accompanied by Lieutenant L. Palander, with Doctor Envall, E. Parent, an Italian officer, and Messrs. Wijkander and Kjellman as scientists. On the 4th of July the Polhern and Gladen sailed; from Gothenburg, and when the former reached Tromsoe, the Austrian Polar vessel Amiral Tegethoff was about to sail.

On the 25th of July, South Cape, the southern extremity of Spitzbergen, was sighted, and the vessels proceeded along the coast northward between Prince Charles Foreland and the mainland till Fair Haven was reached. Here they were obliged to remain because of the ice, and in August the Onkel Adam arrived with the reindeer and other necessary assistance, and with stores. The attempt to reach the Seven Islands north of Spitzbergen was now abandoned for that season, but some progress to the north was effected, and Mussel Bay, to the north-north-east of Spitzbergen, was selected as winter quarters.

Scarcely had the necessary preparations been made when a sudden and extremely violent storm arose; by this the unexpected advent of the ice was announced. The cold hand was quickly laid upon the waters, and the winter campaign had to be faced. But we may imagine the surprise of the explorers when, as they were settling down in winter quarters, six strangers approached, who informed Nordenskiold that their six ships had been unexpectedly frozen in, and there were fifty-eight men in danger of ultimate starvation!

This was most unpleasant news, for the expedition had only sufficient for its own requirements, and such an addition to the party was a very serious drawback. Still help was absolutely necessary, and a note was sent to the captains of the imprisoned ships, that the explorers would do all in their power.

But a sad blow awaited them. In another severe storm all the reindeer got away; and, of course, a valuable supply of fresh meat, besides transport, was cut off at one fell stroke. Only one of the reins was recaptured, and he was wounded. Fortunately some large wild reindeer were shot, and they made a welcome addition to the larder. At the end of October winter began to set in severely, and the reindeer-moss was utilised by the imprisoned people as food. The winter-time was passed as well as possible, and interesting observations were taken. Scurvy and pleurisy, however, attacked the men; and though Christmas and New Year were celebrated, and 1873 was saluted by a display of fireworks, the precarious condition of the crews was by no means ameliorated.

However, lamp-light was dispensed with on the 6th of February, and on the 13th of March the sun was seen again. In January the cold had been "inconsiderable," and the bay had been cleared of ice, but on the 20th of February the cold was very great. April was occupied in preparations for Nordenski'old's expedition across North-East Land, and on the 24th of April he and Palander started with three sleighs. After some delay, in consequence of accident, Palander returned, and Nordenskiold proceeded to Shoal Point, the north-west extremity of North-East Land, where Palander again joined him on the 5th of May (1873).

The sledge party started on the 6th. It consisted of Nordenskiold, Palander, and nine men, who intended to proceed to the Seven Islands which will be found on the map north of Spitzbergen. Each man in turn was cook for the party; he had to rise early and get breakfast ready. The march was then proceeded with, resting occasionally at certain intervals during the ten hours allotted to the daily journey. Sailing over the ice and snow on the sledges, good progress was made, and on the 12th Costien's Island was reached.

Early on the 16th, Parry Island was gained, and a small depot was made there. Some of the men then were sent back. The leaders of the party here made a survey from an elevated standpoint, and this view showed them that there was no possibility of going north of the Seven Islands, as the ice was in such an uneven condition. The journey in the anticipated direction was therefore abandoned as hopeless.

But Nordenskiold would not return by the same way he had come. He determined to go back by way of North-East Land, a course which occupied the party forty days, but they gained considerable information, and the scientific results, as well as the difficulties, were greater than had been expected. The expedition returned safely to Mussel Bay on the 29th of June. The members who had been left behind had passed a most uncomfortable time. The cold was great, provisions scarce. Scurvy set in, which, added to home-sickness and anxiety on account of the absent ones, made matters worse. Food became scarcer, but providentially Mr Leigh Smith, in the Diana, arrived, and he satisfied the immediate requirements of the unfortunate Swedes. The historian of the expedition warmly acknowledges the assistance so opportunely rendered.

Spring was at hand. Palander came in, and then Nordenskiold. All anxiety was then over. The same day, the 29th of June, the vessels passed through the channel which had been cut in the ice, and then they anchored in open water. No time was lost. The Onkel Adam sailed homeward almost immediately: the Gladen followed. The Polhern, however, remained in the icy latitudes for some time longer dredging. On the 6th of August, after with difficulty escaping the ice, Nordenskiold arrived at Tromsoe, and on the 29th at Gothenberg, where the expedition dispersed.

In 1875 and 1876 the professor made two voyages to the Yenissei River and up it. By this course he opened up Siberia to trade, and received the thanks of the Russian Government for inaugurating a sea route to Siberia. But these voyages, in a sense tentative, were completely eclipsed by the expedition undertaken in the Vega, in which Nordenskiold accomplished the long-desired North-East Passage from the North Atlantic to the North Pacific Ocean eastwards. The ease with which he had accomplished the two voyages already mentioned (to the Yenissei River) urged him to proceed with the expedition which he had been studying for years, the discovery of the North-East Passage.

Sebastian Cabot was the first adventurer in the work destined to be accomplished by the Swedish explorer. More than three hundred years ago Cabot equipped three ships for the "Merchant Adventurers," and put them under the command of Sir H. Willoughby and Chancelor in 1553. This ended in disaster. In 1580 the "Muscovy Company," as the "Adventurers" called themselves, sent out Arthur Pitt, who could not open the "pack" ice. Barentz, who tried three times, in 1593, 1595, and 1596, was closed up in the ice of Novaya Zemlya, and perished. Henry Hudson tried in 1607-8. The Danes made the attempt in 1653. Captain J. Wood also sailed to the unhospitable shores of Novaya Zemlya, and so terrified people by his descriptions that they gave up the attempt in despair.

Thus the North-East Passage became a dreaded and a sealed course to the mariners of all nations. It was deemed impossible to break through the icy barrier; and the Russians made the attempt only to prove the assertion by failure. But when Nordensk'iold had reached the Kara Sea, and the Yenissei River, he began to think he could also solve the long-tried problem of the North-East Passage eastwards to the Pacific.

Assisted by his liberal friend, Mr Oscar Dickson, and supported by King Oscar the Second of Sweden, and M. Sibiriakoff, a Siberian landholder, Nordenskiold purchased the steam-whaler Vega -- a name now celebrated throughout the civilised world. She was equipped and manned under Government auspices, and provisioned for two years. She sailed from Gothenburg on the 21st of July, accompanied by the steamer Lena, commanded by Johannesen from Tromsoe. There were also supply vessels in company, but our narrative (which is compiled from "Nordenskiold's Voyages," and other sources) will deal with the Vega, and incidentally with the Lena, till she parted company at the mouth of the river whose name she bears. In the expedition were included many scientific gentlemen, and the crews were composed of picked men.

The vessels rounded the North Cape, and on the 29th of July sighted Novaya Zemlya. Then they passed the Yergar Strait and entered the Kara Sea, the immense gulf lying between Novaya Zemlya and the north point of the Asiatic continent, Cape Chalyaskin. On the 31st of July the little fleet was united at Chabarook (Charbarova). The vessels which had accompanied the Lena and Vega went up the Yenissei River with cargoes, and returned safely to Norway. The Vega and Lena proceeded, and after some delays the North-East Cape (Cape Chalyaskin) was reached for the first time. Flags were hoisted and salutes fired to emphasise the fact, and they were acknowledged by an immense bear that came out upon the ice to welcome the ships. Hence fogs and occasional ice-floes hindered the navigation. Many very interesting scientific searches were made, and after the 23rd of August the sea was smooth and free from ice up to the delta of the Lena River. Here the vessels parted company on the 27th-28th of August, the Lena to go up the river, while the Vega proceeded alone to the Siberian Islands.

Many interesting remains of the mammoth animals were discovered in these islands, and the supply of ivory must be very valuable to the seekers. The ice was too rotten to permit of landing, and the boats could not pass in, so Nordenskiold reluctantly relinquished his intention to explore those almost unknown islands, and the animal remains which abound there.

The Vega continued her uninterrupted course eastward till the ist of September. Then snow fell, and the Bear Islands were covered with the white garment. The navigation became difficult; the coast was cautiously skirted till, as September wore on, the nights became too dark for sailing, and the Vega was obliged to come to an anchor every evening.

On these occasions the natives came and made friends with the voyagers, and subsequently these Tchuktches welcomed the foreigners. The description given of the natives and their dwellings is curious. They live in large tents, which enclose sleeping-places or a kind of inner chambers, heated and lighted by an oil lamp. In these inner rooms the native women sit, with very little clothing on. In summer a fire is kept burning in the centre of the hut, and the smoke goes up through a hole in the roof. In winter there is no fire, and presumably the hut is closed against the outer air. The Greenlanders and Tchuktches use similar household articles: they trade for needles, knives and tools, linen shirts, etcetera, and especially brandy. Everyone smokes tobacco when he or she can obtain it. When it cannot be had, some herbs are chewed and smoked, after being dried behind the ears. Men and women seldom wear head coverings; they have tunics and trousers of reindeer skin, mocassins or shoes of bear-skin or walrus hide; the women plait their hair, and wear it long. The men cut theirs except the outer margin, which is combed down in a "fringe." The faces are painted or "tattooed" by both sexes.

The Vega continued her eastward course, meeting with little incident, but continually adding to the information already acquired. So on till the 27th of September, when, in the strait that separates Asia from America -- near the entrance of Behring's Strait, the vessel got imprisoned in the early forming ice. The rising north wind rapidly piled up the hummocks, and in a short time all hope of quitting the place until the summer had to be abandoned, but very reluctantly, by Nordenskiold. "One single hour's steaming would have probably been sufficient to traverse the distance" between their position and the open strait, and one day earlier no difficulty would have presented itself!

This was extremely disappointing, and Nordenskiold writes pathetically about been frozen in so near the goal he had been so long aiming at. It was "the one mishap" which had attended his Arctic exploration. In this condition the vessel remained for two hundred and sixty-four days, the time passed nearly in darkness, but not unpleasantly, for the scientist has resources which set time at defiance. Good health and spirits were present, and the natives were friendly. At length deliverance came. On the 18th of July the Vega was released, and on the 20th she passed Behring's Straits. The North-East Passage was an accomplished fact! After a stormy cruise, in the course of which the ship was struck by lightning, and a voyage of marine discovery welcome to the civilised world accomplished, the Vega reached Yokohama, whence the electric current carried the news of Nordenskiold's success from sea to sea. The homeward journey was made by the Suez Canal to Europe, where the welcome accorded to the brave explorer was a veritable triumph. Nor must those who assisted him be forgotten. To Mr Oscar Dickson the honour belongs of holding out the full hand to Nordenskiold, without which his first voyages would never have been accomplished, and the North-East Passage might be still a mystery.



Chapter Thirty Four.

Captain Hall's Voyages.

Doctor Hayes' voyages -- Captain Hall's experiences -- The Polaris expedition -- High latitudes -- Illness and death of Captain Hall -- The catastrophe on the ice -- Skating on the floe -- A perilous journey -- Saved --  Fate of the Polaris.

We must pass rapidly by Doctor Hayes' voyages undertaken to survey Greenland. He fully believed in the theory of the "open Polar Sea," and he had been a member of Kane's party. He left Boston in 1860, and entered Baffin Bay in August of that year. After much delay from ice, he started with sleighs across Smith's Sound to Grinnel Land. He encountered tremendous difficulties -- most of his party turned back, but Hayes, with three men, persevered, and succeeded in reaching Grinnel Land. He still pushed on, then with only one companion, and reached the most northerly point attained, whence he could see water covered with soft ice. This he states is the open Polar Sea in the summer. He saw a headland farther north -- "the most northerly land known." But having no boat he was obliged to return to his companions, and they reached Boston in 1861. The American Civil War prevented him from trying again for some years, but he subsequently explored Greenland, more for pleasure than in the interests of science, in 1869.

We now come to the voyages of Captain Charles F. Hall, which culminated in the Polaris expedition. In 1860, however, Captain Hall had made an attempt to find some traces of the Franklin expedition; but meeting with an accident, he returned. In 1864 he sailed again, and reached Hecla Strait. He carried home many Franklin relics, and ascertained that Sir John had actually discovered the North-West Passage, and established the melancholy truth that most of Franklin's men died of starvation in King William's Land, where their bones lay bleaching in the snowy waste. After five years' residence amongst the Esquimaux he ascertained that Captain Crozier, of the Terror (and he believed a companion), were living amongst the Esquimaux in 1864.

In September, 1869, Captain Hall returned to America, having discovered the site of Frobisher's settlement three hundred years before; but it was not until 1872 that he was enabled to start in the Polaris to find the North Pole. On the 29th of June he sailed from New York. Doctor Bessel accompanied the ship as naturalist, and at least one member of Kane's expedition also went. Captain Tyson, who figures in the narrative, joined the Polaris at Godhaven, and Hans, the hunter, at Upernavik.

On the 21st of August the Polaris continued her voyage, and followed Kane's route. Captain Hall reached the spot where the Advance had been quitted, and pushing on steadily, reached the channel which had been thought was the "open Polar Sea." He proceeded up to latitude 82 degrees 16 minutes North; but here the Polaris was beset in the ice at last; hitherto all had been plain sailing. They reached winter quarters in September, and named the place "Thank God" Bay, latitude 81 degrees 38 minutes North, longitude 61 degrees 44 minutes West.

The winter was fatal to Captain Hall. After his return from a few days' sledging journey, he was suddenly taken ill. In this exploration, which he undertook with the Esquimaux and his first mate (Mr Chester), he reached a place he named Newman's Bay, in latitude 82 degrees North. When the illness first attacked him it was not deemed serious; but he became partially paralysed, and on the 8th of November he expired, leaving Captain Buddington in command. Captain Hall was buried on the morning of the 11th of November, the darkness of the Polar night being faintly illuminated by ship's lanthorns and the weird boreal gleam of the stars in the atmosphere.

During the remainder of the winter, surveys were made; but Buddington did not continue the discipline of Hall. In May, Tyson, Meyers, and the two Esquimaux started on a sledging expedition, and got some musk oxen. Through these boat-expeditions, during the summer, discipline was greatly relaxed, and consequently the original plan of the voyage could not be carried out. The Polaris on the ice drifted, as other vessels have drifted, and came down Smith's Sound to Kane's former winter quarters.

A panic occurred in October, which nearly proved fatal to some of the members of the expedition. The ice "nipped" the Polaris, and it appears, from all accounts, that the ice-master who commanded (Buddington) completely lost his presence of mind, and commanded a general heaving overboard of stores and everything on deck. The order was obeyed, with results as might have been anticipated. The ice was broken up by the lifting and settling of the ship. The stores were scattered broadcast on the floe, and Captain Tyson, with a few of the most sensible men, left the vessel to arrange the stores, with the Esquimaux and their wives and children as assistants in the work.

They were all very busy sorting the supplies when a terrible rending and cracking was heard. Explosion succeeded explosion -- the ice opened in many places -- the Polaris was freed; and in a few moments, before the people on the ice could return, or indeed realise the situation, she had plunged into the darkness and disappeared!

This was a terrible catastrophe. There were nineteen men, women, and children actually adrift upon a mass of ice, with a very limited supply of provisions; and the only means of gaining terra firma two small boats. These were got ready, but the loose ice rendered their use impossible. The Polaris came in sight, but paid no attention to signals. So the voyagers remained drifting on the ice-floe, about four miles in circumference, but by no means assured from disruption, which might occur at any moment.

The ice continued to drift, and now and then pieces broke off. On the 16th the dreaded event occurred -- the floe parted -- the castaway party on one side, and the house, etcetera, on the other. But by means of the boats the stores were recovered, and then a fresh floe was occupied, whereon snow-huts were erected, Esquimaux fashion.

Time passed. October went and November came; food was scarce, and the exploring party were "allowanced." But two seals, less cautious than their companions, were at length captured -- nearly all the dogs had already been eaten, and fresh food was absolutely necessary. The seals caught were scientifically killed, the blood was drunk, and "the eyes," says Captain Tyson, "given to the youngest child." (The animal, being cut up, is divided into portions which are distributed by lot to the various candidates for the delicate morsels, of which the brain is considered the daintiest.)

We need scarcely detail the daily round and common tasks of the drifting party on the ice. In January Davis Strait was reached, and a ray of sunlight cheered them on the 19th, so the progress southward had been considerable. The German seamen did not behave well and caused considerable anxiety, but there was no long disturbance.

At the beginning of the month of March the ice reached Cumberland Gulf, and on the 11th of that month it broke up with direful noises, leaving the whole party on a small piece, which being fortunately very thick continued its journey southward very gently. Seals were now captured in abundance. One of the Esquimaux also shot a bear. Then the floe was quitted, and the pack ice reached. After that things became worse. A gale arose and blew away their tent and bedding, and unless they had all clung to the boat it would have been lost also. They saved it, but remained without shelter, half-frozen and in danger of starvation. At the end of April three steamers successively appeared, but although the castaways did all they could to attract attention they were not perceived until on the 30th another "steam sealer," the Tigress, of Newfoundland, appeared and rescued them from their perilous position. They were all landed at Saint John's on the 12th of May.

Meanwhile, as the Polaris had not appeared, the Tigress was commissioned by Captain Green, U.S.N., to seek her. She steamed up to Littleton Island, where an encampment of Esquimaux was discovered. The men were wearing clothing obtained from the Polaris, but after search and inquiry no after trace of the crew could be obtained, so Captain Green returned to Saint John's. They reached New York afterwards, and heard that Buddington and his crew had been picked up by a whaler some months before.

The ill-fated Polaris had been abandoned in latitude 78 degrees 23 minutes North, and 73 degrees 21 minutes West. She had been rendered almost useless by the ice, and the Esquimaux were presented with the hull; but she foundered. The crew encamped during the winter, and in the summer they sailed down to Cape York, where they met the ice. But in Melville Bay a steamer was seen embedded in the ice. This vessel was the Ravenscraig, of Dundee, whose Captain, Allen, received them very kindly. He subsequently put some of them on a vessel bound for Dundee, whither they then proceeded, and came home from Liverpool to New York; the others came back a few weeks later. Thus ended the unfortunate Polaris expedition, which, but for the untimely death of Captain F. Hall, might have accomplished its object -- the discovery of the North Pole.



Chapter Thirty Five.

Captain Sir George S. Nares' Voyage With The "Alert" And "Discovery" --  1875-6.

The Alert and Discovery -- Heavy weather -- Arrival in Greenland -- Winter on the ice -- Amusements and employments -- Sledging work -- The return home --  Reception -- Conclusion.

In 1875 the British Government commissioned the Alert and the Discovery, under the command respectively of Captains Nares and Stephenson, to explore the Arctic regions of the Pole. This expedition was fitted out in the most complete manner, and had the advantage of the advice and assistance of the most experienced Arctic travellers. Commander Markham, who was attached to the Alert, had crossed the Arctic circle before, as had Captain Nares, and all that could be done was done to make the voyage a success.

Sir George Nares had already seen considerable Arctic and sea service. His scientific voyage in the Challenger, too, had given him an unlimited fund of experience, in addition to his previous geographical attainments. Captain H. Stephenson also had proved his mettle in many parts of the world, and under these commanders were many trustworthy and experienced officers. The expedition quitted Portsmouth amid enthusiastic cheers on the 29th of May, 1875, and made their way across the Atlantic. Here they met with most violent storms, which tried both ships and ships' companies, as well as the Valorous store ship, which parted company in the ocean. The first ice was seen on the 27th of June, and the Valorous was picked up again all well.

Skirting the Greenland coast amid the ice, the vessels encountered heavy weather, and at length anchored in Godhaven Harbour, in the Isle of Disco. Here supplies and sledge dogs were embarked, and on the 15th of July the Alert towed the Discovery out of harbour, and proceeded northwards. They reached Upernavik and left it. Soon afterwards the Alert grounded, but cleared at high water. Cape York was gained in seventy hours, an extremely rapid passage. The Alert passed on by the Crimson Cliffs and Cape Digges, which have been so often mentioned, and reached the Cary Islands on the 27th of July. Depots were formed here and records placed with letters, as also on Sutherland and Littleton Islands. The advance into Smith's Sound was by no means easy, and several times the ships had to return to the latitude of Kane's winter quarters.

About this time the Alert was nearly crushed by an iceberg, but got clear, and the crew made the mountain tow the vessel by grappling it. By very slow degrees, pushing and driving through the "pack," the vessels at last reached Cape Constitution, to which Doctor Kane had penetrated, but which he did not pass. Going still northwards the ships cleared Kennedy Channel and reached Hall's Basin, in the north-east side of which were the winter quarters of the unfortunate Polaris. Robeson Channel had now to be cleared.

All this time the officers and men who could be spared from duty were not idle. Parties went hunting and sketching. Many scientific observations were made by dredging. Photographs were taken also. The Musk ox gave the hunters some sport, and Doctor Moss records that all the animals met with, though presumably they had never seen man before, were afraid of the party, thus contradicting the popular notion that animals which have never seen man are not afraid of him.

At this stage of the journey excellent winter quarters were found for the Discovery. The retreat of the ships had been secured. Orders were for the Discovery to remain in or about the eighty-second parallel. Such a situation was now found. The Discovery therefore remained just north of Lady Franklin Strait, on the opposite side of Hall's Basin, to that on which the Polaris wintered.

On the 26th of August the Alert proceeded alone into Robeson Channel, but got into difficulties with the ice, which bore down on the ship in tremendous masses. But fortunately she found shelter, and escaped destruction. Any further progress appeared impossible, so preparations were made for forming the winter quarters near at hand. As September had come the sledges were got ready, and Commander Markham set out with stores to establish a depot for the spring exploring parties farther north. The party returned in three weeks frost-bitten and exhausted, but they had accomplished their mission. Lieutenant Aldrich had also come back, but reported nothing but ice.

Attempts were made to communicate with the Discovery, but the state of the ice and snow prevented any such adventure, though Captain Stephenson was only sixty miles distant. Winter now set in, and the Alert was banked in snow. Candles and stoves and snow kept the inhabitants warm, and snow-houses were erected for scientific and storage purposes. The prospect afforded a view of limitless snow, and then darkness set in and limited the view to a few yards, except when the oft-recurring moon gave her welcome light. Doctor Moss, in his journal, gives a spirited description of the daily routine, which we condense. The cold was intense -- the greatest ever experienced (73 degrees).

The toilet is rapidly performed, a tub is a weekly luxury. The men have breakfasted, and the rattling of cups and saucers warns the officers curried-sardine day has come round again! Cocoa is ready and hot rolls. Then the men have lime-juice and hot water for health's sake. Afterwards all hands parade on deck for inspection and prayers. Then work begins. Water is procured from ice, tools mended, etcetera. The crew dine at one o'clock, the officers at 2:30. The latter go for a walk or rehearse theatricals. Going out, the air smells like green walnuts, says Doctor Moss. The walk, unless there is a moon, is taken up and down a beaten track, in the dark, half a mile long. The dinner gong sounds, all come in (brushing off the snow first). Then dinner, and when the cloth is off the white cat seats herself on the table. After dinner reading or writing, then school for the men; and music, chess or whist concluding the evening.

The Alert had no sun for a hundred and forty-two days, and the darkness was nearly as deep at noonday as an ordinary moonless night in England. On the 2nd of March the sun shone brightly, and the sledging was arranged for. The theatrical season had ended on the 24th of February. Many favourite farces were played, and the burlesque written by the chaplain met with great success.

A sledge party left to find the Discovery, but returned exhausted, and Petersen was nearly lost. He afterwards died, poor fellow, and was buried by his comrades on Cairn Hill, on the 14th of May. We have not space to follow all the sledging expeditions. We must condense the information and the interest. For two months and a half this, the most monotonous of all travelling, was continued. The labour was most severe and incessant, the distance made only a mile or two a day. Scurvy began its ravages, and the northern expedition had been nearly overcome, when Lieutenant Parr returned to the ship for assistance. Summer had arrived by this time. Immediate help was dispatched, but it was no easy task to find the men. Four of the party were alive, one had died. The sick man had been dragged on the sledge thirty-nine days, and they had buried him after all in a solitary spot in the far north -- "a paddle and a batten" made a rude cross, and the sketch shows it most effectively in Doctor Moss's book. Five only of the seventeen of the party came back in working condition, and they were nearly exhausted.

The question now arose whether the Alert should remain, advance, or retreat. It was impossible to advance more than a few miles -- the crew was suffering -- and retirement was the most sensible act. So the vessel rejoined the Discovery, some of whose men had not returned, and great anxiety was manifested concerning them. At length the party appeared, after an absence of one hundred and thirty days.

From Discovery Bay they struggled south in company, racing against winter. On the 9th of September Cape Isabella (Smith's Sound) came in sight. Here letters were found which had been left by the Pandora. These were a cause of great joy, and when Disco was reached, and some coal procured, the explorers felt almost at home. On the 2nd of October the ships sailed for England. The Alert anchored at Valentia on the 27th of October, and the Discovery in Bantry Bay on the 29th.

A great deal had been accomplished by this expedition. The Alert had explored the west coast for two hundred and twenty miles, the Discovery had surveyed the Greenland coast, and Captain Stephenson placed a tablet over the grave of the brave Captain Hall of the Polaris, with a suitable inscription. The Alert men had attained the highest latitude ever reached, viz, 82 degrees 27 minutes North. The idea of the open Polar Sea then received its "quietus," for nothing but ice is there.

The Queen commanded the Admiralty to thank Captain Nares and the officers and men under his command, and Captain Nares was knighted. Some little dissatisfaction was expressed, but the effects of the work so ably done quickly extinguished any hostile feeling.

In concluding these Notable (Polar) Voyages we regret we cannot find space to relate the adventures of the plucky Pandora (afterwards the Jeannette), the Eira expedition, and others of less importance which have been undertaken since 1875. The Alert has lately been presented to the United States Government for their Arctic expedition, of which we shall soon hear something.

There are many chapters yet to be written concerning maritime discovery, but those we have selected appear to us to embody the greatest interest for our readers, for public curiosity and assistance has been lately so often directed to the Arctic which are slowly yielding their secrets to the enterprise of modern scientific and naval explorers.

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Nibsy's Christmas

By

Jacob August Riis



It was Christmas-eve over on the East Side. Darkness was closing in on a cold, hard day. The light that struggled through the frozen windows of the delicatessen store, and the saloon on the corner, fell upon men with empty dinner-pails who were hurrying homeward, their coats buttoned tightly, and heads bent against the steady blast from the river, as if they were butting their way down the street.

The wind had forced the door of the saloon ajar, and was whistling through the crack; but in there it seemed to make no one afraid. Between roars of laughter, the clink of glasses and the rattle of dice on the hard-wood counter were heard out in the street. More than one of the passers-by who came within range was taken with an extra shiver in which the vision of wife and little ones waiting at home for his coming was snuffed out, as he dropped in to brace up. The lights were long out when the silent streets re-echoed his unsteady steps toward home, where the Christmas welcome had turned to dread.

But in this twilight hour they burned brightly yet, trying hard to pierce the bitter cold outside with a ray of warmth and cheer. Where the lamps in the delicatessen store made a mottled streak of brightness across the flags, two little boys stood with their noses flattened against the window. Their warm breath made little round holes on the frosty pane, that came and went, affording passing glimpses of the wealth within, of the piles of smoked herring, of golden cheese, of sliced bacon and generous, fat-bellied hams; of the rows of odd-shaped bottles and jars on the shelves that held there was no telling what good things, only it was certain that they must be good from the looks of them.

And the heavenly smell of spices and things that reached the boys through the open door each time the tinkling bell announced the coming or going of a customer! Better than all, back there on the top shelf the stacks of square honey-cakes, with their frosty coats of sugar, tied in bundles with strips of blue paper.

The wind blew straight through the patched and threadbare jackets of the lads as they crept closer to the window, struggling hard with the frost to make their peep-holes bigger, to take in the whole of the big cake with the almonds set in; but they did not heed it.

"Jim!" piped the smaller of the two, after a longer stare than usual; "hey, Jim! them's Sante Clause's. See 'em?"

"Sante Claus!" snorted the other, scornfully, applying his eye to the clear spot on the pane. "There ain't no ole duffer like dat. Them's honey-cakes. Me 'n' Tom had a bite o' one wunst."

"There ain't no Sante Claus?" retorted the smaller shaver, hotly, at his peep-hole. "There is, too. I seen him myself when he cum to our alley last --  -- "

"What's youse kids a-scrappin' fur?" broke in a strange voice.

Another boy, bigger, but dirtier and tougher looking than either of the two, had come up behind them unobserved. He carried an armful of unsold "extras" under one arm. The other was buried to the elbow in the pocket of his ragged trousers.

The "kids" knew him, evidently, and the smallest eagerly accepted him as umpire.

"It's Jim w'at says there ain't no Sante Claus, and I seen him --  -- "

"Jim!" demanded the elder ragamuffin, sternly, looking hard at the culprit; "Jim! y'ere a chump! No Sante Claus? What're ye givin' us? Now, watch me!"

With utter amazement the boys saw him disappear through the door under the tinkling bell into the charmed precincts of smoked herring, jam, and honey-cakes. Petrified at their peep-holes, they watched him, in the veritable presence of Santa Claus himself with the fir-branch, fish out five battered pennies from the depths of his pocket and pass them over to the woman behind the jars, in exchange for one of the bundles of honey-cakes tied with blue. As if in a dream they saw him issue forth with the coveted prize.

"There, kid!" he said, holding out the two fattest and whitest cakes to Santa Claus's champion; "there's yer Christmas. Run along, now, to yer barracks; and you, Jim, here's one for you, though yer don't desarve it. Mind ye let the kid alone."

"This one'll have to do for me grub, I guess. I ain't sold me 'Newses,' and the ole man'll kick if I bring 'em home."

And before the shuffling feet of the ragamuffins hurrying homeward had turned the corner, the last mouthful of the newsboy's supper was smothered in a yell of "Extree!" as he shot across the street to intercept a passing stranger.

*    *    *    *    *

As the evening wore on it grew rawer and more blustering still. Flakes of dry snow that stayed where they fell, slowly tracing the curb-lines, the shutters, and the doorsteps of the tenements with gathering white, were borne up on the storm from the water. To the right and left stretched endless streets between the towering barracks, as beneath frowning cliffs pierced with a thousand glowing eyes that revealed the watch-fires within -- a mighty city of cave-dwellers held in the thraldom of poverty and want.

Outside there was yet hurrying to and fro. Saloon doors were slamming and bare-legged urchins, carrying beer-jugs, hugged the walls close for shelter. From the depths of a blind alley floated out the discordant strains of a vagabond brass band "blowing in" the yule of the poor. Banished by police ordinance from the street, it reaped a scant harvest of pennies for Christmas-cheer from the windows opening on the backyard. Against more than one pane showed the bald outline of a forlorn little Christmas-tree, some stray branch of a hemlock picked up at the grocer's and set in a pail for "the childer" to dance around, a dime's worth of candy and tinsel on the boughs.

From the attic over the way came, in spells between, the gentle tones of a German song about the Christ-child. Christmas in the East-Side tenements begins with the sunset on the "holy eve," except where the name is as a threat or a taunt. In a hundred such homes the whir of many sewing-machines, worked by the sweater's slaves with weary feet and aching backs, drowned every feeble note of joy that struggled to make itself heard above the noise of the great treadmill.

To these what was Christmas but the name for persecution, for suffering, reminder of lost kindred and liberty, of the slavery of eighteen hundred years, freedom from which was purchased only with gold. Aye, gold! The gold that had power to buy freedom yet, to buy the good will, aye, and the good name, of the oppressor, with his houses and land. At the thought the tired eye glistened, the aching back straightened, and to the weary foot there came new strength to finish the long task while the city slept.

Where a narrow passage-way put in between two big tenements to a ramshackle rear barrack, Nibsy, the newsboy, halted in the shadow of the doorway and stole a long look down the dark alley.

He toyed uncertainly with his still unsold papers -- worn dirty and ragged as his clothes by this time -- before he ventured in, picking his way between barrels and heaps of garbage; past the Italian cobbler's hovel, where a tallow dip, stuck in a cracked beer-glass, before a cheap print of the "Mother of God," showed that even he knew it was Christmas and liked to show it; past the Sullivan flat, where blows and drunken curses mingled with the shriek of women, as Nibsy had heard many nights before this one.

He shuddered as he felt his way past the door, partly with a premonition of what was in store for himself, if the "old man" was at home, partly with a vague, uncomfortable feeling that somehow Christmas-eve should be different from other nights, even in the alley. Down to its farthest end, to the last rickety flight of steps that led into the filth and darkness of the tenement. Up this he crept, three flights, to a door at which he stopped and listened, hesitating, as he had stopped at the entrance to the alley; then, with a sudden, defiant gesture, he pushed it open and went in.

A bare and cheerless room; a pile of rags for a bed in the corner, another in the dark alcove, miscalled bedroom; under the window a broken cradle and an iron-bound chest, upon which sat a sad-eyed woman with hard lines in her face, peeling potatoes in a pan; in the middle of the room a rusty stove, with a pile of wood, chopped on the floor alongside. A man on his knees in front fanning the fire with an old slouch hat. With each breath of draught he stirred, the crazy old pipe belched forth torrents of smoke at every point. As Nibsy entered, the man desisted from his efforts and sat up glaring at him. A villainous ruffian's face, scowling with anger.

"Late ag'in!" he growled; "an' yer papers not sold. What did I tell yer, brat, if ye dared --  -- "

"Tom! Tom!" broke in the wife, in a desperate attempt to soothe the ruffian's temper.

"The boy can't help it, an' it's Christmas-eve. For the love o' --  -- "

"To thunder with yer rot and with yer brat!" shouted the man, mad with the fury of passion. "Let me at him!" and, reaching over, he seized a heavy knot of wood and flung it at the head of the boy.

Nibsy had remained just inside the door, edging slowly toward his mother, but with a watchful eye on the man at the stove. At the first movement of his hand toward the woodpile he sprang for the stairway with the agility of a cat, and just dodged the missile. It struck the door, as he slammed it behind him, with force enough to smash the panel.

Down the three flights in as many jumps Nibsy went, and through the alley, over barrels and barriers, never stopping once till he reached the street, and curses and shouts were left behind.

In his flight he had lost his unsold papers, and he felt ruefully in his pocket as he went down the street, pulling his rags about him as much from shame as to keep out the cold.

Four pennies were all he had left after his Christmas treat to the two little lads from the barracks; not enough for supper or for a bed; and it was getting colder all the time.

On the sidewalk in front of the notion store a belated Christmas party was in progress. The children from the tenements in the alley and across the way were having a game of blindman's-buff, groping blindly about in the crowd to catch each other. They hailed Nibsy with shouts of laughter, calling to him to join in.

"We're having Christmas!" they yelled.

Nibsy did not hear them. He was thinking, thinking, the while turning over his four pennies at the bottom of his pocket.

Thinking if Christmas was ever to come to him, and the children's Santa Claus to find his alley where the baby slept within reach of her father's cruel hand. As for him, he had never known anything but blows and curses. He could take care of himself. But his mother and the baby --  -- . And then it came to him with shuddering cold that it was getting late, and that he must find a place to sleep.

He weighed in his mind the merits of two or three places where he was in the habit of hiding from the "cops" when the alley got to be too hot for him.

There was the hay-barge down by the dock, with the watchman who got drunk sometimes, and so gave the boys a chance. The chances were at least even of its being available on Christmas-eve, and of Santa Claus having thus done him a good turn after all.

Then there was the snug berth in the sandbox you could curl all up in. Nibsy thought with regret of its being, like the hay-barge, so far away and to windward too.

Down by the printing-offices there were the steam-gratings, and a chance corner in the cellars, stories and stories underground, where the big presses keep up such a clatter from midnight till far into the day.

As he passed them in review, Nibsy made up his mind with sudden determination, and, setting his face toward the south, made off down town.

*    *    *    *    *

The rumble of the last departing news-wagon over the pavement, now buried deep in snow, had died away in the distance, when, from out of the bowels of the earth there issued a cry, a cry of mortal terror and pain that was echoed by a hundred throats.

From one of the deep cellar-ways a man ran out, his clothes and hair and beard afire; on his heels a breathless throng of men and boys; following them, close behind, a rush of smoke and fire.

The clatter of the presses ceased suddenly, to be followed quickly by the clangor of hurrying fire-bells. With hook and axes the firemen rushed in; hose was let down through the manholes, and down there in the depths the battle was fought and won.

The building was saved; but in the midst of the rejoicing over the victory there fell a sudden silence. From the cellar-way a grimy, helmeted figure arose, with something black and scorched in his arms. A tarpaulin was spread upon the snow and upon it he laid his burden, while the silent crowd made room and word went over to the hospital for the doctor to come quickly.

Very gently they lifted poor little Nibsy -- for it was he, caught in his berth by a worse enemy than the "cop" or the watchman of the hay-barge -- into the ambulance that bore him off to the hospital cot, too late.

Conscious only of a vague discomfort that had succeeded terror and pain, Nibsy wondered uneasily why they were all so kind. Nobody had taken the trouble to as much as notice him before. When he had thrust his papers into their very faces they had pushed him roughly aside. Nibsy, unhurt and able to fight his way, never had a show. Sick and maimed and sore, he was being made much of, though he had been caught where the boys were forbidden to go. Things were queer, anyhow, and --  -- 

The room was getting so dark that he could hardly see the doctor's kindly face, and had to grip his hand tightly to make sure that he was there; almost as dark as the stairs in the alley he had come down in such a hurry.

There was the baby now -- poor baby -- and mother -- and then a great blank, and it was all a mystery to poor Nibsy no longer. For, just as a wild-eyed woman pushed her way through the crowd of nurses and doctors to his bedside, crying for her boy, Nibsy gave up his soul to God.

*    *    *    *    *

It was very quiet in the alley. Christmas had come and gone. Upon the last door a bow of soiled crape was nailed up with two tacks. It had done duty there a dozen times before, that year.

Upstairs, Nibsy was at home, and for once the neighbors, one and all, old and young, came to see him.

Even the father, ruffian that he was, offered no objection. Cowed and silent, he sat in the corner by the window farthest from where the plain little coffin stood, with the lid closed down.

A couple of the neighbor-women were talking in low tones by the stove, when there came a timid knock at the door. Nobody answering, it was pushed open, first a little, then far enough to admit the shrinking form of a little ragamuffin, the smaller of the two who had stood breathing peep-holes on the window-pane of the delicatessen store the night before when Nibsy came along.

He dragged with him a hemlock branch, the leavings from some Christmas-tree fitted into its block by the grocer for a customer.

"It's from Sante Claus," he said, laying it on the coffin. "Nibsy knows." And he went out.

Santa Claus had come to Nibsy, after all, in his alley. And Nibsy knew.



What The Christmas Sun Saw In The Tenements


The December sun shone clear and cold upon the city. It shone upon rich and poor alike. It shone into the homes of the wealthy on the avenues and in the uptown streets, and into courts and alleys hedged in by towering tenements down town. It shone upon throngs of busy holiday shoppers that went out and in at the big stores, carrying bundles big and small, all alike filled with Christmas cheer and kindly messages from Santa Claus.

It shone down so gayly and altogether cheerily there, that wraps and overcoats were unbuttoned for the north wind to toy with. "My, isn't it a nice day?" said one young lady in a fur shoulder-cape to a friend, pausing to kiss and compare lists of Christmas gifts.

"Most too hot," was the reply, and the friends passed on. There was warmth within and without. Life was very pleasant under the Christmas sun up on the avenue.

Down in Cherry Street the rays of the sun climbed over a row of tall tenements with an effort that seemed to exhaust all the life that was in them, and fell into a dirty block, half-choked with trucks, with ash-barrels and rubbish of all sorts, among which the dust was whirled in clouds upon fitful, shivering blasts that searched every nook and cranny of the big barracks. They fell upon a little girl, bare-footed and in rags, who struggled out of an alley with a broken pitcher in her grimy fist, against the wind that set down the narrow slit like the draught through a big factory chimney. Just at the mouth of the alley it took her with a sudden whirl, a cyclone of dust and drifting ashes, tossed her fairly off her feet, tore from her grip the threadbare shawl she clutched at her throat, and set her down at the saloon-door breathless and half-smothered. She had just time to dodge through the storm-doors before another whirlwind swept whistling down the street.

"My, but isn't it cold?" she said, as she shook the dust out of her shawl and set the pitcher down on the bar. "Gimme a pint," laying down a few pennies that had been wrapped in a corner of the shawl, "and mamma says make it good and full."

"All'us the way with youse kids -- want a barrel when yees pays fer a pint," growled the bartender. "There, run along, and don't ye hang around that stove no more. We ain't a steam-heatin' the block fer nothin'."

The little girl clutched her shawl and the pitcher, and slipped out into the street where the wind lay in ambush and promptly bore down on her in pillars of whirling dust as soon as she appeared. But the sun that pitied her bare feet and little frozen hands played a trick on old Boreas -- it showed her a way between the pillars, and only just her skirt was caught by one and whirled over her head as she dodged into her alley. It peeped after her half-way down its dark depths, where it seemed colder even than in the bleak street, but there it had to leave her.

It did not see her dive through the doorless opening into a hall where no sun-ray had ever entered. It could not have found its way in there had it tried. But up the narrow, squeaking stairs the girl with the pitcher was climbing. Up one flight of stairs, over a knot of children, half babies, pitching pennies on the landing, over wash-tubs and bedsteads that encumbered the next -- house-cleaning going on in that "flat;" that is to say, the surplus of bugs was being burned out with petroleum and a feather -- up still another, past a half-open door through which came the noise of brawling and curses. She dodged and quickened her step a little until she stood panting before a door on the fourth landing that opened readily as she pushed it with her bare foot.

A room almost devoid of stick or rag one might dignify with the name of furniture. Two chairs, one with a broken back, the other on three legs, beside a rickety table that stood upright only by leaning against the wall. On the unwashed floor a heap of straw covered with dirty bed-tick for a bed; a foul-smelling slop-pail in the middle of the room; a crazy stove, and back of it a door or gap opening upon darkness. There was something in there, but what it was could only be surmised from a heavy snore that rose and fell regularly. It was the bedroom of the apartment, windowless, airless, and sunless, but rented at a price a millionaire would denounce as robbery.

"That you, Liza?" said a voice that discovered a woman bending over the stove. "Run 'n' get the childer. Dinner's ready."

The winter sun glancing down the wall of the opposite tenement, with a hopeless effort to cheer the backyard, might have peeped through the one window of the room in Mrs. McGroarty's "flat," had that window not been coated with the dust of ages, and discovered that dinner-party in action. It might have found a hundred like it in the alley. Four unkempt children, copies each in his or her way of Liza and their mother, Mrs. McGroarty, who "did washing" for a living. A meat bone, a "cut" from the butcher's at four cents a pound, green pickles, stale bread and beer. Beer for the four, a sup all round, the baby included. Why not? It was the one relish the searching ray would have found there. Potatoes were there, too -- potatoes and meat! Say not the poor in the tenements are starving. In New York only those starve who cannot get work and have not the courage to beg. Fifty thousand always out of a job, say those who pretend to know. A round half-million asking and getting charity in eight years, say the statisticians of the Charity Organization. Any one can go round and see for himself that no one need starve in New York.

From across the yard the sunbeam, as it crept up the wall, fell slantingly through the attic window whence issued the sound of hammer-blows. A man with a hard face stood in its light, driving nails into the lid of a soap-box that was partly filled with straw. Something else was there; as he shifted the lid that didn't fit, the glimpse of sunshine fell across it; it was a dead child, a little baby in a white slip, bedded in straw in a soap-box for a coffin. The man was hammering down the lid to take it to the Potter's Field. At the bed knelt the mother, dry-eyed, delirious from starvation that had killed her child. Five hungry, frightened children cowered in the corner, hardly daring to whisper as they looked from the father to the mother in terror.

There was a knock on the door that was drowned once, twice, in the noise of the hammer on the little coffin. Then it was opened gently, and a young woman came in with a basket. A little silver cross shone upon her breast. She went to the poor mother, and putting her hand soothingly on her head knelt by her with gentle and loving words. The half-crazed woman listened with averted face, then suddenly burst into tears and hid her throbbing head in the other's lap.

The man stopped hammering and stared fixedly upon the two; the children gathered around with devouring looks as the visitor took from her basket bread, meat, and tea. Just then, with a parting, wistful look into the bare attic room, the sun-ray slipped away, lingered for a moment about the coping outside and fled over the house-tops.

As it sped on its winter-day journey, did it shine into any cabin in an Irish bog more desolate than these Cherry Street "homes?" An army of thousands whose one bright and wholesome memory, only tradition of home, is that poverty-stricken cabin in the desolate bog, are herded in such barracks to-day in New York. Potatoes they have; yes, and meat at four cents -- even seven. Beer for a relish -- never without beer. But home? The home that was home even in a bog, with the love of it that has made Ireland immortal and a tower of strength in the midst of her suffering -- what of that? There are no homes in New York's poor tenements.

Down the crooked path of the Mulberry Street Bend the sunlight slanted into the heart of New York's Italy. It shone upon bandannas and yellow neckerchiefs; upon swarthy faces and corduroy breeches; upon blackhaired girls -- mothers at thirteen; upon hosts of bow-legged children rolling in the dirt; upon pedlers' carts and ragpickers staggering under burdens that threatened to crush them at every step. Shone upon unnumbered Pasquales dwelling, working, idling, and gambling there. Shone upon the filthiest and foulest of New York's tenements, upon Bandits' Roost, upon Bottle Alley, upon the hidden by-ways that lead to the tramp's burrows. Shone upon the scene of annual infant slaughter. Shone into the foul core of New York's slums that is at last to go to the realm of bad memories because civilized man may not look upon it and live without blushing.

It glanced past the rag-shop in the cellar, whence welled up stenches to poison the town, into an apartment three flights up that held two women, one young, the other old and bent. The young one had a baby at her breast. She was rocking it tenderly in her arms, singing in the soft Italian tongue a lullaby, while the old granny listened eagerly, her elbows on her knees, and a stumpy clay-pipe, blackened with age, between her teeth. Her eyes were set on the wall, on which the musty paper hung in tatters, fit frame for the wretched, poverty-stricken room, but they saw neither poverty nor want; her aged limbs felt not the cold draught from without, in which they shivered; they looked far over the seas to sunny Italy, whose music was in her ears.

"O dolce Napoli," she mumbled between her toothless jaws, "O suol beato --  -- "

The song ended in a burst of passionate grief. The old granny and the baby woke up at once. They were not in sunny Italy; not under Southern, cloudless skies. They were in "The Bend" in Mulberry Street, and the wintry wind rattled the door as if it would say, in the language of their new home, the land of the free: "Less music! More work! Root, hog, or die!"

Around the corner the sunbeam danced with the wind into Mott Street, lifted the blouse of a Chinaman and made it play tag with his pig-tail. It used him so roughly that he was glad to skip from it down a cellar-way that gave out fumes of opium strong enough to scare even the north wind from its purpose. The soles of his felt shoes showed as he disappeared down the ladder that passed for cellar-steps. Down there, where daylight never came, a group of yellow, almond-eyed men were bending over a table playing fan-tan. Their very souls were in the game, every faculty of the mind bent on the issue and the stake. The one blouse that was indifferent to what went on was stretched on a mat in a corner. One end of a clumsy pipe was in his mouth, the other held over a little spirit-lamp on the divan on which he lay. Something spluttered in the flame with a pungent, unpleasant smell. The smoker took a long draught, inhaling the white smoke, then sank back on his couch in senseless content.

Upstairs tiptoed the noiseless felt shoes, bent on some house errand, to the "household" floors above, where young white girls from the tenements of The Bend and the East Side live in slavery worse, if not more galling, than any of the galley with ball and chain -- the slavery of the pipe. Four, eight, sixteen -- twenty odd such "homes" in this tenement, disgracing the very name of home and family, for marriage and troth are not in the bargain.

In one room, between the half-drawn curtains of which the sunbeam works its way in, three girls are lying on as many bunks, smoking all. They are very young, "under age," though each and every one would glibly swear in court to the satisfaction of the police that she is sixteen, and therefore free to make her own bad choice. Of these, one was brought up among the rugged hills of Maine; the other two are from the tenement crowds, hardly missed there. But their companion? She is twirling the sticky brown pill over the lamp, preparing to fill the bowl of her pipe with it. As she does so, the sunbeam dances across the bed, kisses the red spot on her cheek that betrays the secret her tyrant long has known, though to her it is hidden yet -- that the pipe has claimed its victim and soon will pass it on to the Potter's Field.

"Nell," says one of her chums in the other bunk, something stirred within her by the flash -- "Nell, did you hear from the old farm to home since you come here?"

Nell turns half around, with the toasting-stick in her hand, an ugly look on her wasted features, a vile oath on her lips.

"To hell with the old farm," she says, and putting the pipe to her mouth inhales it all, every bit, in one long breath, then falls back on her pillow in drunken stupor.

That is what the sun of a winter day saw and heard in Mott Street.

It had travelled far toward the west, searching many dark corners and vainly seeking entry to others; had gilt with equal impartiality the spires of five hundred churches and the tin cornices of thirty thousand tenements, with their million tenants and more; had smiled courage and cheer to patient mothers trying to make the most of life in the teeming crowds, that had too little sunshine by far; hope to toiling fathers striving early and late for bread to fill the many mouths clamoring to be fed.

The brief December day was far spent. Now its rays fell across the North River and lighted up the windows of the tenements in Hell's Kitchen and Poverty Gap. In the Gap especially they made a brave show; the windows of the crazy old frame-house under the big tree that set back from the street looked as if they were made of beaten gold. But the glory did not cross the threshold. Within it was dark and dreary and cold. The room at the foot of the rickety, patched stairs was empty. The last tenant was beaten to death by her husband in his drunken fury. The sun's rays shunned the spot ever after, though it was long since it could have made out the red daub from the mould on the rotten floor.

Upstairs, in the cold attic, where the wind wailed mournfully through every open crack, a little girl sat sobbing as if her heart would break. She hugged an old doll to her breast. The paint was gone from its face; the yellow hair was in a tangle; its clothes hung in rags. But she only hugged it closer. It was her doll. They had been friends so long, shared hunger and hardship together, and now --  -- .

Her tears fell faster. One drop trembled upon the wan cheek of the doll. The last sunbeam shot athwart it and made it glisten like a priceless jewel. Its glory grew and filled the room. Gone were the black walls, the darkness and the cold. There was warmth and light and joy. Merry voices and glad faces were all about. A flock of children danced with gleeful shouts about a great Christmas-tree in the middle of the floor. Upon its branches hung drums and trumpets and toys, and countless candles gleamed like beautiful stars. Farthest up, at the very top, her doll, her very own, with arms outstretched, as if appealing to be taken down and hugged. She knew it, knew the mission-school that had seen her first and only real Christmas, knew the gentle face of her teacher, and the writing on the wall she had taught her to spell out: "In His Name." His name, who, she had said, was all little children's friend. Was he also her dolly's friend, and would know it among the strange people?

The light went out; the glory faded. The bare room, only colder and more cheerless than before, was left. The child shivered. Only that morning the doctor had told her mother that she must have medicine and food and warmth, or she must go to the great hospital where papa had gone before, when their money was all spent. Sorrow and want had laid the mother upon the bed he had barely left. Every stick of furniture, every stitch of clothing on which money could be borrowed, had gone to the pawnbroker. Last of all, she had carried mamma's wedding-ring, to pay the druggist. Now there was no more left, and they had nothing to eat. In a little while mamma would wake up, hungry.

The little girl smothered a last sob and rose quickly. She wrapped the doll in a threadbare shawl, as well as she could, tiptoed to the door and listened a moment to the feeble breathing of the sick mother within. Then she went out, shutting the door softly behind her, lest she wake her.

Up the street she went, the way she knew so well, one block and a turn round the saloon corner, the sunset glow kissing the track of her bare feet in the snow as she went, to a door that rang a noisy bell as she opened it and went in. A musty smell filled the close room. Packages, great and small, lay piled high on shelves behind the worn counter. A slovenly woman was haggling with the pawnbroker about the money for a skirt she had brought to pledge.

"Not a cent more than a quarter," he said, contemptuously, tossing the garment aside. "It's half worn out it is, dragging it back and forth over the counter these six months. Take it or leave it. Hallo! What have we here? Little Finnegan, eh? Your mother not dead yet? It's in the poor-house ye will be if she lasts much longer. What the --  -- "

He had taken the package from the trembling child's hand -- the precious doll -- and unrolled the shawl. A moment he stood staring in dumb amazement at its contents. Then he caught it up and flung it with an angry oath upon the floor, where it was shivered against the coal-box.

"Get out o' here, ye Finnegan brat," he shouted; "I'll tache ye to come a'guyin' o' me. I'll --  -- "

The door closed with a bang upon the frightened child, alone in the cold night. The sun saw not its home-coming. It had hidden behind the night-clouds, weary of the sight of man and his cruelty.

Evening had worn into night. The busy city slept. Down by the wharves, now deserted, a poor boy sat on the bulwark, hungry, footsore, and shivering with cold. He sat thinking of friends and home, thousands of miles away over the sea, whom he had left six months before to go among strangers. He had been alone ever since, but never more so than that night. His money gone, no work to be found, he had slept in the streets for nights. That day he had eaten nothing; he would rather die than beg, and one of the two he must do soon.

There was the dark river, rushing at his feet; the swirl of the unseen waters whispered to him of rest and peace he had not known since --  -- it was so cold -- and who was there to care, he thought bitterly. No one who would ever know. He moved a little nearer the edge, and listened more intently.

A low whine fell on his ear, and a cold, wet face was pressed against his. A little, crippled dog that had been crouching silently beside him nestled in his lap. He had picked it up in the street, as forlorn and friendless as himself, and it had stayed by him. Its touch recalled him to himself. He got up hastily, and, taking the dog in his arms, went to the police station near by and asked for shelter. It was the first time he had accepted even such charity, and as he lay down on his rough plank he hugged a little gold locket he wore around his neck, the last link with better days, and thought, with a hard, dry sob, of home.

In the middle of the night he awoke with a start. The locket was gone. One of the tramps who slept with him had stolen it. With bitter tears he went up and complained to the Sergeant at the desk, and the Sergeant ordered him to be kicked out in the street as a liar, if not a thief. How should a tramp boy have come honestly by a gold locket? The doorman put him out as he was bidden, and when the little dog showed its teeth, a policeman seized it and clubbed it to death on the step.

*    *    *    *    *

Far from the slumbering city the rising moon shines over a wide expanse of glistening water. It silvers the snow upon a barren heath between two shores, and shortens with each passing minute the shadows of countless headstones that bear no names, only numbers. The breakers that beat against the bluff wake not those who sleep there. In the deep trenches they lie, shoulder to shoulder, an army of brothers, homeless in life, but here at rest and at peace. A great cross stands upon the lonely shore. The moon sheds its rays upon it in silent benediction and floods the garden of the unknown, unmourned dead with its soft light. Out on the Sound the fishermen see it flashing white against the starlit sky, and bare their heads reverently as their boats speed by, borne upon the wings of the west wind.



Skippy Of Scrabble Alley


Skippy was at home in Scrabble Alley. So far as he had ever known home of any kind it was there in the dark and mouldy basement of the rear house, farthest back in the gap that was all the builder of those big tenements had been able to afford of light and of air for the poor people whose hard-earned wages, brought home every Saturday, left them as poor as if they had never earned a dollar, to pile themselves up in his strong-box. The good man had long since been gathered to his fathers -- gone to his better home. It was in the newspapers, and in the alley it was said that it was the biggest funeral -- more than a hundred carriages, and four black horses to pull the hearse. So it must be true, of course.

Skippy wondered vaguely, sometimes, when he thought of it, what kind of a home it might be where people went in a hundred carriages. He had never sat in one. The nearest he had come to it was when Jimmy Murphy's cab had nearly run him down once, and his "fare," a big man with whiskers, had put his head out and angrily called him a brat, and told him to get out of the way, or he would have him arrested. And Jimmy had shaken his whip at him and told him to skip home. Everybody told him to skip. From the policeman on the block to the hard-fisted man he knew as his father, and who always had a job for him with the growler when he came home, they were having Skippy on the run. Probably that was how he got his name. No one cared enough about it, or about the boy, to find out.

Was there anybody anywhere who cared about boys, anyhow? Were there any boys in that other home where the carriages and the big hearse had gone? And if there were, did they have to live in an alley, and did they ever have any fun? These were thoughts that puzzled Skippy's young brain once in a while. Not very long or very hard, for Skippy had not been trained to think; what training the boys picked up in the alley didn't run much to deep thinking.

Perhaps it was just as well. There were one or two men there who were said to know a heap, and who had thought and studied it all out about the landlord and the alley. But it was very tiresome that it should happen to be just those two, for Skippy never liked them. They were always cross and ugly, never laughed and carried on as the other men did once in a while, and made his little feet very tired running with the growler early and late. He well remembered, too, that it was one of them who had said, when they brought him home, sore and limping, from under the wheels of Jimmy Murphy's cab, that he'd been better off if it had killed him. He had always borne a grudge against him for that, for there was no occasion for it that he could see. Hadn't he been to the gin-mill for him that very day twice?

Skippy's horizon was bounded by the towering brick walls of Scrabble Alley. No sun ever rose or set between them. On the hot summer days, when the saloon-keeper on the farther side of the street pulled up his awning, the sun came over the house-tops and looked down for an hour or two into the alley. It shone upon broken flags, a mud-puddle by the hydrant where the children went splashing with dirty, bare feet, and upon unnumbered ash-barrels. A stray cabbage-leaf in one of these was the only green thing it found, for no ray ever strayed through the window in Skippy's basement to trace the green mould on the wall.

Once, while he had been lying sick with a fever, Skippy had struck up a real friendly acquaintance with that mouldy wall. He had pictured to himself woods and hills and a regular wilderness, such as he had heard of, in its green growth; but even that pleasure they had robbed him of. The charity doctor had said that the mould was bad, and a man scraped it off and put whitewash on the wall. As if everything that made fun for a boy was bad.

Down the street a little way was a yard just big enough and nice to play ball in, but the agent had put up a sign that he would have no boys and no ball-playing in his yard, and that ended it; for the "cop" would have none of it in the street either. Once he had caught them at it and "given them the collar." They had been up before the judge, and though he let them off they had been branded, Skippy and the rest, as a bad lot.

That was the starting-point in Skippy's career. With the brand upon him he accepted the future it marked out for him, reasoning as little, or as vaguely, about the justice of it as he had about the home conditions of the alley. The world, what he had seen of it, had taught him one lesson: to take things as he found them, because that was the way they were; and that being the easiest, and, on the whole, best suited to Skippy's general make-up, he fell naturally into the rôle assigned him. After that he worked the growler on his own hook most of the time. The "gang" he had joined found means of keeping it going that more than justified the brand the policeman had put upon it. It was seldom by honest work. What was the use? The world owed them a living, and it was their business to collect it as easily as they could. It was everybody's business to do that, as far as they could see, from the man who owned the alley, down.

They made the alley pan out in their own way. It had advantages the builder hadn't thought of, though he provided them. Full of secret ins and outs, runways and passages, not easily found, to the surrounding tenements, it offered chances to get away when one or more of the gang were "wanted" for robbing this store on the avenue, tapping that till, or raiding the grocer's stock, that were A No. 1. When some tipsy man had been waylaid and "stood up," it was an unequalled spot for dividing the plunder. It happened once or twice, as time went by, that a man was knocked on the head and robbed within the bailiwick of the now notorious Scrabble Alley gang, or that a drowned man floated ashore in the dock with his pockets turned inside out. On such occasions the police made an extra raid, and more or less of the gang were scooped in, but nothing ever came of it. Dead men tell no tales, and they were not more silent than the Scrabbles, if, indeed, these had anything to tell.

It came gradually to be an old story. Skippy and his associates were long since in the Rogues' Gallery, numbered and indexed as truly a bad lot now. They were no longer boys, but toughs. Most of them had "done time" up the river and come back more hardened than they went, full of new tricks always, which they were eager to show the boys to prove that they had not been idle while they were away. On the police returns they figured as "speculators," a term that sounded better than thief, and meant, as they understood it, much the same, viz., a man who made a living out of other people's labor. It was conceded in the slums, everywhere, that the Scrabble-Alley gang was a little the boldest that had for a long time defied the police. It had the call in the other gangs in all the blocks around, for it had the biggest fighters as well as the cleverest thieves of them all.

Then one holiday morning, when in a hundred churches the pean went up, "On earth peace, good-will toward men," all New York rang with the story of a midnight murder committed by Skippy's gang. The saloon-keeper whose place they were sacking to get the "stuff" for keeping Christmas in their way had come upon them, and Skippy had shot him down while the others ran. A universal shout for vengeance went up from outraged Society.

It sounded the death-knell of the gang. It was scattered to the four winds, all except Skippy, who was tried for murder and hanged. The papers spoke of his phenomenal calmness under the gallows; said it was defiance. The priest who had been with him in his last hours said he was content to go to a better home. They were all wrong. Had the pictures that chased each other across Skippy's mind as the black cap was pulled over his face been visible to their eyes, they would have seen Scrabble Alley with its dripping hydrant, and the puddle in which the children splashed with dirty, bare feet; the dark basement room with its mouldy wall; the notice in the yard, "No ball-playing allowed here;" the policeman who stamped him as one of a bad lot, and the sullen man who thought it had been better for him, the time he was run over, if he had died. Skippy asked himself moodily if he was right after all, and if boys were ever to have any show. He died with the question unanswered.

They said that no such funeral ever went out of Scrabble Alley before. There was a real raid on the undertaker's where Skippy lay in state two whole days, and the wake was talked of for many a day as something wonderful. At the funeral services it was said that without a doubt Skippy had gone to a better home. His account was squared.

*    *    *    *    *

Skippy's story is not invented to be told here. In its main facts it is a plain account of a well-remembered drama of the slums, on which the curtain was rung down in the Tombs yard. There are Skippies without number growing up in those slums to-day, vaguely wondering why they were born into a world that does not want them; Scrabble Alleys to be found for the asking, all over this big city where the tenements abound, alleys in which generations of boys have lived and died -- principally died, and thus done for themselves the best they could, according to the crusty philosopher of Skippy's set -- with nothing more inspiring than a dead blank wall within reach of their windows all the days of their cheerless lives. Theirs is the account to be squared -- by justice, not vengeance. Skippy is but an item on the wrong side of the ledger. The real reckoning of outraged society is not with him, but with Scrabble Alley.

<eob>

Silver Lake

By

R.M. Ballantyne



Chapter One.

The Hunters.

It was on a cold winter morning long ago, that Robin Gore, a bold hunter of the backwoods of America, entered his parlour and sat him down to breakfast.

Robin's parlour was also his dining-room, and his drawing-room, besides being his bedroom and his kitchen. In fact, it was the only room in his wooden hut, except a small apartment, opening off it, which was a workshop and lumber-room.

Robin's family consisted of himself, and his wife, and his son Roy, who was twelve years of age -- and his daughter Nelly, who was eight, or thereabout. In addition to these, his household comprised a nephew, Walter and an Irishman, Larry O'Dowd. The former was tall, strong, fearless, and twenty. The latter was stout, short, powerful, and forty.

The personal history of Robin Gore, to the point at which we take it up, runs briefly thus: -- 

He had been born in a backwood's settlement, had grown up and married in the little hamlet in which he had been born, and hunted around it contentedly until he was forty years of age. But, as population increased, he became restive. He disliked restraint; resolved to take his wife and family into the wilderness and, after getting his nephew and an Irish adventurer to agree to accompany him, carried his resolution into effect.

He travelled several hundreds of miles into the woods -- beyond the most remote settlement -- built three wooden huts, surrounded them with a tall stockade, set up a flagstaff in the centre thereof, and styled the whole affair, "Fort Enterprise."

"I'm sorry to bring you to such a lonesome spot, Molly, my dear," said Robin, as he sat on the trunk of a fallen tree, on the afternoon of the day on which he arrived at the scene of his future home; "it'll be rayther tryin' at first, but you'll soon get used to it, and we won't be bothered hereaway wi' all the new-fangled notions o' settlement folk. We'll dwell in the free wilderness, where there are no tyrannical laws to hamper a man, an' no nonsensical customs to fix the fashion of his coat an' leggins. Besides, you'll have Roy an' Nelly an' Walter an' Larry to keep you company, lass, not to mention our neighbours to look in upon now and again."

"Very true, Robin," replied the wife, "I have no doubt it will be quite cheery and homelike in course of time."

She looked out upon the broad bosom of the lake which lay before the site of their forest home, and sighed. It was evident that Mrs Gore had a strong partiality for the laws and customs which her husband abhorred.

The "neighbours" to whom Robin referred lived in a leather tent twenty miles distant from the Fort. They were an Indian, named "The Black Swan," his wife, named "The White Swan," and a half-caste trapper, whose proper name was unknown to all save himself. His cognomen in the wilderness was "Slugs," a name which originated in his frequent use of clipped pieces of lead instead of shot in the loading of his gun.

But to return to the point from which we started: -- 

It was on a cold winter morning that Robin Gore entered his parlour and sat him down to breakfast.

It was not only cold -- very cold; colder than ever was experienced in our favoured British isles -- but it was also very dark. Robin had risen before daybreak in order to visit his traps, and shoot some game as early in the day as possible. The larder chanced to be nearly empty that day, a fact which was all the more to be regretted that it was New Year's day, and, as Robin remarked, "that day didn't occur more than once in the year." This statement Larry O'Dowd disputed, affirming that it occurred "at laste twice ivery year -- wance at the beginnin' an' wance at the end of it!"

"Come along, lad," said Robin, trimming the candle as his nephew Walter entered, "we'll ha' to make the most of our time to-day, for we dine at sharp five p.m., an' our dinner -- leastwise the most of it -- is at this moment alive an' kickin', if it's not sleepin', in the forest, and has got to be found and shot yet. Hallo! boy, where are you bound for?"

"For the woods, father, with you and Walter," replied his son Roy, sitting down and coolly helping himself to a portion of bear's meat, with which the hunter was regaling himself.

"Nonsense, boy," said Robin, somewhat gruffly.

"You'll not be able to keep up with us," added Walter, "for we've little time before us, an' a long way to go."

"If I break down I can turn back," retorted Roy.

"Very good; please yourself;" said Robin in a tone of indifference, although his glance seemed to indicate that he was not sorry to see his boy determined to attempt an expedition which he knew from experience would be very trying to a lad of his years.

Breakfast over, the three hunters clothed themselves in habiliments suitable to the climate -- leathern coats and trousers which were impervious to the wind; cloth leggings to keep the snow from the trousers; leather mocassins, or shoes with three pairs of blanket socks inside of them; fur-caps with ear-pieces; leather mittens with an apartment for the fingers and a separate chamber for the thumb, powder-horns, shot-pouches, guns, and snow-shoes. These latter were light wooden frames, netted across with deerskin threads, about five feet long and upwards of a foot wide. The shoes were of this enormous size, in order that they might support the wearers on the surface of the snow, which was, on an average, four feet deep in the woods. They were clumsy to look at, but not so difficult to walk in as one might suppose.

In silence the three hunters entered the dark woods in front of Fort Enterprise. Robin went first and beat the track, Walter followed in his footsteps, Roy brought up the rear. The father sank about six inches at every step, but the snow which fell upon his snow-shoes was so fine and dry, owing to the intense frost, that it fell through the net-work of the shoes like dust. Walter and Roy, treading in the footsteps, had less labour in walking, but Walter, being almost as strong as his uncle, took his turn at beating the track every two hours.

Through the woods they went, over mound and hollow, across frozen swamp and plain, through brush and break, until near noon, when they halted for rest and refreshment. While Walter cut firewood, Robin and Roy cleared away the snow, using their snow-shoes as shovels, and prepared their meal. It was simple; a few mouthfuls of dried meat and a tin can of hot tea -- the backwoodsman's greatest luxury, next to his pipe. It was short, too. Half an hour sufficed to prepare and consume it.

"Let's see, now, what we have got," said Robin, counting the game before resuming the march.

"More than enough," said Walter, lighting his pipe for a hurried whiff, "ten brace of white grouse, four rabbits, six red foxes and a black one, and two wolves. We can't eat all that."

"Surely we won't eat the foxes and wolves!" cried Roy, laughing.

"Not till we're starvin'," replied his father. "Come, let's go on -- are ye tired, lad?"

"Fresh as Walter," said the boy, proudly.

"Well, we won't try you too much. We'll just take a sweep round by the Wolf's Glen, an' look at the traps there -- after which make for home and have our New Year's dinner. Go ahead, Walter, and beat the track; it is your turn this time."

Without speaking, Walter slipped his feet into the lines of his snow-shoes, extinguished his pipe, and led the way once more through the pathless forest.



Chapter Two.

The Starved Indian.

In the depths of the same forest, and not far from the locality to which we have introduced our reader, a Red Indian was dragging his limbs wearily along over the untrodden snow.

The attenuated frame of this son of the soil, his hollow cheeks and glaring eye-balls, his belt drawn with extreme tightness round his waist, to repress the gnawings of hunger, as well as his enfeebled gait, proved that he was approaching the last stage of starvation.

For many weeks Wapaw had been travelling in the woods, guided on his way by the stars, and by those slight and delicate signs of the wilderness --  such as the difference of thickness in the bark on the north, from that on the south side of a tree -- which are perceptible only to the keen eye of an Indian, or a white man whose life has been spent in the wilderness.

But Wapaw was a very different man, when he quitted his tribe, from what he was at the time we introduce him to our reader. Strong, wiry, upright, and lithe as a panther, he left his wigwam and his wife, and turned his face towards the rising sun; but the season was a severe one, and game was scarce; from the very beginning of his journey he had found it difficult to supply himself with a sufficiency of food. Towards the middle of it he was on short allowance, and much reduced in strength; and now near its termination, he was, as we have said, almost in the last stage of starvation.

Fort Enterprise was Wapaw's goal. He had never been there before, but from the description of the place and its locality, given by those of his kindred who had visited Robin Gore, he was able to direct his march with unerring certainty towards it. Of course, as he drew near to it he could not ascertain his exact distance -- whether he was a day or several days' journey off -- but from the tracks of Robin's snow-shoes, which he crossed more than once, he guessed that he was nearing the Fort, and pushed on with renewed hope and energy.

Robin, however, was an active hunter. He often made long and rapid marches from his lonely dwelling -- sometimes staying away a week or two at a time even in winter; so that Wapaw thought himself nearer Fort Enterprise than he really was, when he first discovered the bold hunter's tracks. When, at length, he did arrive at less than a day's journey from the Fort, he was not aware of its close proximity, and, having tasted nothing whatever for two days, he felt the approach of that terrible state of exhaustion which precedes death.

It was a somewhat stormy day when the poor Indian's strength finally broke down. Hitherto he had pushed forward with some degree of hope, but on the morning of this day a broken branch caught his snow-shoe and tripped him. At any other time the fall would have been a trifle, but in his weak condition it acted like the last straw which breaks the camel's back. Wapaw rose with difficulty, and brushing the snow from his eyes, looked earnestly at his snow-shoes, well knowing that if they had been broken in the fall his power of advancing would have been taken away and his fate sealed, for he had neither strength nor energy left to repair them. They were uninjured, however; so he once more attempted to stagger on.

A slight rising ground lay before him. To ascend this was a labour so great that he almost sank in the midst of it. He reached the top, however, and gazed eagerly before him. He had gazed thus at the top of every rising ground that he had reached during the last two days, in the hope of seeing some sign of the Fort.

A deep sigh escaped him as he rested his hands on the muzzle of his gun, and his grave countenance was overspread with a look of profound melancholy. For the first time in his life, the once stout and active Wapaw had reached the point of giving way to despair. A wide open plain stretched out before him. The cold wind was howling wildly across it, driving the keen snow-drift before it in whirling clouds. Even a strong man might have shrunk from exposing himself on such a plain and to such a blast on that bitter arctic day. Wapaw felt that, in his case, to cross it would be certain death; so, with the calm philosophy of a Red Indian, he made up his mind to lay him down and die!

His manner of preparing for his end was somewhat singular. Turning aside into the woods, he set about making an encampment with as much vigour as he could summon up. Clearing away the snow from the roots of a large spreading pine-tree, he strewed branches on the ground, and thus made a rude couch. On this he spread his blanket. Then he cut some firewood with the axe that hung at his side, and soon kindled, by means of flint, steel, and tinder, a good fire. Seating himself before the warm blaze, the exhausted man rested awhile, with his legs drawn together and his head resting on his knees.

He sat so long thus that he nearly fell asleep. Presently he roused himself, and proceeded to make a close examination of his wallet and firebag -- the latter being a beautifully ornamented pouch, which Indians and fur-traders wear at their belts, for the purpose of containing the materials for producing fire, besides pipes and tobacco.

Poor Wapaw had already searched his wallet and firebag twice, without finding a crumb of food or a morsel of tobacco. He knew well that they were empty, yet he turned them inside out, and examined the seams and corners with as much earnestness as if he really expected to find relief from his sufferings there.

There was no expression of pain on the red man's face -- only a look of profound melancholy.

He laid aside the firebag after a little while, and then quietly drew his knife, and cut a piece of leather from the skirt of his hunting coat.

The leather had been dried and smoked, and contained no substance whatever that could sustain life. Wapaw was aware of this -- nevertheless he singed a portion of it until it was reduced almost to ashes, and mingling a little snow with this, ate it greedily.

Then, raising his eyes to the sky with a long earnest gaze, he sat immovable, until the sinking fire and the increasing cold recalled his wandering faculties.

There was a wild, glassy look about the Indian's eyes now, which probably resulted from exhaustion. He seemed to struggle several times to rouse himself before he succeeded; shuddering with intense cold, he crept to the little pile of firewood, and placed several billets on the fire, which speedily blazed up again, and the dying man cowered over it, regardless of the smoke which ever and anon wreathed round his drooping head.

In a few minutes Wapaw started up as if new energy had been infused into him. He placed his gun, axe, firebag, and powder-horn by themselves on the ground; then he wrapped himself in his blanket and lay slowly down beside them with his feet towards the fire. For a few minutes he lay on his back, gazing earnestly upwards, while his lips moved slowly, but no sound issued from them. Then he turned wearily on his side, and, covering his head with the blanket and turning his face towards the ground, he resigned himself to death.

But God had ordained that, at that time, the red man should not die.

About the time when he lay down, our hunters emerged upon the plain which had caused the Indian to despair.

"It's of no use goin' farther," observed Robin, as he and his companions stood at the edge of the forest and looked across the plain; "the wind blows too hard, and the drift is keen; besides there ain't much to be got hereaway, even in seasons of plenty."

"Father! is that smoke risin' over the bluff yonder?" asked Roy, pointing with his finger as he spoke.

"No doubt of it, lad."

"Indians, may be," said Walter.

Robin shook his head. "Don't think so," said he, "for the redskins don't often come to see me at this time o' the year. But we'll go see; an' look to your primin', lads -- if it's a war-party we'll ha' to fight, mayhap, if we don't run."

The three hunters crossed the plain in the teeth of the howling drift, and cautiously approached the bluff referred to by Roy, and from behind which the smoke ascended.

"It's a camp fire," whispered Robin, as he glanced back at his companions, "but I see no one there. They must have just left the place."

There was a shade of anxiety in the hunter's voice as he spoke, for he thought of Fort Enterprise, its defenceless condition, and the possibility of the Indians having gone thither.

"They can't have gone to the Fort," said Walter, "else we should have seen their tracks on the way hither."

"Come," said Robin, stepping forward quickly, "we can see their tracks now, anyhow, and follow them up, and if they lead to the Fort."

The hunter did not finish his sentence, for at that moment he caught sight of the recumbent form of Wapaw in the camp.

"Hist! A redskin alone, and asleep! Well, I never did 'xpect to see that."

"Mayhap, he's a decoy-duck," suggested Walter. "Better look sharp out."

Robin and Roy heeded not the caution. They at once went forward, and the father lifted the blanket from the Indian's head.

"Dead!" exclaimed Roy, in a solemn tone.

"Not yet, lad! but I do b'lieve the poor critter's a'most gone wi' starvation. Come, bestir you, boys -- rouse up the fire, and boil the kettle."

Walter and Roy did not require a second bidding. The kettle was ere long singing on a blazing fire. The Indian's limbs were chafed and warmed; a can of hot tea was administered, and Wapaw soon revived sufficiently to look up and thank his deliverers.

"Now, as good luck has it, I chanced to leave my hand-sled at the Wolf's Glen. Go, fetch it, Roy," said Robin.

The lad set off at once, and, as the glen was not far distant, soon returned with a flat wooden sledge, six feet long by eighteen inches broad, on which trappers are wont to pack their game in winter. On this sledge Wapaw was firmly tied, and dragged by the hunters to Fort Enterprise.

"Hast got a deer, father?" cried little Nelly, as she bounded in advance of her mother to meet the returning party.

"No, Nelly -- 'tis dearer game than that."

"What? a redskin!" exclaimed Dame Gore in surprise; "is he dead?"

"No, nor likely to die," said Robin, "he's in a starvin' state though, an'll be none the worse of a bit of our New Year's dinner. Here is game enough for one meal an' more; come, lass, get it ready as fast as may be."

So saying the bold hunter passed through the Fort gate, dragging the red man behind him.



Chapter Three.

Preparations For A Feast.

"Why so grave, Robin?" inquired Mrs Gore, when her husband returned to the parlour after seeing Wapaw laid in a warm corner of the kitchen, and committed to the care of Larry O'Dowd.

"Molly, my dear, it's of no use concealin' things from you, 'cause when bad luck falls we must just face it. This Injun -- Wapaw, he calls himself -- tells me he has com'd here a-purpose, as fast as he could, to say that his tribe have resolved to attack me, burn the Fort, kill all the men, and carry you off into slavery."

"God help me! can this be true?"

"True enough, I don't doubt, 'cause Wapaw has the face of an honest man, and I believe in faces. He says some of the worst men of his tribe are in power just now; that they want the contents of my store without paying for them; that he tried to get them to give up the notion, but failed. On seeing that they were bent on it, he said he was going off to hunt, and came straight here to warn me. He says they talked of starting for the Fort two days after he did, and that he pushed on as fast as he could travel, so it's not likely they'll be here for two or three days yet. I'll get ready for them, hows'ever, and when the reptiles do come they'll meet with a warm reception, I warrant them; meanwhile, do you go and get dinner ready. We won't let such varmints interfere with our New Year's feast."

While Robin's wife went to her larder, his children were in the kitchen tending the Indian with earnest solicitude, and Larry was preparing a little soup for him.

"Do you like rabbit soup?" asked Nelly, kneeling beside the pallet of pine branches on which Wapaw lay.

The Indian smiled, and said something in his native tongue.

"Sure he don't onderstan' ye," exclaimed Larry, as he bustled in an energetic way amongst his pots and pans.

"Let me try him with Cree," said Roy, kneeling beside his sister, "I know a little -- a very little Cree."

Roy tried his "very little Cree," but without success.

"It's o' no use," he said, "father must talk to him, for he knows every language on earth, I believe."

Roy's idea of the number of languages "on earth" was very limited.

"Och! don't bother him, see, here is a lingo that every wan onderstan's," cried Larry, carrying a can of hot soup towards Wapaw.

"Oh, let me! do let me!" cried Nelly, jumping up and seizing the can.

"Be all manes," said Larry, resigning it.

The child once more knelt by the side of the Indian and held the can to him, while he conveyed the soup to his lips with a trembling, unsteady hand. The eyes of the poor man glittered as he gazed eagerly at the food, which he ate with the avidity of a half-famished wolf.

His nurses looked on with great satisfaction, and when Wapaw glanced up from time to time in their faces, he was advised to continue his meal with nods and smiles of goodwill.

Great preparations were made for the dinner of that New Year's Day. Those who "dwell at home at ease" have no idea of the peculiar feelings with which the world's wanderers hail the season of Christmas and New Year. Surrounded as they usually are by strange scenes, and ignorant as they are of what friends at home are doing or thinking, they lay hold of this season as being one point at least in the circle of the year in which they can unite with the home circle, and, at the same time, commemorate with them the birth of the blessed Saviour of mankind, and think with them of absent friends. Much, therefore, as the "happy" season is made of in the "old country," it is made more of, if possible, in the colonies; especially on the outskirts of the world, where the adventurous and daring have pitched their tents.

Of course Robin Gore and his household did not think of the "old country," for they were descendants of settlers; but they had imbibed the spirit of the old country from their forefathers, and thought of those well-remembered friends whom they had left behind them in the settlements.

Notwithstanding the delay caused by the conveying of Wapaw to the Fort, the hunters had walked so fast that there was still some time to spare before dinner should be ready.

Roy resolved to devote this time to a ramble in the woods with his sister Nelly. Accordingly the two put on their snow-shoes, and, merely saying to their mother that they were going to take a run in the woods, set forth.

Now, it must be known that Mrs Gore had looked forward to New Year's Day dinner with great interest and much anxiety. There was a general feeling of hilarity and excitement among the male members of the self-exiled family that extended itself to the good woman, and induced her to resolve that the entire household should have what Walter styled a "rare blow-out!" During the whole morning she had been busy with the preparation of the various dishes, among which were a tart made of cloudberry jam, a salt goose, and a lump of bear's ham, besides the rabbits and ptarmigan which had been shot that day.

"That's the way to do it, Molly," cried Robin, as he opened the door and peeped in upon his wife during the height and heat of her culinary labours; "keep the pot bilin', my dear, and don't spare the butter this day. It only comes once a year, you know."

"Twice," muttered Larry in a low voice, as he stirred the contents of a large pot which hung over the fire.

"And see that you look after Wapaw," continued Robin. "Don't give him too much at first, it'll hurt him."

"No fear of that," replied Larry, "he's got so much a'ready that he couldn't howld another morsel av he was to try."

"Well, well, take care of him, anyhow," said Robin, with a laugh; "meanwhile I'll go see after the defences o' the Fort, and make all snug."

By dint of unwearied perseverance the dinner was cooked, and then it occurred to Robin to ask where the children were, but no one could tell, so the hunter remarked quietly that they would "doubtless make their appearance in a short while."

Gradually the dinner reached that interesting point which is usually styled "ready to dish." Whereupon Robin again asked where the children were. Still no one could tell, so he said he would go out and hail them. Loudly and long did the hunter call, but no one answered; then he made a rapid search in and about the Fort, but they were not to be found. Moreover, a snow-storm had begun to set in, and the drift rendered it difficult to distinguish tracks in the snow.

At last the day's labours were brought to a close. Dinner was served, and smoked invitingly on the table. The party only awaited the return of Robin with the children. In a few minutes Robin entered hastily.

"Molly," said he, in a tone of anxiety, "the foolish things have gone into the woods, I think. Come, lads, we must hunt them down. It's snowin' hard, so we've no time to lose."

Walter and Larry at once put on their capotes, fur-caps, and snow-shoes, and sallied forth, leaving Mrs Gore seated alone, and in a state of deep anxiety, by the side of her untasted New Year's Day dinner.



Chapter Four.

Lost In The Snow.

When Roy and Nelly set out for a ramble, they had at first no intention of going beyond their usual haunts in the woods around the Fort; but Roy had been inspirited by his successful march that day with his father and Walter, and felt inclined to show Nelly some new scenes to which they had not, up to that time, dared to penetrate together.

The snow-storm, already referred to, had commenced gradually. When the children set forth on their ramble only a few flakes were falling, but they had not been away half an hour when snow fell so thickly that they could not see distinctly more than a few yards ahead of them. There was no wind, however, so they continued to advance, rather pleased than otherwise with the state of things.

"Oh, I do like to see falling snow," cried Nelly, with a burst of animation.

"So do I," said Roy, looking back at his sister with a bright smile, "and I like it best when it comes down thick and heavy, in big flakes, on a very calm day, don't you?"

"Yes, oh it's so nice," responded Nelly sympathetically.

They paused for minutes to shake some of the snow from their garments, and beat their hands together, for their fingers were cold, and to laugh boisterously, for their hearts were merry. Then they resumed their march, Roy beating the track manfully and Nelly following in his footsteps.

In passing beneath a tall fir-tree Roy chanced to touch a twig. The result was literally overwhelming, for in a moment he was almost buried in snow, to the unutterable delight of his sister, who stood screaming with laughter as the unfortunate boy struggled to disentomb himself.

In those northern wilds, where snow falls frequently and in great abundance, masses are constantly accumulating on the branches of trees, particularly on the pines, on the broad flat branches of which these masses attain to considerable size. A slight touch is generally sufficient to bring these down, but, being soft, they never do any injury worth mentioning.

When Roy had fairly emerged from the snow he joined his sister in the laugh, but suddenly he stopped, and his face became very grave.

"What's the matter?" asked Nelly, with an anxious look.

"My snow-shoe's broken," said Roy.

There was greater cause for anxiety on account of this accident than the reader is perhaps aware of. It may be easily understood that in a country where the snow averages four feet in depth, no one can walk half-a-mile without snow-shoes without being thoroughly exhausted; on the other hand, a man can walk thirty or forty miles a day by means of snow-shoes.

"Can't you mend it?" asked Nelly.

Roy, who had been carefully examining the damaged shoe, shook his head.

"I've nothing here to do it with; besides, it's an awful smash. I must just try to scramble home the best way I can. Come, it's not very far, we'll only be a bit late for dinner."

The snow-shoe having been bandaged, after a fashion, with a pocket-handkerchief, the little wanderers began to retrace their steps; but this was now a matter of extreme difficulty, owing to the quantity of snow which had fallen and almost obliterated the tracks. The broken shoe, also, was constantly giving way, so that ere long the children became bewildered as well as anxious, and soon lost the track of their outward march altogether. To make matters worse, the wind began to blow clouds of snow-drift into their faces, compelling them to seek the denser parts of the forest for shelter.

They wandered on, however, in the belief that they were drawing nearer home every step, and Roy, whose heart was stout and brave, cheered up his sister's spirit so much that she began to feel quite confident their troubles would soon be over.

Presently all their hopes were dashed to the ground by their suddenly emerging upon an open space, close to the very spot where the snow-mass had fallen on Roy's head. After the first feeling of alarm and disappointment had subsided, Roy plucked up heart and encouraged Nelly by pointing out to her that they had at all events recovered their old track, which they would be very careful not to lose sight of again.

Poor Nelly whimpered a little, partly from cold and hunger as well as from disappointment, as she listened to her brother's words; then she dried her eyes and said she was ready to begin again. So they set off once more. But the difficulty of discerning the track, if great at first, was greater now, because the falling and drifting snow had well-nigh covered it up completely. In a very few minutes Roy stopped, and, confessing that he had lost it again, proposed to return once more to their starting point to try to recover it. Nelly agreed, for she was by this time too much fatigued and alarmed to have any will of her own, and was quite ready to do whatever she was told without question.

After wandering about for nearly an hour in this state of uncertainty, Roy at last stopped, and, putting his arm round his sister's waist, said that he had lost himself altogether! Poor Nelly, whose heart had been gradually sinking, fairly broke down; she hid her face in her brother's bosom, and wept.

"Come now, don't do that, dear Nell," said Roy, tenderly, "I'll tell you what we shall do -- we'll camp in the snow! We have often done it close to the house, you know, for fun, so we'll do it now in earnest."

"But it's so dark and cold," sobbed Nelly, looking round with a shudder into the dark recesses of the forest, which were by that time enshrouded by the gathering shades of night; "and I'm so hungry too! Oh me! what shall we do?"

"Now don't get so despairing," urged Roy, whose courage rose in proportion as his sister's sank; "it's not such an awful business after all, for father is sure to scour the woods in search of us, an' if we only get a comfortable encampment made, an' a roarin' fire kindled, why, we'll sit beside it an' tell stories till they find us. They'll be sure to see the fire, you know, so come -- let's to work."

Roy said this so cheerfully that the child felt a little comforted, dried her eyes, and said she would "help to make the camp."

This matter of making an encampment in the snow, although laborious work, was by no means a novelty to these children of the backwoods. They had often been taught how to do it by Cousin Walter and Larry O'Dowd, and had made "playing at camps" their chief amusement in fine winter days. When, therefore, they found themselves compelled to "camp-out" from necessity, neither of them was at a loss how to proceed. Roy drew a circle in the snow, about three yards in diameter, at the foot of a large tree, and then both set to work to dig a hole in this space, using their snow-shoes as shovels. It took an hour's hard work to reach the ground, and when they did so the piled-up snow all round raised the walls of this hole to the height of about six feet.

"Now for bedding," cried Roy, scrambling over the walls of their camp and going into the woods in search of a young pine-tree, while Nelly sat down on the ground to rest after her toil.

It was a dark night, and the woods were so profoundly obscured, that Roy had to grope about for some time before he found a suitable tree. Cutting it down with the axe which always hung at his girdle, he returned to camp with it on his shoulder, and cut off the small soft branches, which Nelly spread over the ground to the depth of nearly half a foot. This "pine-brush," as it is called, formed a soft elastic couch.

The fire was the next business. Again Roy went into the bush and gathered a large bundle of dry branches.

"Now, Nelly, do you break a lot of the small twigs," said Roy, "and I'll strike a light."

He pulled his firebag from his belt as he spoke, and drew from it flint, steel, and tinder. No one ever travels in the wilds of which we write without such means of procuring fire. Roy followed the example of his elder companions in carrying a firebag, although he did not, like them, carry tobacco and pipe in it.

Soon the bright sparks that flew from the flint caught on the tinder. This was placed in a handful of dry grass, and whirled rapidly round until it was fanned into a flame. Nelly had prepared another handful of dry grass with small twigs above it. The light was applied, the fire leaped up, more sticks were piled on, and at last the fire roared upward, sending bright showers of sparks into the branches overhead, lighting the white walls of the camp with a glow that caused them to sparkle as with millions of gems, and filling the hearts of the children with a sensation of comfort and gladness, while they stood before the blaze and warmed themselves, rubbing their hands and laughing with glee.

No one, save those who have experienced it, can form any conception of the cheering effect of a fire in the heart of a dark wood at night. Roy and Nelly quite forgot their lost condition for a short time, in the enjoyment of the comforting heat and the bright gladsome blaze. The brother cut firewood until he was rendered almost breathless, the sister heaped on the wood until the fire roared and leaped high above their heads. Strange though it may appear to some, the snow did not melt. The weather was too cold for that; only a little of that which was nearest the fire melted -- the snow walls remained hard frozen all round. Roy soon sat down to rest, as close to the fire as he could without getting scorched; then Nelly seated herself by his side and nestled her head in his breast. There they sat, telling stories and gazing at the fire, and waiting for "father to come."

Meanwhile Robin and his comrade ranged the forest far and near in desperate anxiety. But it was a wide and wild country. The children had wandered far away; a high ridge of land hid their fire from view. Moreover, Robin, knowing the children's usual haunts, had chanced to go off in the wrong direction. When night set in the hunters returned to Fort Enterprise to procure ammunition and provisions, in order to commence a more thorough and prolonged search. Poor Mrs Gore still sat beside the cold and untasted feast, and there the hunters left her, while they once more plunged into the pathless wilderness to search for the lost ones on that luckless New Year's Day.



Chapter Five.

Carried Off.

While Robin Gore and his companions were anxiously searching the woods around Fort Enterprise for the lost children, a war-party of savages was making its way swiftly towards the Fort.

A chief of the Indians, named Hawk, who was a shrewd as well as a bad man, had suspected Wapaw's intentions in quitting the camp of his people alone and in such unnecessary haste. This man had great influence over his fellows, and easily prevailed on them to set off on their murderous expedition against the Fort of the "pale-faces" without delay.

Being well supplied with food, they travelled faster than their starving comrade, and almost overtook him. They finally encamped within a short distance of the Fort the day after Wapaw's arrival, and prepared to assault it early next morning.

"If the wicked skunk has got there before us," said Hawk to his fellows, as they prepared to set out before daybreak, "the pale-faces will be ready for us, and we may as well go back to our wigwams at once; but if that badger's whelp has been slow of foot, we shall hang the scalps of the pale-faces at our belts, and eat their food this day."

The polite titles above used by Hawk were meant to refer to Wapaw.

Indians are not naturally loquacious. No reply was made to Hawk's remark, except that one man with a blackened face, and a streak of red ochre down the bridge of his nose, said, "Ho!" and another with an equally black face, and three red streaks on each of his cheeks, said, "Hum!" as the war-party put on their snowshoes and prepared to start.

They had not gone far when Hawk came to a sudden pause, and stood transfixed and motionless like a dark statue. His comrades also stopped abruptly and crouched. No question was asked, but Hawk pointed to a spark of fire, which every Indian in the band had observed the instant their leader had paused. Silently they crept forward, with guns cocked and arrows fitted to the bowstrings, until they all stood round an encampment where the fire was still smouldering, and in the centre of which lay a little boy and girl, fast asleep and shuddering with cold.

Poor Roy and Nelly had told each other stories until their eyes would not remain open; then they fell asleep, despite their efforts to keep awake, and, as the fire sank low, they began to shiver with the cold. Lucky was it for them that the Indians discovered them, else they had certainly been frozen to death that night.

Hawk roused them with little ceremony. Roy, by an impulse which would appear to be natural to those who dwell in wild countries, whether young or old, seized his axe, which lay beside him, as he leaped up. Hawk grinned, and took the axe from him at once, and the poor boy, seeing that he was surrounded by dark warriors, offered no resistance, but sought to comfort Nelly, who was clinging to him and trembling with terror.

Immediately the savages sat down in the encampment, and began an earnest discussion, which the children watched with great eagerness. They evidently did not agree, for much gesticulation and great vehemence characterised their debate. Some pointed towards the Fort, and touched their tomahawks, while others pointed to the woods in the direction whence they had come, and shook their heads. Not a few drew their scalping knives partially from their sheaths, and, pointing to the children, showed clearly that they wished to cut their career short without delay, but several of the more sedate members of the party evidently objected to this. Finally, Hawk turned to Roy, and said something to him in the Indian tongue.

Roy did not understand, and attempted to say so as well as he could by signs, and the use of the few words of the Cree language which his father had taught him. In the course of his speech (if we may use that term), he chanced to mention Wapaw's name.

"Ho! ho! ho!" said one and another of the Indians, while Hawk grinned horribly.

A variety of questions were now put to poor Roy, who, not understanding, of course could not answer them. Hawk, however, repeated Wapaw's name, and pointed towards the Fort with a look of inquiry, to which Roy replied by nodding his head and repeating "Wapaw" once or twice, also pointing to the Fort; for he began to suspect these must be Wapaw's comrades, who had come to search for him. He therefore volunteered a little additional information by means of signs; rubbed his stomach, looked dreadfully rueful, rolled himself as if in agony on the ground, and then, getting up, pretended to eat and look happy! By all of which he meant to show how that Wapaw had been on the borders of starvation, but had been happily saved therefrom.

Indians in council might teach a useful lesson to our members of parliament, for they witnessed this rather laughable species of pantomime with profound gravity and silence. When Roy concluded, they nodded their heads, and said, "Ho! ho!" which, no doubt, was equivalent to "Hear hear!"

After a little more discussion they rose to depart, and made signs to the children to get up and follow. Roy then pointed out the broken state of his snow-shoe, but this difficulty was overcome by Hawk, who threw it away, and made him put on his sister's snow-shoes. A stout young warrior was ordered to take Nelly on his back, which he did without delay, and the whole party left the encampment, headed by their chief.

The children submitted cheerfully at first, under the impression that the Indians meant to convey them to the Fort. Great, however, was their horror when they were taken through the woods by a way which they knew to be quite in the opposite direction.

When Roy saw this he stopped and looked back, but an Indian behind him gave him a poke with the butt of his gun, which there was no resisting. For a moment the lad thought of trying to break away, run home, and tell his father of Nelly's fate; but a second thought convinced him that this course was utterly impracticable. As for Nelly, she was too far from her brother in the procession to hold converse with him; and, as she knew not what to do, say, think, she was reduced to the miserable consolation of bedewing with her tears the shoulders of the young warrior who carried her.

The storm which had commenced the day before still continued, so that, in the course of a few hours, traces of the track of the war-party were almost obliterated, and the chance of their being followed by Robin and his friends was rendered less and less likely as time ran on.

All that day they travelled without halt, and when they stopped at night to encamp, Roy was nearly dead from exhaustion. "My poor Nell," said he, drawing his sobbing sister close to him, as they sat near the camp fire, after having eaten the small quantity of dried venison that was thrown to them by their captors, "don't despair; father will be sure to hunt us down, if it's in the power of man to do it."

"I don't despair," sobbed Nelly; "but oh! what will darling mother do when she finds that we're lost, and I'm so afraid they'll kill us."

"No fear o' that, Nell; it's not worth their while. Remember, too, what mother often told us -- that -- that -- what is it she used to read so often out of the Bible? I forget."

"I think it was, 'Call upon Me in the time of trouble, and I will deliver thee.' I've been thinkin' of that, Roy, already."

"That's right, Nell; now, come, cheer up! Have you had enough to eat?"

"Yes," said Nelly, with a loud yawn, which she did not attempt to check.

Roy echoed it, as a matter of course, (who ever did see anyone yawn without following suit?) and then the two lay down together, spread over themselves an old blanket which one of the Indians had given them, and fell asleep at once.

Day succeeded day, night followed night, and weeks came and went, yet the Indians continued their journey through the snow-clad wilderness. Roy's snow-shoes had been picked up and repaired by one of the savages, and Nelly was made to walk a good deal on her own snowshoes; but it is justice to the Indians to say that they slackened their pace a little for the sake of the children, and when Nelly showed symptoms of being fatigued, the stout young warrior who originally carried her took her on his shoulders.

At length the encampment of the tribe was reached, and Nelly was handed over to Hawk's wife to be her slave. Soon after that, the tents were struck, and the whole tribe went deeper into the northern wilds. Several gales arose and passed away, completely covering their footprints, so that no tracks were left behind them.



Chapter Six.

The Camp, The Attack, And The Escape.

It were vain to attempt a description of the varied condition of mind into which the brother and sister fell when they found themselves actually reduced to a state of slavery in an Indian camp, and separated from their parents, as they firmly believed, for ever.

Nelly wept her eyes almost out of their sockets at first. Then she fell into a sort of apathetic state, in which, for several days, she went about her duties almost mechanically, feeling as if it were all a horrible dream, out of which she would soon awake, and find herself at home with her "darling mother" beside her. This passed, however, and she had another fit of heart-breaking sorrow, from which she found relief by recalling some of the passages in God's Word, which her mother had taught her to repeat by heart; especially that verse in which it is said, "that Jesus is a friend who sticketh closer than a brother." And this came to the poor child's mind with peculiar power, because her own brother Roy was so kind, and took such pains to comfort her, and to enter into all her girlish feelings and sympathies, that she could scarcely imagine it possible for anyone to stick closer to her in all her distress than he did.

As for Roy, he was not given to the melting mood. His nature was bold and manly. Whatever he felt, he kept it to himself, and he forgot more than half his own sorrow in his brotherly efforts to assuage that of Nelly.

Both of them were active and willing to oblige, so that they did not allow their grief to interfere with their work, a circumstance which induced their captors to treat them with forbearance, and even kindness. Nelly sobbed and worked; gradually, the sobbing decreased, and the work was carried on with vigour, so that she soon became quite expert at skinning rabbits, boiling meat, embroidering mocassins, smoking deerskins, chopping firewood into small pieces, and many other details of Indian household economy; while Roy went out with the hunters, and became a very Nimrod, insomuch that he soon excelled all the lads of his own age, and many of those who were older, in the use of the bow, the snow-shoes, the spear, the axe, and the gun. But all this, and what they did and said in the Indian camp during that winter, and what was said and done to them, we do not mean to write about, having matter of deeper interest to tell.

Winter passed away, and spring came. But little do those who dwell in England know of the enchantment of returning spring in the frozen wilderness of North America. The long, long winter, seems as though it would never pass away. The intense frost seals up all the sweet odours of the woods for so many months, that the nostrils become powerfully sensitive, and, as it were, yearn for something to smell. The skin gets so used to frost, that a balmy breeze is thought of as a thing of the past, or well-nigh forgotten.

Spring in those regions comes suddenly. It came on our wanderers with a gush. One night the temperature rose high above the freezing point; next day all the sights and sounds of Nature's great awakening were in full play. The air fanned their cheeks like a summer breeze; the strange unwonted sound of tinkling and dropping water was heard; scents, as of green things, were met and inhaled greedily. As the thirsty Bedouin drinks from the well in the oasis, so did Roy and Nelly drink in the delicious influences of melting nature. And they thought of those words which say, that the wilderness shall rejoice and blossom as the rose. The rejoicing had commenced, the blossoming would soon follow.

But warlike and wicked men were even then preparing to desecrate the beautiful land. A war-party of enemies had come down upon the tribe, with whom they dwelt. Scouts had brought in the news. All was commotion and excitement in the camp. Goods and chattels were being packed up. The women and children were to be sent off with these, under an escort, to a place of greater security, while the Braves armed for the fight.

In the middle of all the confusion, Roy took Nelly aside, and, with a look of mystery, said -- 

"Nell, dear, I'm goin' to run away. Stay, now, don't stare so like an owl, but hold your sweet tongue until I have explained what I mean to do. You and I have picked up a good deal of useful knowledge of one sort or another since we came here, and I'm inclined to think we are quite fit to take to the woods and work our way back to Fort Enterprise."

"But isn't it an awful long way?" said Nelly.

"It is, but we have an awful long time to travel; haven't we all our lives before us? If our lives are long, we'll manage it; if they are short, why, we won't want to manage it, so we need not bother our heads about that?"

"But the way home," suggested Nelly, "do you know it?"

"Of course I know it; that is to say, I know, from that ugly thief Hawk, that it lies somewhere or other to the south-west o' this place, some hundreds of miles off; how many hundreds does not much matter, for we have got the whole of the spring, summer, and fall before us."

"But what if we don't get home in the fall?"

"Then we shall spend the winter in the woods, that's all."

Nelly laughed, in spite of her anxieties, at the confident tone in which her brother spoke; and, being quite unable to argue the matter farther, she said that she was ready to do whatever Roy pleased, having perfect confidence in his wisdom.

"That's right, Nell; now, you get ready to start at a moment's notice. When the Injuns attack the camp, we'll give 'em the slip. Put all you want to take with you on a toboggan, and meet me at the crooked tree when the camp moves."

That night the camp was struck, and the women and children departed, under a strong escort. Almost at the same time the enemy came down on their prey, but they met men prepared for them. In the dark, Nelly crept to the crooked tree, dragging the toboggan after her. She was met by Roy, who took the sledge-line and her hand and led her into the dark forest, while the savages were fighting and yelling like fiends in the camp. There let us leave them to fight it out. Enough for us to know that their warfare prevented any pursuit of the young fugitives.

Weeks passed, and Roy and Nelly wandered on; all fear of pursuit soon left them. Ducks, geese, and other waterfowl, came in myriads with the spring. Roy had brought with him his gun (the one he was wont to use in hunting), and bow and quiver. They fed on the fat of the land. Summer advanced, and game became less plentiful; still, there was more than sufficient to supply them with abundance of food. Autumn approached; the wild fowl that had passed northward in spring, began to return southward, and again the wants of the young wanderers were superabundantly supplied.

The pole-star was Roy's guide. At night he laid his course by it; and by the sun during the day, making constant allowance, of course, for the sun's rate of travelling through the sky, and taking advantage of all prominent landmarks on the way.

Time sped on; many weary miles were travelled, but no sign of Fort Enterprise was to be seen. Day after day, week after week, month after month they wandered, and still found themselves in the heart of an unknown wilderness. Occasionally they observed signs of Indians, and carefully kept out of sight at such times, as you may easily believe.

At last there came a day when hard frost set in. It was the first touch of another winter. Roy and Nelly did not betray their feelings to each other, but their hearts sank as they thought of what lay before them. The frost was short-lived, however; towards noon the air became delightfully warm, and their spirits revived.

On reaching the summit of an eminence, up which they had toiled for several hours, they beheld a small lake, in which the silvery clouds were clearly reflected. The day was calm; the sun unusually brilliant; the autumnal foliage most gorgeous in colour. It was like a scene in fairy-land!

"Splendid!" exclaimed Roy, sitting down beside his sister on the trunk of a fallen tree.

"Oh! how beautiful," cried Nelly.

"It's so like silver," said Roy.

"Silver Lake," murmured Nelly.

Roy seemed to think the name appropriate, for he echoed the words, "Yes, Silver Lake." And there brother and sister sat, for a long time, on the fallen tree, in silent admiration of the scene.



Chapter Seven.

The Encampment On Silver Lake.

When Roy and Nelly sat down to gaze in admiration on Silver Lake, they little thought how long a period they should have to spend on its shores.

The lake was a small sheet of water not more than half a mile broad, embosomed among low hills, which, though not grand, were picturesque in outline, and wooded to their tops. It occupied the summit of an elevated region or height-of-land -- a water-shed, in fact -- and Roy afterwards discovered that water flowed from both the north-east and south-west sides of the table-land, in the midst of which it lay. These fountain-heads, separated by little more than half a mile from each other, were the sources of streams, which, flowing in opposite directions through hundreds of miles of wild, beautiful, and uncultivated wilderness, found their way, on the one hand, into Hudson's Bay, on the other hand, into the Atlantic through the great rivers and lakes of Canada.

The waters of the lake were strikingly clear and pellucid. When the young wanderer first came upon the scene, not a zephyr stirred the leaves of the forest; the blue sky was studded with towering masses of white clouds which glowed in sunshine, and these reflected in the glassy water -- as if far, far down in its unfathomable depths -- produced that silvery effect which prompted Nelly to utter the name which we have adopted.

Small though the Silver Lake was, it boasted two islets, which like twin babes lay side by side on their mother's fair breast, their reflected images stretching down into that breast as if striving to reach and grasp its heart!

"Couldn't we stay here a short time?" asked Nelly, breaking the silence in a tone that indicated anxiety, hope, and enthusiasm, "only for a very little time," she added, coaxingly.

Roy looked grave and sagacious. Boys, as well as men, like to be leant upon and trusted by the fair sex -- at least in things masculine -- and Nelly had such boundless faith in her brother's capacity to protect her and guide her through the forest, that she unwittingly inspired him with an exuberant amount of courage and self-reliance. The lad was bold and fearless enough by nature. His sister's confidence in him had the effect of inducing him to think himself fit for anything! He affected, therefore, at times, a look of grave sagacity, befitting, as he thought, so important and responsible a character.

"I've just been thinking," said he -- 

"Oh! don't think, but say yes!" interrupted Nelly.

"Well, I'm going to say yes, but I meant to give you my reasons for sayin' so. In the first place, my powder and shot is gettin' low. You see I did not bring away very much from the Injun camp, and we've been using it for so many months now that it won't last much longer, so I think it would not be a bad plan to stop here awhile and fish and shoot and feed up -- for you need rest, Nelly -- and then start fresh with a well-loaded sledge. I'll save some powder by using the bow we made the other day."

"But you forget it's broken."

"So it is -- never mind, we can make another -- there's a tree that will make a first-rater down in the hollow, d'ye see it, Nell?"

"Where -- oh yes -- just by the grassy place where the rock juts out into the water with the sun shining on it? what a nice place to build a hut!"

"Just so," said Roy, smiling at the girl's enthusiasm, "that's the spot, and that's the very thought that jumped bang into my brain as you spoke. By the way, does a thought jump into a man's brain or out of it, I wonder?"

"Out of it, of course," cried Nelly, with a laugh.

"I'm not so sure of that, Nell. I send it rather slowly out through my mouth, but I think it jumps into my brain. I wonder how it gets in; whether by the eyes, or ears, or mouth -- perhaps it goes up the nose."

"What stuff you do talk!" cried Nelly.

"D'ye think so," said Roy with a grin, "well, that bein' the case, let's go and fix our camp, for the sun is not given to sitting up all night in these parts, so we must work while it shines."

With hurried steps and eager looks, (for Roy, despite his affected coolness, was as enthusiastic about the new plan as his sister,) they descended to the margin of Silver Lake, and began to make their encampment on the sunny spot before referred to.

It turned out to be most suitable for their purpose, having a gentle slope towards the margin of the lake, which was fringed with a beach of pure white pebbles, and being well sheltered in the rear by umbrageous trees. The point of rocks close at hand formed a natural jetty, which, Roy observed, would be useful as a landing-place when he got his raft under way; the turf was soft, a matter of some importance, as it was to form their couch at night, and a small stream trickled down from one of the numerous springs which welled up at the foot of the nearest hill.

Solitary and remote from the usual haunts of men as this lake was, there was no feeling of solitude about it at the time we write of. The entire region was alive with wild fowl of many kinds. Wild geese trumpeted their advent as they came from the far north, en route for the far south, and settled on the bosom of Silver Lake to take a night's lodging there. Ducks, from the same region, and bound for the same goal -- though with less stately and regular flight -- flew hither and thither with whistling wings, ever and anon going swash into the water as a tempting patch of reeds invited them to feed, or a whim of fancy induced them to rest. Wild swans occasionally sailed in all their majesty on its waters, while plover of every length of limb and bill, and every species of plaintive cry, waded round its margin, or swept in clouds over the neighbouring swamps. Sometimes deer would trot out of the woods and slake their thirst on its shore, and the frequent rings that broke its smooth surface told of life in the watery depths below.

The whole air was filled with gushing sounds of wild melody, as though bird and beast were uniting in a hymn of praise to the beneficent Creator who had provided the means of, and given the capacity for, so much enjoyment.

Having decided on a suitable spot for their temporary resting-place, Roy's first care was to construct a hut. This was neither a work of time nor difficulty. In a couple of hours it was finished. He commenced the work by felling about a dozen young fir-trees not much thicker than a man's wrist, from which he chopped the branches, thus leaving them bare poles about nine feet long. While he was thus employed, his sister cleared the spot on which their dwelling was to stand, and, having an eye to the picturesque, so arranged that the opening of the hut should command an uninterrupted view of the lake. On going into the "bush" to the place where Roy was at work, she found him cutting down his sixth tree, and the ground was strewn with the flat branches of those already cut.

"Come along, Nelly -- how hot I am -- carry these branches into camp, lass, an' go ahead, for I've got supper to kill yet."

Nelly made no direct reply, but muttered to herself something that sounded very like, "Oh, what fun!" as she filled her tiny arms with pine branches, and, hugging them to her heaving breast, staggered to the camp. When she had carried all the branches, Roy had cut all the poles, so he proceeded to set them up. Tying three poles together at the top, and using the pliant roots of a tree for the purpose, he set them up in the form of a tripod. Against these three all the other poles were piled, crossing each other at the top, and spreading out at the base so as to enclose a circle of about six feet in diameter. Being numerous, the poles were pretty close together, thus affording good support to the branches which were afterwards piled on them. Pine branches are flat, spreading, and thick, so that when laid above each other to a depth of several inches they form a very good shelter from dew and light rain. The hut was entirely covered with such branches, which were kept in their places by other poles leaning upon and pressing them down. The floor of the hut was also covered with pine "brush."

"Now for supper, Nelly," said Roy, seizing his bow, when the hut was completed, and splicing its broken part with a strip of deerskin cut from the lines of the sledge.

"Get a goose, Roy, and pick out a nice fat one," cried Nelly, laughing, "I'll have the fire ready when you come back."

"I'll try," said Roy, and he did try, but tried in vain. Although a good shot, he was not sufficiently expert with the bow to shoot wild fowl on the wing, so he returned to the hut empty-handed.

"We must make a new bow, Nell," said he, sitting down by the fire, "I can do nothin' wi' this, and it won't do to use the gun for anythin' but deer. Meanwhile let's have the remains of our dinner for supper. Come, cheer up, old 'ooman; we shall feast on the fat of the land to-morrow!"

The stars were shining in the sky, and winking at their reflections down in the depths of Silver Lake, and the lake itself lay, as black as ink, under the shadow of the hills, when the brother and sister spread their blanket above them that night, and sank, almost immediately, into profound slumber.



Chapter Eight.

Hunting, And Other Matters, On Silver Lake.

Sunrise is a gladsome event almost at all times; we say "almost," because there are times when sunrise is not particularly gladsome. In the arctic regions of Norway, for instance, we have seen it rise only twenty minutes after it set, and the rising and setting were so much mingled, that no very strong feelings of any kind were awakened. Moreover, we were somewhat depressed at the time, in consequence of having failed to reach those latitudes where the sun does not set at all for several weeks in summer, but shines night and day. To the sick, sunrise brings little comfort; too often it is watched for with weariness, and beheld, at last, with a feeling of depression at the thought that another day of pain has begun. But to the healthy, and especially to the young, sunrise is undoubtedly, on most occasions, a gladsome event.

At least Nelly Gore thought so when she awoke and beheld, from the floor of the hut where she lay, a flood of yellow glory gushing through a valley, turning Silver Lake into gold, tipping the trees with fire, and blazing full in Roy's face, which was at that moment turned up to the sky with the mouth open, and the nose snoring.

"Oh, how beautiful!" screamed Nelly, in the exuberance of her delight.

"Hallo! murder! come on, ye black varmints," shouted Roy, as he sprang up and seized the axe which lay at his side. "Oh, it's only you, what a yell you do give, Nelly! why, one would think you were a born Injun; what is't all about, lass? Ye-a-ow! how sleepy I am -- too late to have another nap, I suppose, eh?"

"Oh yes, lazy thing! get up and come out quick!" cried the other, as she sprang up and ran out of the hut to enjoy the full blaze of the sunshine, and the fresh morning air.

That morning Nelly could do little but ramble about in a wild sort of fashion, trying to imagine that she was queen of the world around her! She sobered down, however, towards noon, and went diligently about the work which Roy had given her to do. She had the internal arrangements of the hut to complete and improve, some pairs of mocassins to mend, and several arrows to feather, besides other matters.

Meanwhile Roy went out to hunt.

Determined not to use his fast-diminishing ammunition, except on large game, and anxious to become more expert with the bow, he set to work the first thing that day, and made a new bow. Armed with this and a dozen arrows, he sallied forth.

Some of his arrows were pointed with ivory, some with iron, and some had no points at all, but blunt heavy heads instead. These latter were, and still are, used by Indians in shooting game that is tame and easily killed. Grouse of various kinds, for instance, if hit with full force from a short range by a blunt-headed arrow, will be effectually stunned, especially if hit on the head.

At first Roy walked along the shores of the lake, but was not very successful, because the ducks and geese were hid among reeds, and rose suddenly with a distracting whirr, usually flying off over the water. To have let fly at these would have cost him an arrow every shot, so, after losing one, he wisely restrained himself.

After a time, he turned into the woods, resolving to try his fortune where his arrows were not so likely to be lost. He had not gone far, when a tree-grouse sprang into the air and settled on a neighbouring pine.

Roy became excited, for he was anxious not to return to the hut empty-handed a second time. He fitted a sharp-headed arrow to the string, and advanced towards the bird cautiously. His anxiety to make little noise was so great, that he tripped over a root and fell with a hideous crash into the middle of a dead bush, the branches of which snapped like a discharge of little crackers. Poor Roy got up disgusted, but on looking up found that the grouse was still sitting there, filled apparently with more curiosity than alarm. Seeing this he advanced to within a few yards of the bird, and, substituting a blunt arrow for the sharp one, discharged it with vigour. It hit the grouse on the left eye, and brought it to the ground like a stone.

"Good, that's 'number one,'" muttered the lad as he fastened the bird to his belt; "hope 'number two' is not far off."

"Number two" was nearer than he imagined, for four other birds of the same kind rose a few yards ahead of him, with all the noise and flurry that is characteristic of the species.

They settled on a tree not far off, and looked about them.

"Sit there, my fine fellows, till I come up," muttered Roy. (The lad had a habit of speaking to himself while out hunting.)

They obeyed the order, and sat until he was close to them. Again was the blunt arrow fitted to the string; once more it sped true to its mark, and "number two" fell fluttering to the ground.

Now, the grouse of North America is sometimes a very stupid creature. It literally sits still to be shot, if the hunter is only careful to fire first at the lowest bird of the group. If he were to fire at the topmost one, its fluttering down amongst the others would start them off.

Roy was aware of this fact, and had aimed at the bird that sat lowest on the tree. Another arrow was discharged, and "number three" lay sprawling on the ground. The blunt arrows being exhausted, he now tried a sharp one, but missed. The birds stretched their necks, turned their heads on one side, and looked at the lad, as though to say, "It won't do, -- try again!"

Another shaft was more successful. It pierced the heart of "number four," and brought it down like a lump of lead. "Number five" seemed a little perplexed by this time, and made a motion as though it were about to fly off, but an arrow caught it in the throat, and cut short its intentions and its career. Thus did Roy bag, or rather belt, five birds consecutively.

Our hero was not one of those civilised sportsmen who slaughter as much game as they can. He merely wanted to provide food for a day or two. He therefore turned his steps homeward -- if we may be allowed the expression -- being anxious to assist his sister in making the hut comfortable.

As he walked along, his active mind ran riot in many eccentric channels. Those who take any interest in the study of mind, know that it is not only the mind of a romantic boy that does this, but that the mind of man generally is, when left to itself, the veriest acrobat, the most unaccountable harlequin, that ever leaped across the stage of fancy.

Roy's mind was now in the clouds, now on the earth. Anon it was away in the far-off wilderness, or scampering through the settlements, and presently it was deep down in Silver Lake playing with the fish. Roy himself muttered a word or so, now and then, as he walked along, which gave indication of the whereabouts of his mind at the time.

"Capital fun," said he, "only it won't do to stay too long. Poor mother, how she'll be wearin' for us! Hallo! ducks, you're noisy coons, wonder why you get up with such a bang. Bang! that reminds me of the gun. No more banging of you, old chap, if my hand keeps in so well with the bow. Eh! duck, what's wrong?"

This latter question was addressed to a small duck which seemed in an anxious state of mind, to judge from its motions. Presently a head, as if of a fish, broke the surface of the lake, and the duck disappeared!

"Oh the villain," exclaimed Roy, "a fish has bolted him!"

After this the lad walked on in silence, looking at the ground, and evidently pondering deeply.

"Nelly," said he, entering the hut and throwing the grouse at her feet, "here is dinner, supper, and breakfast for you, and please get the first ready as fast as you can, for I'm famishing."

"Oh, how nice! how did you get them?"

"I'll tell you presently, but my head's full of a notion about catching ducks just now."

"Catching ducks, Roy, what is the notion?"

"Never mind, Nelly, I han't scratched it out o' my brain yet, but I'll tell 'ee after dinner, and we'll try the plan to-morrow mornin'."



Chapter Nine.

Fishing Extraordinary.

Early on the following morning, Roy and Nelly rose to try the new style of duck-hunting which the former had devised.

"I wonder if it will do," said the little girl, as she tripped along by her brother's side in the direction of a marshy bay, which had been selected as the scene of their experiments. "How clever of you to invent such a funny plan!"

"Well, I didn't exactly invent it, lass. The fact is, that I remembered father havin' told me he had read it in a book before he left the settlements. I wish we had some books. Pity that we've got no books."

"So it is," assented Nell, with a touch of sadness in her tone.

Both Roy and his sister were good readers, having been taught by their mother out of the Bible -- the only book that Robin Gore had brought with him from the settlements. Robin could read, but he did not care much for reading -- neither did Walter nor Larry O'Dowd. Indeed the latter could not read at all. Mrs Gore had wanted to take a few books with her into the wilderness, but her husband said he thought the Bible was enough for her; so the library at Fort Enterprise was select and small! One good resulted from this -- the Bible was read, by all who could read, a great deal more than would have been the case had there been other books at hand. But the young people longed earnestly for books containing fairy tales, such as was told to them by their mother; and wild adventures, such as Walter could relate or invent by the hour.

It might have been observed that Roy carried on his shoulder a remarkable object -- something like a clumsy basket made of reeds, and about twice the size of a man's head. This had been made by Nelly the night before. The use to which it was to be put was soon shown by Roy. Having reached the spot where the experiment was to be tried, and having observed that there were many ducks, large and small, floating about among the reeds, he got Nelly to hold the basket, if we may so call it, as high as she could raise it. There was a hole in the bottom of it. Through this Roy thrust his head, so that the machine rested on his shoulders, his head being inside and completely concealed.

"Now, Nelly, what think you of my helmet?"

"Oh! it is splendid!" cried the girl, laughing in a subdued voice. "It's so awfully absurd looking, but can you see? for I don't see a bit of your face."

"See? ay, as well as need be. There's lots of small holes which I can peep through in all directions. But come, I'll try it. Keep close, Nell, and don't laugh too loud, for ducks ain't used to laughing, d'ye see, and may be frightened by it."

So saying Roy crept on his hands and knees to the edge of the lake, being concealed by bushes, until he got into the water. Here a few steps took him into the reeds which clustered so thickly at that spot, and grew so tall that he was soon hidden from sight altogether.

He had not taken off much of his dress, which, we may remark in passing, was of the simplest at all times -- consisting of a pair of trousers, a striped cotton shirt, and a grey cloth capote with a hood to it. His capote and cap were left in charge of his sister. As for the shirt and trousers, they could be easily dried again.

Nelly watched the place where her brother had disappeared with breathless interest. As he did not reappear as quickly as she had expected, she became greatly alarmed. In a few minutes more she would certainly have rushed into the lake to the rescue, regardless of consequences and of ducks, had not Roy's strange head-dress come suddenly into view at the outward verge of the reeds. The lad had waded in up to his neck, and was now slowly -- almost imperceptibly -- approaching a group of ducks that were disporting themselves gaily in the water.

"They'll never let him near them," thought Nelly.

She was wrong, for at that moment an extremely fat and pert young duck observed the bundle of reeds, and swam straight up to it, animated, no doubt, by that reckless curiosity which is peculiar to young creatures. Had its mother known what was inside of the bundle, she would no doubt have remonstrated with her head-strong child, but, old and sagacious though that mother was, she was completely deceived. She was not even astonished when her duckling suddenly disappeared beneath the water, thinking, no doubt, that it had dived. Soon the bundle of reeds drew near to the mother, and she, too, disappeared suddenly below the water. Whatever her astonishment was at feeling her legs seized from below, she had not time to express it before her voice was choked. Nelly observed these disappearances with intense amazement, and delight stamped every lineament of her little visage.

When the bundle moved towards the father of the duck-family, that gentleman became agitated and suspicious. Probably males are less trusting than females, in all conditions of animal life. At all events he sheered off. The bundle waxed impatient and made a rush at him. The drake, missing his wife and child, quacked the alarm. The bundle made another rush, and suddenly disappeared with a tremendous splash, in the midst of which a leg and an arm appeared! Away went the whole brood of ducks with immense splutter, and Nelly gave a wild scream of terror, supposing -- and she was right -- that her brother had fallen into a hole, and that he would be drowned. In the latter supposition, however, she was mistaken, for Roy swam ashore in a few moments with a duck in each hand!

"O Roy! ain't you cold?" inquired Nelly, as she helped him to squeeze the water out of his garments.

"Y-y-ye-es," said Roy, trembling in every limb, while his teeth rattled like small castanets, "I'm very c-c-c-cold, but I'm in luck, for I've g-g-g-got to-night's s-s-s-supper, anyhow."

This was true, but as he could not hope to procure many more suppers in the same fashion at that season of the year, he and his sister went off without delay to try the fishing.

They had brought a fishing-line and a few hooks, among other small things, from the Indian camp. This line was now got out, overhauled, and baited with a bit of the young duck's breast. From the end of the point of rocks, which had been named the Wharf, the line was cast, for there the lake was deep.

"Take the end of the line, Nell; I want you to catch the first fish."

"How d'ye know we shall catch -- oh! oh -- ooh!" The fish in Silver Lake had never seen a bait or felt a hook in their lives before that day. They actually fought for the prize. A big bully -- as is usually the case in other spheres of life -- gained it, and found he had "caught a Tartar." He nearly pulled Nelly into the lake, but Roy sprang to the rescue, and before the child's shout of surprise had ceased to echo among the cliffs, a beautiful silvery fish, about a foot and a half long, lay tumbling on the strand.

"Hurray!" cried Roy. "Try again."

They did try again, and again, and over again, until they had caught two dozen and a half of those peculiar "white-fish" which swarm in most of the lakes of North America. Then they stopped, being somewhat exhausted, and having more than enough for present use.

Before sitting down to supper that night, they preserved their fish in the simple but effective manner which is practised among the fur-traders in cold weather, and which they had learned while with the Indians. Each fish was split open and cleaned out, and then hung up by the tail to dry.

"What a jolly time we shall have of it!" said Roy, with his mouth full, as he sat beside Nelly and toasted his toes that night at supper.

"Yes," said Nelly -- "if -- if we were only a little nearer home."

This reply made them both silent and sad for a time.

"Never mind," resumed Roy, cheerily, as he began another white-fish --  having already finished one fish and the duckling -- "cheer up, Nell, we'll stay here long enough to get up a stock o' dried meat, and then set off again. I only wish it would come frost, to make our fish keep."

Roy's wish was gratified sooner than he expected, and much more fully than he desired.



Chapter Ten.

Changes, Sliding, Fishing, Etcetera.

That night King Frost spread his wings over the land with unwonted suddenness and rigour, insomuch that a sheet of ice, full an inch thick, sealed up the waters of Silver Lake.

Roy and Nelly had feasted heartily, and had piled wood on the fire so high that the hut was comparatively warm, and they slept soundly till morning: but, about sunrise, the fire having died out, they both awoke shivering with cold. Being very sleepy, they tried for some time to drop off again in spite of the cold. Failing in this, Roy at last jumped up with vigour and said he would light the fire, but he had scarcely issued from the hut, when a shout brought Nelly in alarm and haste to his side.

If Silver Lake was worthy of its name before, it was infinitely more worthy of it now. The sun had just over-topped the opposite ridge, and was streaming over a very world of silver. The frozen lake was like a sheet of the purest glass, which reflected the silvery clouds and white rolling mists of morning as perfectly in their form as the realities that floated in the blue sky. Every tree, every twig, seemed made of silver, being encased in hoar-frost, and as these moved very gently in the calm air -- for there was no breeze -- millions of crystalline points caught the sun's rays and scattered them around with dazzling lustre. Nature seemed robed in cloth of diamonds; but the comparison is feeble, for what diamonds, cut by man, can equal those countless crystal gems that are fashioned by the hand of God to decorate, for an hour or two, the spotless robe of a winter morning?

Had Roy been a man and Nelly a woman, the two would probably have cast around a lingering glance of admiration, and then gone quietly about their avocations; but, being children, they made up their minds, on the spot, to enjoy the state of things to the utmost. They ran down to the lake and tried the ice. Finding that it was strong enough to bear them, they advanced cautiously out upon its glassy surface; then they tried to slide, but did not succeed well, owing to their soft mocassins being ill adapted for sliding. Then they picked up stones, and tried how far they could make them skim out on the lake.

"How I wish we could slide!" exclaimed Nelly, pausing in the midst of her amusement.

Roy also paused, and appeared to meditate for a minute.

"So you shall," said he quickly. "Come and let us breakfast, and I'll make you a pair of sliders."

"Sliders! what are they?"

"You shall see; get breakfast ready, a man's fit for nothing without grub."

While breakfast was preparing, Roy began to fashion wooden soles for his sister's feet and his own. These he fixed on by means of strips of deerskin, which were sunk into grooves in the under part of the soles to prevent them from chafing. Rough and ready they were, nevertheless they fitted well and tightly to their feet; but it was found that the want of a joint at the instep rendered it difficult to walk with these soles on, and impossible to run. Roy's ingenuity, however, soon overcame this difficulty. He cut the soles through just under the instep, and then, boring two holes in each part, lashed them firmly together with deerskin, thus producing a joint or hinge. Eager to try this new invention, he fastened on his own "sliders" first, and, running down to the lake, made a rush at the ice and sent himself off with all his force. Never was boy more taken by surprise; he went skimming over the surface like a stone from a sling. The other side of the lake seemed to be the only termination of his journey. "What if it should not be bearing in the middle!" His delight was evinced by a cheer. It was echoed, with the addition of a laugh by Nell, who stood in rapt admiration on the shore. Roy began well, with his legs far apart and his arms in the air; then he turned round and advanced the wrong way, then he staggered -- tried to recover himself; failed, shouted, cheered again, and fell flat on his back, and performed the remainder of the journey in that position!

It was a magnificent slide, and was repeated and continued, with every possible and conceivable modification, for full two hours, at the end of which time Nelly said she couldn't take another slide to save her life, and Roy felt as if every bone in his body were going out of joint.

"This is all very well," said Roy, as they went up to the hut together, "but it won't do much in the way of getting us a supply of meat or fish."

"That's true," assented Nelly.

"Well, then," continued Roy, "we'll rest a bit, and then set to work. It's quite plain that we can have no more wading after ducks, but the fish won't object to feed in cold weather, so we'll try them again after having had a bit to eat."

In pursuance of this plan the two went to the wharf, after having refreshed themselves, and set to work with the fishing-line. Nelly baited the hook, and Roy cut a hole in the ice with his axe. Having put in the hook, and let it down to the bottom, they stood at the edge of the hole -- expectant!

"Frost seems to spoil their appetite," said Roy, in a tone of disappointment, after about five minutes had elapsed.

A fish seemed to have been listening, for before Nelly could reply, there came a violent tug at the line. Roy returned a still more violent tug, and, instead of hauling it up hand over hand, ran swiftly along the ice, drawing the line after him, until the fish came out of the hole with a flop and a severe splutter. It was above four pounds weight, and they afterwards found that the deeper the water into which the line was cast the larger were the fish procured. White-fish were the kind they caught most of, but there were a species of trout, much resembling a salmon in colour and flavour, of which they caught a good many above ten and even fifteen pounds weight. All these fish, except those reserved for immediate use, they cleaned and hung up in the manner already described.

Thus they occupied themselves for several days, and as the work was hard, they did not wander much from their hut, but ate their meals with appetite, and slept at nights soundly.

One night, just as they were about to lay down to rest, Roy went out to fetch an armful of firewood. He returned with a look of satisfaction on his face.

"Look here, Nell, what call ye that?" pointing to a few specks of white on his breast and arms.

"Snow!" exclaimed Nelly.

"Ay -- snow! it's come at last, and I am glad of it, for we have far more than enough o' grub now, and it's time we were off from this. You see, lass, we can't expect to find much game on a journey in winter, so we must carry all we can with us. Our backs won't take so much as the sled, but the sled can't go loaded till there's snow on the ground, so the moment there is enough of it we'll set off. Before starting, hows'ever, I must go off and try for a deer, for men can't walk well on fish alone; and when I'm away you can be getting the snow-shoes repaired, and the sled-lashings overhauled. We will set about all that to-morrow."

"But isn't to-morrow Sabbath?" said Nelly.

"So 'tis! I forgot; well, we can put it off till Monday."

It may be well here to remark that Mrs Gore, being a sincere Christian, had a great reverence for the Sabbath-day, and had imbued her children with some of her own spirit in regard to it.

During the troubles and anxieties of the period when the children were lost in the snow and captured by the Indians, they had lost count of the days of the week. Roy was not much troubled about this, but his sister's tender conscience caused her much uneasiness; and when they afterwards ran away from the Indians, and could do as they pleased, they agreed together to fix a Sabbath-day for themselves, beginning with the particular day on which it first occurred to them that they had not kept a Sabbath "for a long, long time."

"We can't find out the right day now, you know," observed Nelly, in an apologetic tone.

"Of course not," said Roy; "besides, it don't matter, because you remember how it is in the Ten Commandments: 'Six days shalt thou labour and do all thy work, but the seventh day is the Sabbath.' We will keep to-day, then; work six days, and then keep the seventh day."

We have elsewhere observed that Roy was a bit of a philosopher. Having reasoned the matter out thus philosophically, the children held to their resolve; they travelled six days, and observed every seventh day as the Sabbath.

The particular Sabbath-day about which we are writing turned out to be a memorable one, as we shall see.

Roy and Nelly lay down that night, side by side, as was their wont, with their separate blankets wrapped around them, and their feet pointing towards the fire. Of course they never undressed at night on this journey, but washed their underclothing as they found time and opportunity.

Soon they were sound asleep, and their gentle breathing was the only sound that broke the stillness of the night. But snow was falling silently in thick heavy flakes, and it soon lay deep on the bosom of Silver Lake. Towards morning the wind arose, and snow-drift began to whirl round the hut, and block up its low doorway.

Still the brother and sister slumbered peacefully, undisturbed by the gathering storm.



Chapter Eleven.

A Change In The Weather -- Rabbits And Bears Appear.

"Hi! Hallo! I say, Nelly, what's all this?" There was good cause for the tone of surprise in which Roy uttered these words when he awoke, for the fireplace and the lower half of his own, as well as his sister's, blanket were covered with at least half a foot of snow. It had found its way in at the hole in the roof of the hut, and the wind had blown a great deal through the crevices of the doorway, so that a snow-wreath more than a foot high lay close to Nelly's elbow.

This was bad enough, but what made it worse was that a perfect hurricane was blowing outside. Fortunately the hut was sheltered by the woods, and by a high cliff on the windward side; but this cliff, although it broke the force of the gale, occasioned an eddy which sent fearful gusts and thick clouds of snow ever and anon full against the doorway.

"O Roy! what shall we do?" said Nelly, in an anxious tone.

"Don't know," said Roy, jumping up and tightening his belt; "you never can know what's got to be done till you've took an observation o' what's goin' on, as daddy used to say. Hallo! hold on. I say, if it goes on like this it'll blow the hut down. Come, Nelly, don't whimper; it's only a puff, after all, an' if it did capsize us, it wouldn't be the first time we had a tumble in the snow. Seems to me that we're goin' to have a stormy Sabbath, though. Rouse up, lass, and while you're clearin' off the snow, I'll go get a bundle o' sticks, and light the fire."

Roy stooped to pass under the low doorway, or, rather, hole of the hut, and bending his head to the blast passed out; while Nelly, whose heart was cheered by her brother's confident tone more than by his words, set about shovelling away the snow-drift with great activity.

Presently Roy returned, staggering under a heavy load of firewood.

"Ho! Nell," he cried, flinging down the wood with a clatter, "just you come an' see Silver Lake. Such a sight it is you never saw; but come slick off -- never mind your belt; just roll your blanket round you, over head and ears -- there," said he, assisting to fasten the rough garment, and seizing his sister's hand, "hold on tight by me."

"Oh, what a storm!" gasped the little girl, as she staggered out and came within the full force of the gale.

It was indeed a storm, such as would have appalled the hearts of youngsters less accustomed to the woods than were our hero and heroine. But Roy and Nelly had been born and bred in the midst of stormy backwoods' elements, and were not easily alarmed, chiefly because they had become accustomed to estimate correctly the extent of most of the dangers that menaced them from time to time. A gale of the fiercest kind was blowing. In its passage it bent the trees until they groaned and creaked again; it tore off the smaller twigs and whisked them up into the air; it lifted the snow in masses out of the open spots in the woods, and hurled them in cloud-like volumes everywhere; and it roared and shrieked through the valleys and round the mountain tops as if a thousand evil spirits were let loose upon the scene.

Silver Lake was still silvery in its aspect, for the white drift was flying across it like the waves of a raging sea; but here, being exposed, the turmoil was so tremendous that there was no distinguishing between earth, lake, and sky. "Confusion, worse confounded" reigned every where, or rather, appeared to reign; for, in point of fact, there is no confusion whatever in the works and ways of God. Common sense, if unfallen, would tell us that. The Word reveals it, and science of late years has added its testimony thereto.

Roy and Nelly very naturally came to the conclusion that things were in a very disordered state indeed on that Sabbath morning, so they returned to their hut, to spend the day as best they might.

Their first care was to kindle the fire and prepare breakfast. While Nelly was engaged in this, Roy went out and cut several small trees, with which he propped the hut all round to prevent it from being blown down. But it was discovered, first, that the fire would hardly kindle, and, second, that when it was kindled it filled the whole place with smoke. By dint of perseverance, however, breakfast was cooked and devoured, after which the fire was allowed to go out, as the smoke had almost blinded them.

"Never mind, Nell, cheer up," said Roy, on concluding breakfast; "we'll rig up a tent to keep the snow off us."

The snow, be it understood, had been falling into the fire, and, more or less, upon themselves, through the hole in the roof; so they made a tent inside the hut, by erecting two posts with a ridge-pole at a height of three feet from the ground, over which they spread one of their blankets. Under this tent they reclined with the other blankets spread over them, and chatted comfortably during the greater part of that day.

Of course their talk was chiefly of home, and of the mother who had been the sun and the joy of their existence up to that sad day when they were lost in the snow, and naturally they conversed of the Bible, and the hymns which their mother had made the chief objects of their contemplation on the Sabbaths they had spent at Fort Enterprise.

Monday was as bad as Sunday in regard to weather, but Tuesday dawned bright and calm, so that our wanderers were enabled to resume their avocations. The snow-shoes were put in order, the sled was overhauled and mended, and more fish were caught and hung up to dry. In the evening Roy loaded his gun with ball, put on his snow-shoes, and sallied forth alone to search for deer. He carried with him several small pieces of line wherewith to make rabbit snares; for, the moment the snow fell, innumerable tracks revealed the fact that there were thousands of rabbits in that region. Nelly, meanwhile, busied herself in putting the hut in order, and in repairing the mocassins which would be required for the journey home.

Lest any reader should wonder where our heroine found materials for all the mending and repairing referred to, we may remark that the Indians in the wilderness were, and still are, supplied with needles, beads, cloth, powder and shot, guns, axes, etcetera, etcetera, by the adventurous fur-traders, who penetrate deep and far into the wilderness of North America; and when Nelly and Roy ran away from their captors they took care to carry with them an ample supply of such things as they might require in their flight.

About half a mile from the hut Roy set several snares. He had often helped his father in such work, and knew exactly how to do it. Selecting a rabbit-track at a spot where it passed between two bushes, he set his snare so that it presented a loop in the centre of the path. This loop was fastened to the bough of a tree bent downwards, and so arranged that it held fast to a root in the ground; when a rabbit should endeavour to leap or force through it, he would necessarily pull away the fastening that held it down, and the bough would spring up and lift the hapless creature by the neck off the ground.

Having set half-a-dozen such snares, Roy continued his march in search of deer-tracks. He was unsuccessful, but to his surprise he came suddenly on the huge track of a bear! Being early in the season this particular bruin had not yet settled himself into his winter quarters, so Roy determined to make a trap for him. He had not much hope of catching him, but resolved to try, and not to tell Nelly of his discovery until he should see the result.

Against the face of a cliff he raised several huge stones so as to form a sort of box, or cave, or hole, the front of which was open, the sides being the stones referred to, and the back the cliff. Then he felled a tree as thick as his waist, which stood close by, and so managed that it fell near to his trap. By great exertions, and with the aid of a wooden lever prepared on the spot, he rolled this tree -- when denuded of its branches -- close to the mouth of the trap. Next he cut three small pieces of stick in such a form that they made a trigger -- something like the figure 4 -- on which the tree might rest. On the top of this trigger he raised the tree-stem, and on the end of the trigger, which projected into the trap, he stuck a piece of dried fish, so that when the bear should creep under the stem and touch the bait, it would disarrange the trigger, set it off, and the heavy stem would fall on bruin's back. As he knew, however, that bears were very strong, he cut several other thick stems, and piled them on the first to give it additional weight.

All being ready, and the evening far advanced, he returned to the hut to supper.



Chapter Twelve.

Roy's Dream.

"Nelly, ye-a-a-ow!" exclaimed Roy, yawning as he awoke on the following morning from a dream, in which bears figured largely; "what a night I've had of it, to be sure -- fightin' like a mad buffalo with -- " Here Roy paused abruptly.

"Well, what were you fighting with?" asked Nell, with a smile that ended in a yawn.

"I won't tell you just now, lass, as it might spoil your appetite for breakfast. Set about getting that ready as fast as you can, for I want to be off as soon as possible to visit my snares."

"I guess we shall have rabbits for dinner to-day."

"What are you going to do with the sled?" inquired Nelly, observing that her brother was overhauling the lashings and drag-rope.

"Well, I set a lot o' snares, an' there's no sayin' how many rabbits may have got into 'em. Besides, if the rabbits in them parts are tender-hearted, a lot o' their relations may have died o' grief, so I shall take the sled to fetch 'em all home!"

After breakfast Roy loaded his gun with ball, and putting on his snow-shoes, sallied forth with an admonition to his sister to "have a roarin' fire ready to cook a rare feast!"

Nelly laughingly replied, that she would, and so they parted.

The first part of Roy's journey that day led him through a thickly-wooded part of the country. He went along with the quick, yet cautious and noiseless, step of a hunter accustomed to the woods from infancy. His thoughts were busy within him, and far away from the scene in which he moved; yet, such is the force of habit, he never for a moment ceased to cast quick, inquiring glances on each side as he went along. Nothing escaped his observation.

"Oh, if I could only get a deer this day," thought he, "how scrumptious it would be!"

What he meant by "scrumptious" is best known to himself, but at that moment a large deer suddenly -- perhaps scrumptiously! -- appeared on the brow of a ridge not fifty yards in advance of him. They had been both walking towards each other all that forenoon. Roy, having no powers of scent beyond human powers, did not know the fact, and as the wind was blowing from the deer to the hunter, the former -- gifted though he was with scenting powers -- was also ignorant of the approaching meeting.

One instant the startled deer stood in bewildered surprise. One instant Roy paused in mute amazement. The next instant the deer wheeled round, while Roy's gun leaped to his shoulder. There was a loud report, followed by reverberating echoes among the hills, and the deer lay dead on the snow.

The young hunter could not repress a shout of joy, for he not only had secured a noble stag, but he had now a sufficiency of food to enable him to resume his homeward journey.

His first impulse was to run back to the hut with the deer's tongue and a few choice bits, to tell Nelly of his good fortune; but, on second thoughts, he resolved to complete the business on which he had started. Leaving the deer where it fell he went on, and found that the snares had been very successful. Some, indeed, had been broken by the strength of the boughs to which they had been fastened, and others remained as he had set them; but above two-thirds of them had each a rabbit hung up by the neck, so that the sled was pretty well loaded when all the snares had been visited.

He had by this time approached the spot where the bear-trap was set, and naturally began to grow a little anxious, for, although his chance of success was very slight, his good fortune that morning had made him more sanguine than usual.

There is a proverb which asserts that "it never rains but it pours." It would seem to be a common experience of mankind that pieces of good fortune, as well as misfortunes, come not singly. Whether the proverb be true or no, this experience was realised by Roy on that day, for he actually did find a bear in his trap! Moreover it was alive, and, apparently, had only just been caught, for it struggled to free itself with a degree of ferocity that was terrible to witness.

It was an ordinary black bear of considerable size and immense strength. Heavy and thick though the trees were that lay on its back and crushed it to the earth, it caused them to shake, leap, and quiver as though they had been endowed with life. Roy was greatly alarmed, for he perceived that at each successive struggle the brute was ridding itself of the superincumbent load, while fierce growls and short gasps indicated at once the wrath and the agony by which it was convulsed.

Roy had neglected to reload his piece after shooting the deer -- a most un-hunter-like error, which was the result of excitement. Thinking that he had not time to load, he acted now on the first suggestion of his bold spirit. Resting his gun against a tree, he drew the small axe that hung at his belt and attacked the bear.

The first blow was well delivered, and sank deep into bruin's skull; but that skull was thick, and the brain was not reached. A roar and a furious struggle caused Roy to deliver his second blow with less effect, but this partial failure caused his pugnacity to rise, and he immediately rained down blows on the head and neck of the bear so fast and furious that the snow was speedily covered with blood. In proportion as Roy strove to end the conflict by vigorous and quick blows, the bear tried to get free by furious efforts. He shook the tree-stem that held him down so violently that one of the other trees that rested on it fell off, and thus the load was lightened. Roy observed this, and made a desperate effort to split the bear's skull. In his haste he misdirected the blow, which fell not on the head but on the neck, in which the iron head of the axe was instantly buried -- a main artery was severed, and a fountain of blood sprang forth. This was fortunate, for the bear's strength was quickly exhausted, and, in less than two minutes after, it sank dead upon the snow.

Roy sat down to rest and wipe the blood from his hands and garments, and then, cutting off the claws of the animal as a trophy, he left it there for a time. Having now far more than it was possible for him to drag to the hut, he resolved to proceed thither with the rabbits, and bring Nelly back to help him to drag home the deer.

"Well done, Roy," cried Nelly, clapping her hands, when her brother approached with the sled-load of rabbits, "but you are covered with blood. Have you cut yourself?"

She became nervously anxious, for she well knew that a bad cut on a journey costs many a man his life, as it not only disables from continuing the journey but from hunting for provisions.

"All right, Nell, but I've killed a deer -- and -- and -- something else! Come, lass, get on your snow-shoes and follow me. We'll drag home the deer, and then see what is to be done with the -- "

"Oh, what is it? do tell!" cried Nell, eagerly.

"Well, then, it's a bear!"

"Nonsense! -- tell me true, now."

"That's the truth, Nell, as you shall see, and here are the claws. Look sharp, now, and let's off."

Away went these two through the snow, until they came to where the deer had been left. It was hard work to get it lashed on the sled, and much harder work to drag it over the snow, but by dint of perseverance and resolution they got it home. They were so fatigued, however, that it was impossible to think of doing the same with the bear. This was a perplexing state of things, for Roy had observed a wolf-track when out, and feared that nothing but the bones would be left in the morning.

"What is to be done?" said Nelly, with that pretty air of utter helplessness which she was wont to assume when she felt that her brother was the proper person to decide.

Roy pondered a few moments, and then said abruptly, "Camp-out, Nelly."

"Camp-out?"

"Ay, beside the bear -- keep it company all night with a big fire to scare away the wolves. We'll put everything into the hut, block up the door, and kindle a huge fire outside that will burn nearly all night. So now, let's go about it at once."

Although Nelly did not much relish the idea of leaving their comfortable hut, and going out to encamp in the snow beside the carcase of a dead bear, she was so accustomed to regard her brother's plans as perfect, and to obey him promptly, that she at once began to assist in the necessary preparations. Having secured everything safely in the hut, and kindled a fire near it, which was large enough to have roasted an ox, they set off for the bear-trap, and reached it in time to scare away a large wolf which was just going to begin his supper on bruin.

An encampment was then made in the usual way, close to the bear-trap, a fire as large as could be conveniently made was kindled, and the brother and sister wrapped themselves in their blankets and lay comfortably down beside it to spend the night there.



Chapter Thirteen.

"Shooskin'."

Next day Roy and Nelly rose with the sun, and spent the forenoon in skinning and cutting up the bear, for they intended to dry part of the meat, and use it on their journey. The afternoon was spent in dragging the various parts to the hut. In the evening Roy proposed that they should go and have a shoosk. Nelly agreed, so they sallied forth to a neighbouring slope with their sledge.

Shoosking, good reader, is a game which is played not only by children but by men and women; it is also played in various parts of the world, such as Canada and Russia, and goes by various names; but we shall adopt the name used by our hero and heroine, namely "shoosking." It is very simple, but uncommonly violent, and consists in hauling a sledge to the top of a snow-hill or slope, getting upon it, and sliding down to the bottom. Of course, the extent of violence depends on the steepness of the slope, the interruptions that occur in it, and the nature of the ground at the bottom. We once shoosked with an Indian down a wood-cutter's track, on the side of a steep hill, which had a sharp turn in it, with a pile of firewood at the turn, and a hole in the snow at the bottom, in which were a number of old empty casks. Our great difficulties in this place were to take the turn without grazing the firewood, and to stop our sledges before reaching the hole. We each had separate sledges. For some time we got on famously, but at last we ran into the pile of firewood, and tore all the buttons off our coat, and the Indian went down into the hole with a hideous crash among the empty casks; yet, strange to say, neither of us came by any serious damage!

"There's a splendid slope," said Roy, as they walked briskly along the shores of Silver Lake, dragging the sledge after them, "just beyond the big cliff, but I'm afraid it's too much for you."

"Oh, I can go if you can," said Nell, promptly.

"You've a good opinion of yourself. I guess I could make you sing small if I were to try."

"Then don't try," said Nelly, with a laugh.

"See," continued Roy, "there's the slope; you see it is very steep; we'd go down it like a streak of greased lightnin'; but I don't like to try it."

"Why not? It seems easy enough to me. I'm sure we have gone down as steep places before at home."

"Ay, lass, but not with a round-backed drift like that at the bottom. It has got such a curve that I think it would make us fly right up into the air."

Nelly admitted that it looked dangerous, but suggested that they might make a trial.

"Well, so we will, but I'll go down by myself first," said Roy, arranging the sledge at the summit of a slope, which was full fifty feet high.

"Now, then, pick up the bits tenderly, Nell, if I'm knocked to pieces; here goes, hurrah!"

Roy had seated himself on the sledge, with his feet resting on the head of it, and holding on to the side-lines with both hands firmly. He pushed off as he cheered, and the next moment was flying down the hill at railway speed, with a cloud of snow-drift rolling like steam behind him. He reached the foot, and the impetus sent him up and over the snow-drift or wave, and far out upon the surface of the lake. It is true he made one or two violent swerves in this wild descent, owing to inequalities in the hill, but by a touch of his hands in the snow on either side, he guided the sledge, as with a rudder, and reached the foot in safety.

"May I venture, Roy?" inquired Nell, eagerly, as the lad came panting up the hill.

"Venture! Of course. I rose off the top o' the drift only a little bit, hardly felt the crack at all; come, get you on in front, and I'll sit at yer back an' steer."

Nelly needed no second bidding. She sat down and seized the side-lines of the sledge, with a look of what we may call wild expectation; Roy sat down behind her.

"Now, lass, steady, and away we go!"

At the last word they shot from the hill-top like an arrow from a bow. The cloud of snow behind them rolled thicker, for the sledge was more heavily laden than before. Owing to the same cause it plunged into the hollow at the foot of the hill with greater violence, and shot up the slope of the snow-drift and over its crest with such force that it sprung horizontally forward for a few feet in the air, and came to the ground with a crash that extracted a loud gasp from Roy, and a sharp squeak from Nelly. It was found to be so delightful, however, that they tried it again and again, each time becoming more expert, and therefore more confident.

Excessive confidence, however, frequently engenders carelessness. Roy soon became reckless; Nelly waxed fearless. The result was that the former steered somewhat wildly, and finally upset.

Their last "shoosk" that evening was undertaken just as the sun's latest rays were shooting between the hills on the opposite side of Silver Lake, and casting a crimson glow on the hut and the surrounding scenery. Roy had fixed a snow-shoe on the outer ridge of the snow-drift, to mark the distance of their last leap from its crest, and had given the sledge an extra push on the way down to increase its impetus. This extra push disconcerted him in steering; he reached the hollow in a side-long fashion, shot up the slope of the drift waveringly, and left its crest with a swing that not only turned the sledge right round, but also upside down. Of course they were both thrown off, and all three fell into the snow in a condition of dire confusion. Fortunately, no damage was done beyond the shock and the fright, but this accident was sufficient to calm their spirits, and incline them to go home to supper.

"Well, it's great fun, no doubt, but we must turn our minds to more earnest work, for our journey lies before us," said Roy, with the gravity of an Iroquois warrior, as he sat beside the fire that night discussing a bear-steak with his sister. "We have more than enough of fish and meat, you see; a day or two will do to turn our deer and bear into dried meat; the snow-shoes are mended, the sledge is in good order, as to-night's work has proved, and all that we've got to do is to start fresh with true bearin's and -- hey! for home!"

"I wish I was there," said Nelly, laying down a marrow-bone with a sigh.

"Wishin' ain't enough, Nell."

"I know that, an' I'm ready to work," said Nelly, resuming the bone with a resolute air. "When shall we set out?"

"When we are ready, lass. We shall begin to dry the meat to-morrow, an' as soon as it's fixed -- off we'll start. I only hope the cold weather will last, for if it came warm it would go hard with your little feet, Nell. But let's turn in now. Hard work requires a good sleep, an' it may be that we've harder work than we think before us."



Chapter Fourteen.

The Journey Home Resumed And Interrupted.

Three days more and our young friends bade farewell to Silver Lake.

Short though their stay had been, it had proved very pleasant, for it was full of energetic labour and active preparation, besides a great deal of amusement, so that quite a home feeling had been aroused in their minds, and their regret at leaving was considerable.

But after the first few miles of their journey had been accomplished, the feeling of sadness with which they set out wore away, and hopeful anticipations of being home again in a few weeks rendered them cheerful, and enabled them to proceed with vigour. The weather at starting was fine, too, so that the night encampments in the snow were comparatively agreeable, and the progress made during the first few days was satisfactory.

After this, however, the good fortune of our adventurers seemed to desert them. First of all one of Nelly's snow-shoes broke down. This necessitated a halt of half a day, in order to have it repaired. Then one of Roy's snow-shoes gave way, which caused another halt. After this a heavy snow-storm set in, rendering the walking very difficult, as they sank, snow-shoes and all, nearly to the knees at each step. A storm of wind which arose about the same time, effectually stopped their farther advance, and obliged them to take to the shelter of a dense part of the woods and encamp.

During three days and three nights the hurricane raged, and the snow was blown up in the air and whirled about like the foam of the roaring sea; but our wanderers did not feel its effects much, for they had chosen a very sheltered spot at the foot of a large pine, which grew in a hollow, where a cliff on one side and a bluff of wood on the other rendered the blast powerless. Its fierce howling could be heard, however, if not felt; and as the brother and sister lay at the bottom of their hole in the snow, with their toes to the comfortable fire, they chatted much more cheerily than might have been expected in the midst of such a scene, and gazed upward from time to time with comparative indifference at the dark clouds and snow-drifts that were rushing madly overhead.

On the fourth day the gale subsided almost as quickly as it had arisen, and Roy announced that it was his intention to start. In a few minutes everything was packed up and ready.

"I say, Nell," said Roy, just as they were about to leave the camp, "don't the sled look smaller than it used to?"

"So it does, Roy; but I suppose it's because we have eaten so much during the last three days."

Roy shook his head, and looked carefully round the hole they were about to quit.

"Don't know, lass; it seems to me as if somethin' was a-wantin'. Did ye pack your own bundle very tight?"

"Yes; I think I did it tighter than usual, but I'm not very sure."

"Hum -- that's it, no doubt -- we've packed the sled tighter, and eaten it down. Well, let's off now."

So saying, Roy threw the lines of the sledge over his shoulder and led the way, followed by his sister, whose only burden was a light blanket, fastened as a bundle to her shoulders, and a small tin can, which hung at her belt.

The country through which they passed that day was almost destitute of wood, being a series of undulating plains, with clumps of willows and stunted trees scattered over it like islets in the sea. The land lay in a succession of ridges, or steppes, which descended from the elevated region they were leaving, and many parts of these ridges terminated abruptly in sheer precipices from forty to sixty feet high.

The sun shone with dazzling brilliancy, insomuch that the travellers' eyes became slightly affected by snow-blindness. This temporary blindness is very common in these regions, and ranges from the point of slight dazzlement to that of total blindness; fortunately it is curable by the removal of the cause -- the bright light of the sun on pure snow. Esquimaux use "goggles" or spectacles made of wood, with a narrow slit in them as a preventive of snow-blindness.

At first neither Roy nor Nelly felt much inconvenience, but towards evening they could not see as distinctly as usual. One consequence of this was, that they approached a precipice without seeing it. The snow on its crest was so like to the plain of snow extending far below, that it might have deceived one whose eyesight was not in any degree impaired.

The first intimation they had of their danger was the giving way of the snow that projected over the edge of the precipice. Roy fell over headlong, dragging the sledge with him. Nelly, who was a few feet behind him, stood on the extreme edge of the precipice, with the points of her snow-shoes projecting over it. Roy uttered a cry as he fell, and his sister stopped short. A shock of terror blanched her cheek and caused her heart to stand still. She could not move or cry for a few seconds, then she uttered a loud shriek and shrank backwards.

There chanced to be a stout bush or tree growing on the face of the cliff, not ten feet below the spot where the snow-wreath had broken off. Roy caught at this convulsively, and held on. Fortunately the line on his shoulder broke, and the sledge fell into the abyss below. Had this not happened, it is probable that he would have been dragged from his hold of the bush. As it was, he maintained his hold, and hung for a few seconds suspended in the air. Nelly's shriek revived him from the gush of deadly terror that seized him when he fell. He grasped the boughs above him, and was quickly in a position of comparative security among the branches of the bush.

"All right, Nell," he gasped, on hearing her repeat her cry of despair. "I'm holdin' on quite safe. Keep back from the edge, lass -- there's no fear o' me."

"Are you sure, Roy?" cried Nelly, trembling very much, as she stretched forward to try to catch sight of her brother.

"Ay, quite sure; but I can't get up, for there's six feet o' smooth rock above me, an' nothin' to climb up by."

"Oh! what shall I do!" cried Nelly.

"Don't get flurried -- that's the main thing, lass. Let me think -- ay, that's it -- you've got your belt?"

"Yes."

"Well, take it off and drop the end over to me; but lie down on your breast, and be careful."

Nelly obeyed, and in a few seconds the end of the worsted belt that usually encircled her waist was dangling almost within reach of her brother. This belt was above five feet long. Roy wore one of similar material and length. He untied it, and then sought to lay hold of the other. With some difficulty, and much risk of falling, he succeeded, and fastened his own belt to it firmly.

"Now, Nell, haul up a little bit -- hold! enough."

"What am I to do now?" asked Nell, piteously; "I cannot pull you up, you know."

"Of course not; but take your snow-shoe and dig down to the rocks --  you'll find somethin', I dare say, to tie the belts to. Cheer up, lass, and go at it."

Thus encouraged, the active little girl soon cleared away the snow until she reached the ground, where she found several roots of shrubs that seemed quite strong enough for her purpose. To one of these she tied the end of her belt, and Roy, being an athletic lad, hauled himself up, hand over hand, until he gained a place of safety.

"But the sledge is gone," cried Nelly, pausing suddenly in the midst of her congratulations.

"Ay, and the grub," said Roy, with a blank look.

This was indeed too true, and on examination it was found that things were even worse than had been anticipated, for the sledge had fallen on a ledge, half way down the precipice, that was absolutely inaccessible either from above or below. An hour was spent in ascertaining this, beyond all doubt, and then Roy determined to return at once to their last encampment to gather the scraps they had thrown away or left behind as useless.

That night they went supperless to rest. Next morning, they set out with heavy hearts for the encampment of the previous day. On reaching it, and searching carefully, they found that one of the bundles of dry meat had been forgotten. This accounted for the lightness of the sledge, and, at the same time, revived their drooping spirits.

"What is to be done now?" inquired Nelly.

"Return to Silver Lake," said Roy, promptly. "We must go back, fish and hunt again until we have another supply o' grub, and then begin our journey once more."

Sadly and slowly they retraced their steps. Do what he would Roy could not cheer up his sister's spirits. She felt that her back was turned towards her father's house -- her mother's home -- and every step took her farther from it.

It was a lovely evening, about sunset, when they reached Silver Lake, and found the hut as they had left it, and enough of old scraps of provisions to afford a sufficient meal.

That night they ate their supper in a more cheerful frame of mind. Next day they breakfasted almost with a feeling of heartiness, and when they went out to resume their fishing, and to set snares and make traps, the old feeling of hopefulness returned. Ere long, hope became again so strong in their ardent young hearts, that they laughed and talked and sported as they had done during the period of their first residence there.

At first they were so anxious to make up the lost quantity of food that they did little else but fish, hunt, and dry their provisions when obtained; but after a few days they had procured such an ample supply that they took to shoosking again -- having succeeded in making a new sledge. But a thaw came suddenly and spoiled all their fish. A wolf carried off the greater part of their dried meat one day while they were absent from the hut. After this the frost set in with extreme violence, game became more scarce, and fish did not take the bait so readily, so that, although they procured more than enough for present consumption, they were slow in accumulating a travelling store; and thus it came to pass that November found Roy and Nelly still toiling wearily, yet hopefully, on the shores of Silver Lake.



Chapter Fifteen.

The Massacre.

We must return now to Robin Gore and his wife, who, on the morning on which we re-introduce them to the reader, were standing in the trading store of Fort Enterprise, conversing earnestly with Black, the Indian, who has been already mentioned at the beginning of our tale. The wife of the latter -- the White Swan -- was busily engaged in counting over the pack of furs that lay open on the counter, absorbed, apparently, in an abstruse calculation as to how many yards of cloth and strings of beads they would purchase.

"Well, I'm glad that's fixed, anyhow," said Robin to his wife, as he turned to the Indian with a satisfied air, and addressed him in his native tongue, "it's a bargain, then, that you an' Slugs go with me on this expedition, is't so?"

"The Black Swan is ready," replied the Indian, quietly, "and he thinks that Slugs will go too -- but the white hunter is self-willed; he has a mouth -- ask himself."

"Ay, ye don't like to answer for him," said Robin, with a smile; "assuredly Slugs has his own notions, and holds to 'em; but I'll ask him. He is to be here this night, with a deer, I hope, for there are many mouths to fill."

Black Swan, who was a tall, taciturn, and powerful Indian, here glanced at his wife, who was, like most Indian women, a humble-looking and not very pretty or clean creature. Turning again to Robin, he said, in a low, soft voice -- 

"The White Swan is not strong, and she is not used to be alone."

"I understand you," said Robin; "she shall come to the Fort, and be looked after. You won't object to take her in, Molly, when we're away?"

"Object, Robin," said Molly, with a smile, which was accompanied by a sigh, "I'll only be too glad to have her company."

"Well, then, that's settled; and now, Black Swan, I may as well tell you what coorse I mean to follow out in this sarch for my child'n. You know already that four white men -- strangers -- have come to the Fort, an' are now smokin' their pipes in the hall, but you don't know that one on 'em is my own brother Jefferson; Jeff, I've bin used to call him. Jeff's bin a harem-scarem feller all his life -- active and able enough, an' good natur'd too, but he never could stick to nothin', an' so he's bin wanderin' about the world till grey hairs have begun to show on him, without gettin' a home or a wife. The last thing he tried was stokin' a steamboat on the Mississippi; but the boat blew up, pitched a lot o' the passengers into the water, an' the rest o' them into the next world. Jeff was always in luck with his life; he's lost everythin' over an' over again but that. He was one o' the lot as was blowed into the water, so, when he come up he swamed ashore, an' come straight away here to visit me, bringin' three o' the blowed-up passengers with him. The three are somethin' like himself; good for nothin'; an' I'd rather have their room than their company at most times. Hows'ever, just at this time I'm very glad they've come, for I'll leave them in charge o' the Fort, and set off to look for the child'n in two days from this. I'll take Walter and Larry wi' me, for brother Jeff is able enough to manage the trade if redskins come; he can fight too, if need be. The Gore family could always do that, so ye needn't be afraid, Molly."

"I'll not be afraid, Robin, but I'll be anxious about ye."

"That's nat'ral, lass, but it can't be helped. Well, then," continued Robin, "the five of us will start for the Black Hills. I've bin told by a redskin who comed here last week that he an' his tribe had had a scrimmage with Hawk an' the reptiles that follow him. He says that there was a white boy an' a white girl with Hawk's party, an' from his account of 'em I'm sartin sure it's my Roy and Nelly. God help 'em! 'but,' says he, 'they made their escape durin' the attack, an' we followed our enemies so far that we didn't think it worth while to return to look for 'em, so I'm convinced they made for the Black Hills, nigh which Hawk was attacked, an' if we follow 'em up there we may find 'em alive yet, mayhap.'"

Poor Robin's voice became deeper and less animated as he spoke, and the last word was uttered with hesitation and in a whisper.

"O Robin, Robin!" exclaimed Mrs Gore, throwing her arms suddenly round her husband's neck, and hiding her sobbing face in his breast, "d'ye think they can still be alive?"

"Come, Molly," said Robin, commanding his feelings with a great effort, "han't ye often read to me that wi' God all things is possible?"

The poor woman thanked God in her heart, for up to that day Robin had never once quoted Scripture in his efforts to comfort her.

"Was Wapaw with Hawk when they were attacked?" inquired the Black Swan.

"Wapaw is dead," said a deep voice, as the huge form of a western hunter darkened the little doorway, and the next moment Slugs strode into the store, and quietly seated himself on the counter.

"Dead!" exclaimed Robin, as he shook the hunter's proffered hand.

"Ay, dead! Have ye no word of welcome for a chum after a month's absence?" said Slugs, holding out his horny hand to the Black Swan, who gravely grasped and shook it.

"You redskins are a queer lot," said Slugs, with a grin, "yer as stiff as a rifle ramrod to look at, but there's warm and good stuff in 'ee for all that."

"But what about Wapaw?" inquired Mrs Gore, anxiously; "surely he's not dead."

"If he's not dead he's not livin', for I saw Hawk himself, not four weeks ago, shoot him and follow him up with his tomahawk, and then heard their shout as they killed him. Where did he say he was goin' when he left you?"

"He said he would go down to the settlements to see the missionaries, an' that he thought o' lookin' in on the fur-traders that set up a fort last year, fifty miles to the south'ard o' this."

"Ay, just so," said Slugs; "I was puzzled to know what he was doin' thereaway, and that explains it. He's dead now, an' so are the fur-traders he went to see. I'll tell ye all about it if you'll give me baccy enough to fill my pipe. I ran out o't three days agone, an' ha' bin smokin' tea-leaves an' bark, an' all sorts o' trash. Thank 'ee; that's a scent more sweet nor roses."

As he said this the stout hunter cut up the piece of tobacco which Robin at once handed to him, and rolled it with great zest between his palms. When the pipe was filled and properly lighted, he leaned his back against an unopened bale of goods that lay on the counter, and drawing several whiffs, began his narrative.

"You must know that I made tracks for the noo fur-tradin' post when I left you, Black Swan, about a month ago. I hadn't much of a object; it was mainly cooriosity as took me there. I got there all right, an' was sittin' in the hall chattin' wi' the head man -- Macdonell they called him -- about the trade and the Injuns. Macdonell's two little child'n was playin' about, a boy an' a girl, as lively as kittens, an' his wife -- a good-lookin' young 'ooman -- was lookin' arter 'em, when the door opens, and in stalks a long-legged Injun. It was Wapaw. Down he sat in front o' the fireplace, an' after some palaver an' a pipe -- for your Injuns'll never tell all they've got to say at once -- he tells Macdonell that there was a dark plot hatchin' agin' him -- that Hawk, a big rascal of his own tribe, had worked upon a lot o' reptiles like hisself, an' they had made up their minds to come an' massacre everybody at the Fort, and carry off the goods.

"At first Macdonell didn't seem to believe the Injun, but when I told him I knowed him, an' that he was a trustworthy man, he was much troubled, an' in doubt what to do. Now, it's quite clear to me that Hawk must have somehow found out or suspected that Wapaw was goin' to 'peach on him, an' that he had followed his trail close up; for in less than an hour arter Wapaw arrived, an' while we was yet sittin' smokin' by the fire, there was a most tremendous yell outside. I know'd it for the war-whoop o' the redskins, so I jumped up an' cocked my rifle. The others jumped up too, like lightnin'; an' Mrs Macdonell she got hold o' her girlie in her arms an' was runnin' across the hall to her own room, when the door was knocked off its hinges, and fell flat on the floor. Before it had well-nigh fallen I got sight o' somethin', an' let drive. The yell that follered told me I had spoilt somebody's aim. A volley was poured on us next moment, an' a redskin jumped in, but Wapaw's tomahawk sent him out again with a split skull. Before they could reload -- for the stupid fools had all fired together -- I had the door up, and a heavy table shoved agin it. Then I turned round, to load agin; while I was doin' this, I observed poor Macdonell on his knees beside his wife, so I went to them an' found that the wife an' girl were stone dead -- both shot through the heart with the same ball.

"As soon as Macdonell saw this he rose up quietly, but with a look on his face sich as I never see in a man 'xcept when he means to stick at nothin'. He got hold of his double-barrelled gun, an' stuck a scalpin' knife an' an axe in his belt.

"'Git on my back, Tommy,' says he to his little boy, who was cryin' in a corner.

"Tommy got up at once, an' jumped on his dad's back. All this time the redskins were yellin' round the house like fiends, an' batterin' the door, so that it was clear it couldn't stand long.

"'Friends,' said he turnin' to me an' Wapaw, an' a poor terrified chap that was the only one o' his men as chanced to be in the house at the time, 'friends, it's every man for himself now; I'll cut my way though them, or -- '. He stopped short, an' took hold o' his axe in one hand, an' his gun in the other. 'Are ye ready?' says he. We threw forward our rifles an' cocked 'em; Macdonell -- he was a big, strong man -- suddenly upset the table; the savages dashed in the door with sich force that three or four o' 'em fell sprawlin' on the floor. We jumped over these before they could rise, and fired a volley, which sent three or four o' the reptiles behind on their backs. We got into the bush without a scratch, an' used our legs well, I can tell 'ee. They fired a volley after us, which missed us all except poor Tommy. A bullet entered his brain, an' killed him dead. For some time his father would not drop him, though I told him he was quite dead; but his weight kept him from runnin' fast, an' we heard the redskins gainin' on us, so at last Macdonell put the boy down tenderly under a bush. Me and Wapaw stopped to fire an' keep the reptiles back, but they fired on us, and Wapaw fell. I tried to lift him, but he struggled out o' my arms. Poor fellow! he was a brave man; and I've no doubt did it a-purpose, knowin' that I couldn't run fast enough with him. Just then I saw Hawk come jumpin' and yellin' at us, followed by two or three dozen redskins, all flourishin' their tomahawks. Macdonell and me turned to die fightin' alongside o' our red comrade, but Wapaw suddenly sprang up, uttered a shout of defiance, an' dashed into the bush. The Injuns were after him in a moment, and before we could get near them a yell of triumph told us that it was too late, so we turned and bolted in different directions.

"I soon left them behind me, but I hung about the place for a day or two to see if Macdonell should turn up, or any of his men. I even went back to the Fort after the reptiles had left it. They had burned it down, an' I saw parts o' the limbs o' the poor wife and child lyin' among the half-burned goods that they weren't able to carry away with them."



Chapter Sixteen.

Vengeance.

The terrible tale which was related by Slugs had the effect of changing Robin Gore's plans. He resolved to pursue the murderers, and inflict summary punishment on them before setting off on the contemplated search for his lost children, and he was all the more induced to do this that there was some hope he might be able to obtain a clue to their whereabouts from some of the prisoners whom he hoped to seize.

It might be thought by some a rash step for him to take -- the pursuit of a band of about fifty savages with a party of six men. But backwood hunters were bold fellows in those days, and Indians were by no means noted for reckless courage. Six stout, resolute, and well-armed men were, in Robin's opinion, quite a match for fifty redskins!

He could not muster more than six, because it was absolutely necessary to leave at least three men to guard Fort Enterprise. Robin therefore resolved to leave his brother Jeff to look after it, with two of the strangers; and Jeff accepted the charge with pleasure, saying he "would defend the place agin a hundred red reptiles." The third stranger -- a man named Stiff -- he resolved to take with him.

The war-party, when mustered, consisted of Robin Gore, his nephew Walter, Larry O'Dowd, the Black Swan, Slugs the hunter, and Stiff the stranger. Armed to the teeth, these six put on their snow-shoes the following morning, and set forth on their journey in silence.

Now this change of plans was -- all unknown to Robin -- the means of leading him towards, instead of away from, his lost little ones. For Roy and Nelly had travelled so far during their long wanderings from the Black Hills -- the place where they escaped from the Indians -- that they were at that time many long miles away from them in another direction. In fact, if Robin had carried out his original plan of search, he would have been increasing the distance between himself and his children every step he took!

Not knowing this, however, and being under the impression that each day's march lessened his chance of ultimately finding his lost ones, he walked along, mile after mile, and day after day, in stern silence.

On the third day out, towards evening, the party descried a thin line of blue smoke rising above the tree-tops. They had reached an elevated and somewhat hilly region, so that the ground favoured their approach by stealth, nevertheless, fearing to lose their prey, they resolved to wait till dark, and take their enemies, if such they should turn out to be, by surprise.

Soon after sunset Robin gave the word to advance. Each man of the party laid aside his blanket, and left his provisions, etcetera, in the encampment, taking with him his arms only.

"I need not say that there must be no speaking, and that we must tread lightly. You're up to redskin ways as well as me, except mayhap our friend Stiff here."

Stiff who was a tall Yankee, protested that he could "chaw up his tongue, and go as slick as a feline mouser."

On nearing the fire, they made a detour to examine the tracks that led to it, and found from their number and other signs that it was indeed Hawk's party.

Robin advanced alone to reconnoitre. On returning, he said -- 

"It's just the reptiles; there's forty of 'em if there's one, an' they've got a white man bound with 'em; no doubt from what you said of him, Slugs, it's Macdonell; but I don't see Wapaw. I fear me that his days are over. Now, then, lads, here's our plan: we'll attack them from six different points at once. We'll all give the war-whoop at the same moment, takin' the word from Walter there, who's got a loud pipe of his own, then when the varmints start to their feet -- for I don't like the notion o' firin' at men off their guard -- Walter, Larry, an' Stiff will fire. Black Swan, Slugs, an' I will reserve our fire while you reload; the reptiles will scatter, of course, an' we'll give 'em a volley an' a united yell as they cut stick, that'll keep 'em from waitin' for more."

The plan thus hastily sketched was at once carried out. Advancing stealthily to their several stations, the six men, as it were, surrounded the savages, who, not dreaming of pursuit, had neglected to place sentinels round the camp. When Walter's loud "halloo!" rang in their ears, the whole band sprang to their feet, and seized their arms, but three shots laid three of them dead on the ground. As they fled right and left the reserve fired, and shot three others, among whom was Hawk himself. Black Swan had picked him out, and shot him through the head. Before they were quite out of shot, the three who had first fired had reloaded and fired again with some effect, for blood was afterwards observed on the snow.

Slugs now made a rush into the camp to unbind Macdonell, but to his horror he discovered that a knife was plunged up to the handle in his breast, and that he was almost dead. Hawk had evidently committed this cowardly deed on the first alarm, for the knife was known to be his. Macdonell tried hard to speak, but all that he was able to say was, "Wapaw, wounded, escaped -- follow." Then his head fell back, and he died. From the few words thus uttered, however, the pursuers concluded that Wapaw was not dead, but wounded, and that he had escaped.

"If that be so," said Walter, "then they must have been on Wapaw's tracks, an' if we search we shall find 'em, an' may follow 'em up."

"True," said Slugs, "and the sooner we're away from this the better, for the reptiles may return, and find us not so strong a band as they think."

Acting on this advice, the whole party set off at once. Wapaw's track was soon discovered, being, of course, a solitary one, and in advance of his enemies, who were in pursuit. Following the track with untiring vigour, the party found that it led them out of the lower country into a region high up amongst the hills.



Chapter Seventeen.

The Pursuit.

"Wapaw must have worked hard, for we should have overhauled him by this time," said Walter to his uncle on the evening of the next day, as they plodded steadily along through the snow.

"I would give up the pursuit," said Robin, somewhat gloomily, "for it's losin' time that might be better spent on another search; but it won't do to leave the crittur, for if he's badly wounded he may die for want o' help."

"Guess he can't be very bad, else he'd niver travel so fast," observed Stiff, who, now that the chief murderer was punished, did not care much to go in search of the wounded Indian.

"When a man thinks a band o' yellin' redskins are follerin' up his trail," said Slugs, "he's pretty sure to travel fast, wounded or not wounded -- leastways if he's able. But I don't think we'll have to go much farther now, for I've noticed that his stride ain't so long as it was, and that's a sartin sure sign that he's failin'; I only hope he won't go under before we find him."

"Niver a fear o' that," said Larry O'Dowd, with a grin. "I've seed him as far gone as any one iver I comed across, wi' starvation; but the way that fellow walked into the grub when he got the chance was wonderful to behold! I thought he'd ait me out o' the house entirely; and he put so much flesh on his bones in a week or two that he was able to go about his business, though he warn't no fatter when he began to ait than a consumptive darnin' needle. True for ye -- it's naither walkin', starvin', nor cowld, as'll kill Wapaw."

"What does the Black Swan think?" inquired Robin.

"We shall see Wapaw when the sun is low to-morrow," replied the Indian.

"Mayhap we shall," quoth Robin, "but it behooves us to get the steam up for to-morrow: so, comrades, as there's a good clump o' timber here away, we'll camp."

Robin threw down his bundle as he spoke, and his example was at once followed by the others, each of whom set to work vigorously to assist in preparing the encampment.

They had all the requisite implements for this purpose, having returned, after the attack on the Indians, for the things they had left behind them.

"It's a pity that we shall have to keep watch to-night," said Walter; "one of us will have to do it, I fancy; for though I don't believe these murderin' redskins have pluck to attack us, it would not do to trust to that."

Slugs, to whom this remark was addressed, lowered the axe with which he was about to fell a neighbouring tree for firewood.

"That's true," said he, looking round him in all directions; "hold on, comrades, yonder's a mound with a bare top, we'd better camp there. Makin' a big blaze on sitch a place'll show the red reptiles we don't care a gun-flint for them, and they'll not dare to come near, so we won't have to watch."

"Arrah! an' a purty spot it'll be for the blackyirds to shoot us all aisy as we're sottin' at supper," exclaimed Larry O'Dowd.

"Doubtless there's a hollow on it," rejoined Slugs, "for the top is flat."

"Humph! maybe," growled Larry, who still seemed to object; but, as the rest of the party were willing to adopt the suggestion, he said no more, and they all went to the top of the little mound, which commanded a clear view of the surrounding country.

As Slugs had surmised, there was a slight hollow on the summit of the mound, which effectually screened the party from any one who might wish to fire at them from below; and as there was no other mound in the immediate neighbourhood, they felt quite secure. Huge logs were cut and carried to the top of the mound, the snow was cleared out of the hole, pine branches were spread over it, the fire was kindled, the kettle put on and filled with snow, and soon Larry O'Dowd was involved in the heat, steam, smoke, and activities of preparing supper, while his comrades spread out their blankets and lay down to smoke with their arms ready beside them.

The fire roared up into the wintry sky, causing the mound to resemble the cone or crater of a volcano, which could be seen for miles round. Ever and anon, while supper was being eaten, the Black Swan or Slugs would rise, and going stealthily to the edge of the mound would peep cautiously over, to make sure that none of their enemies were approaching.

Immediately after supper, they all lay down to sleep, but, for a time, each motionless form that lay rolled tightly in its blanket like an Egyptian mummy, sent a series of little puffs from its head. At last the stars came out, and the pipes dropped from each sleeper's lips. Then the moon rose -- a circumstance which rendered their position still more secure -- and the fire sank low. But Slugs was too cautious a hunter to trust entirely to the alleged cowardice of the savages. He knew well that many, indeed most of the redskins, bad as well as good, had quite enough of mere brute courage to make them dare and risk a good deal for the sake of scalping a white hunter, so he rose once or twice during the night to replenish the fire and take a look round; and as often as he rose for these purposes, so often did he observe the glittering eye of the Black Swan glaring round the encampment, although its owner never once moved from his recumbent posture.

Thus the night was spent. The first glimmer of daylight found the whole party up and equipped for the journey.

They did not breakfast before setting out, as they preferred to take their morning meal later in the day. Few words were spoken. At that early hour, and in the sleepy condition which usually results from a very early start, men are seldom inclined to talk. Only one or two monosyllables were uttered as each man rolled up his blanket with his share of the provisions in it, and fastened on his snow-shoes. A few minutes later Robin led the way down the slope, and the whole party marched off in single file, and re-entered the woods.



Chapter Eighteen.

Interesting Though Puzzling Discoveries.

About eight o'clock they halted for breakfast, which Larry O'Dowd prepared with his accustomed celerity, and assisted to consume with his wonted voracity.

"There's nothin' like aitin' when yer hungry," observed Larry, with his mouth full.

"'Xcept drinking when you're dry," said Stiff, ironically.

"Now I don't agree with ye," retorted Larry; "I used to think so wance, before I left the owld country -- my blissin' rest on it. I used to think there was nothin' like drink, an' sure I was right, for there niver was anythin' like it for turnin' a poor man into a baste; but when I comed into the woods here I couldn't get drink for love or money, an' sure I found, after a while, I didn't need it, and got on better widout it, an' enjoyed me life more for want of it. Musha! it's little I care for drink now; but, och! I've a mortal love for aitin'!"

It needed not Larry's assurance to convince his hearers of the fact, for he consumed nearly twice as much dried meat as any of his comrades.

"Well, if ye don't drink gin-sling or cocktail," said Stiff, "you're mighty hard on the tea."

"True for ye, Stiff, it was the fav'rite tipple o' me owld mother, an' I'm fond of it on that score, not to mention other raisins of a private natur'."

"Couldn't ye make these reasons public?" said Walter.

"Unpossible!" said Larry, with much gravity, as he helped himself to another can of tea.

"Come, time's up," said Robin abruptly, as he rose to put on his snow-shoes.

Larry swallowed the tea at a draught, the others rose promptly, and in a few minutes more they were again on the march.

Towards noon they issued out of the woods upon a wide undulating country, which extended, as far as the eye could see, to faint blue mountains in the distance. This region was varied in character and extremely beautiful. The undulations of the land resembled in some places the waves of the sea. In other places there were clumps of trees like islets. Elsewhere there were hollows in which lakelets and ponds evidently existed, but the deep snow covered all these with a uniform carpet. In some parts the ground was irregular and broken by miniature hills, where there were numerous abrupt and high precipices.

The party were approaching one of the latter in the afternoon, when Robin suddenly paused and pointed to a projecting ledge on the face of one of the cliffs.

"What would ye say yonder objic' was?" he inquired of Slugs.

The hunter shaded his eyes with his hand, and remained silent for a few seconds.

"It looks like a sled," said he, dropping his hand, "but how it got thar' would puzzle even a redskin to tell, for there's no track up to that ledge."

"It is a sled," said Black Swan, curtly.

"An' how came it there?" asked Robin.

"It fell from the top," replied the Indian.

"Right, lad, yer right!" said Slugs, who had taken another long look at the object in question; "I see somethin' like a broken tree near the top o' the precipice. I hope Wapaw hain't gone an' tumbled over that cliff."

This supposition was received in silence and with grave looks, for all felt that the thing was not impossible, but the Indian shook his head.

"Come, Black Swan," said Walter, "you don't agree with us -- what think ye?"

"Wapaw had no sled with him," replied the Indian.

"Right again!" cried Slugs; "I do believe my sense is forsakin' me; an Injun baby might have thought of that, for his tracks are plain enough. Hows'ever, let's go see, for it's o' no use standin' here guessin'."

The party at once advanced to the foot of the precipice, and for nearly an hour they did their utmost to ascend to the ledge, on which the sledge lay, but their efforts were in vain. The rock was everywhere too steep and smooth to afford foot-hold.

"It won't do," said Larry, wiping the perspiration from his brow; "av we had wings we might, but we hain't got 'em, so it's o' no manner o' use tryin'."

"We shall try from the top now," said Robin. "If anybody has tumbled over, the poor crittur may be alive yet, for all we know."

They found their efforts to descend from the top of the precipice equally fruitless and much more dangerous, and although they spent a long time in the attempt, and taxed their wits to the utmost, they were ultimately compelled to leave the place and continue their journey without attaining their object.

One discovery was made, however. It was ascertained by the old marks in the snow at the edge of the precipice that, whatever members of the party who owned the sledge had tumbled over, at least two of them had escaped, for their track -- faint and scarcely discernible -- was traced for some distance. It was found, also, that Wapaw's track joined this old one. The wounded Indian had fallen upon it not far from the precipice, and, supposing, no doubt, that it would lead him to some encampment, he had followed it up. Robin and his men also followed it -- increasing their speed as much as possible.

Night began to descend again, but Wapaw was not overtaken, despite the Black Swan's prophecy. This, however, was not so much owing to the miscalculation of the Indian, as to the fact that a great deal of time had been lost in their futile endeavour to reach the sledge that had fallen over the precipice.

About sunset they came to a place where the track turned suddenly at a right angle and entered the bushes.

"Ha! the first travellers must have camped here, and Wapaw has followed their example," said Robin, as he pushed aside the bushes. "Just so, here's the place, but the ashes are cold, so I fear we are not so near our Injun friend as we could wish."

"Well, it can't be helped," cried Stiff, throwing down his bundle; "we've had plenty o' walkin' for one day, so I vote for supper right off."

"I second the motion," said Walter, seizing his axe, "seein' that the camp is ready made to hand. Now, Larry, get your pot ready."

"Sure it's stuffed full a'ready -- an' I only wish I was in the same state," said the Irishman, as he pressed the snow tightly into a tin kettle, and hung it over the fire, which Slugs had just kindled.

The supper scene of the previous night was, in most of its details, enacted over again; but it was resolved that each of the party should keep watch for an hour, as, if the Indians had followed, there was a possibility of their having gained on them during the delay at the precipice.

Before the watch was set, however, and while all the party were enjoying their pipes after supper, the Black Swan suddenly exclaimed, "Ho!" and pointed with his finger to something which peeped out of the snow at Larry's elbow, that volatile individual having uncovered it during some of his eccentric movements.

"It's only an owld mocassin," said Larry, plucking the object from the snow as he spoke; "some Injun lad has throw'd it away for useless."

"Hand it here," said Robin, re-lighting his pipe, which had gone out.

Larry tossed the mocassin to his leader, who eyed it carelessly for a moment. Suddenly he started, and, turning the mocassin over, examined it with close and earnest attention. Then he smiled, as if at his passing anxiety, and dropped it on the ground.

"It reminded me," said he to Walter, "of my Nelly, for it has something of the same shape that she was fond of, an' for a moment I was foolish enough to think it might ha' belonged to the dear child, but -- . Come, Larry, have 'ee got any more tea there?"

"Is it tay ye want? faix, then, it's little more nor laves that's remainin'," said Larry, draining the last drops into a pannikin; "well, there's about half a mug-full, afther all; it's wonderful what can be got out o' it sometimes by squaazin' the pot."

"Hand it over, that's enough," said Robin, "thank 'ee, lad -- here's luck."

He drained the pannikin as though it had been a glass of rum, and, smacking his lips, proceeded leisurely to refill his pipe.

"Are ye sure it's not one of Nelly's old mocassins?" asked Walter, as he eyed the little shoe earnestly.

"Sure enough, nephy, I would know her mother's make among ten thousand, an' although that one is oncommon like it in some respec's, it ain't one o' hers."

"But Nelly might have made it herself," suggested Walter, "and that would account for its bein' like her mother's in the make."

Robin shook his head. "Not likely," said he. "The child didn't use to make mocassins. I'm not sure if she could do it at all; besides she was last heard of miles and miles away from here in another direction. No, no, Walter lad, we mustn't let foolish fancies bother us. However, the sight o' this has fixed me to push on to-morrow as hard as I can lay my legs to it, for if Wapaw's alive we can't fail to come up wi' him afore sundown; and I'm keen to turn about an' go after my children. I'll push on by myself if ye don't care to keep up wi me."

This latter remark was made to Stiff, whose countenance indicated that he had no desire to undertake a harder day's march than usual. The effect of the remark was to stir up all the Yankee's pride.

"I'll tell 'ee what it is, Mister Gore," said he, tartly; "you may think yourself an oncommon hard walker, but Obadiah Stiff is not the man to cave in to any white man alive. I don't care to go trampin' over the country day after day, like the Wandering Jew, after a redskin, as, I'll go bound, ain't no better than the rest o' his kind; but if ye want to see which of our legs is the best pair o' compasses, I'll walk with ye from here to hereafter, I guess, or anywhar else ye choose; if I don't, then my name ain't Stiff."

"It would be well av it worn't Stiff, for ye've no reason to be proud o't," observed Larry O'Dowd, with a grin; "don't spake so loud, man, but shut up yer potatie trap and go to roost. Ye'll need it all if ye wouldn't like to fall behind to-morrow. There now, don't reply; ye've no call to make me yer father confessor, and apologise for boastin'; good night, an' go to slape!"

The rest of the party, who had lain down, laughed at this sally, and Stiff, on consideration, thought it best to laugh too. In a few minutes every one in the encampment was sound asleep, with the exception of Robin Gore, who took the first hour of watching, and who sat beside the sinking fire like a Indian in earnest meditation, with his eyes resting dreamily on the worn-out mocassin.



Chapter Nineteen.

Short Allowance, And A Surprise.

Once again we return to Silver Lake; but here we do not find affairs as we left them. True, Roy and Nelly are still there, the hut is as snug as it used to be, and the scenery as beautiful, but provisions have begun to fail, and an expression of real anxiety clouds the usually cheerful countenance of Roy, while reflected anxiety sits on the sweet little face of Nell. The winter is far advanced, and the prospect of resuming the journey home is farther off than ever.

One morning Roy entered the hut with a slow step and a sad countenance.

"Nell," said he, throwing down a small fish which he had just caught, "things look very bad now; seems to me that we'll starve here. Since we broke the long line I've only caught little things like that; there's no rabbits in the snares -- I looked at every one this mornin' -- and, as for deer, they seem to have said good-bye for the winter. I thought of goin' out with the gun this forenoon, but I think it a'nt o' no use, for I was out all yesterday without seeing a feather or a hoof-print."

The tone in which Roy said this, and the manner in which he flung himself down on the ground beside the fire, alarmed his sister greatly, so that she scarcely knew what to say.

"Don't know what's to be done at all," continued Roy somewhat peevishly.

This was so unlike himself that the little girl felt a strong tendency to burst into tears, but she restrained herself. After a short silence, she said somewhat timidly -- 

"Don't you think we might try to pray?"

"What's the use," said Roy quickly; "I'm sure I've prayed often and often, and so have you, but nothin's come of it."

It was quite evident that Roy was in a state of rebellion. This was the first time Nelly had suggested united prayer to her brother; she did it timidly, and the rebuff caused her to shrink within herself.

Roy's quick eye observed the shrinking; he repented instantly, and, drawing Nelly to him, laid her head on his breast.

"Forgive me, Nell, I shouldn't have said it; for, after all, we've had everything given to us here that we have needed up to this time. Come, I will pray with you."

They both got upon their knees at once, but, strive as he might, not a word would cross Roy's lips for several minutes. Nelly raised her head and looked at him.

"God help us!" he ejaculated.

"For Jesus' sake," murmured Nelly.

They both said "Amen" to these words, and these were all their prayers.

Roy's rebellion of heart was gone now, but his feelings were not yet calmed. He leaped up, and, raising his sister, kissed her almost violently.

"Now, lass, we have prayed, and I do believe that God will answer us; so I'll take my gun and snow-shoes, an' off to the woods to look for a deer. See that you have a roarin' fire ready to roast him three hours hence."

Nelly smiled through her tears and said she would, while Roy slipped his feet through the lines of his snow-shoes, threw his powder-horn and bullet-pouch over his shoulder, seized his gun, and sallied forth with a light step.

When he was gone, Nelly began actively to prepare for the fulfilment of her promise. She took up the axe which Roy had left behind him, and went into the forest behind the hut to cut firewood. She was very expert at this laborious work. Her blows were indeed light, for her little arms, although strong for their size, were not strong for such labour; but she knew exactly where to hit and how to hit. Every stroke fell on the right spot, with the axe at the right angle, so that a chip or two flew off every time. She panted a good deal, and grew uncommonly warm, but she liked the work; her face glowed and her eyes sparkled, and it was evident that she was not exhausted by it. In little more than an hour she had cut enough of dry wood to make a fire that would have roasted an entire sheep. Then she carried it to the hut, after which she sat down to rest a little.

While resting, she gathered carefully together all the scraps of food in the hut, and found that there was still enough for two good meals; so she ate a small piece of dried fish, and began to wish that Roy would return. Suddenly she was startled by a loud fluttering noise close to the hut, and went out to see what it could be.

It might be supposed that a little girl in such solitary and unprotected circumstances would have felt alarmed, and thought of wolves or bears; but Nelly was too well accustomed to the dangers and risks of the backwoods to be much troubled with mere fancies. She was well aware that wolves and bears, as a rule, shun the presence of human beings, and the noise which she had heard was not of a very alarming character.

The first sight that greeted her was a large bird of the grouse species, sitting on a tree not three yards from the hut. She almost felt that by springing forward she could seize it with her hands, and her first impulse was to throw the axe at it; but, checking herself, she went noiselessly back into the hut, and quickly reissued with the bow and a couple of arrows.

Fitting an arrow to the string, she whispered to herself, "Oh, how I do hope I won't miss it!" and took a careful aim. Anxiety, however, made her hand unsteady, for, the next moment, the arrow was quivering in the stem of the tree at least three inches below the bird.

A look of deep disappointment was mingled with an expression of determination as she pursed her little mouth and fitted the second arrow to the string. This time she did not take so careful an aim, but let fly at once, and her shaft entered the bird's throat and brought it to the ground. With a cry of delight she sprang upon her prize, and bore it in triumph into the hut, where she speedily plucked it. Then she split it open, and went down to the lake and washed it quite clean and spread it out flat. Her next proceeding was to cut a short stick, about two feet in length, which she pointed at both ends, making one point thinner than the other. This thin point she thrust through the bird, and stuck it up before the fire to roast, placing a small dish, made of birch bark, below it to catch the dripping.

"I hope he won't come back till it's ready," she muttered, as the skin of the bird began to brown and frizzle, while a delicious odour began to fill the hut.

Just as the thought was uttered, a footstep was heard outside, the covering of the doorway was raised, a tall figure stooped to enter, and the next instant a gaunt and half-naked savage stood before her.

Nelly uttered a faint cry of terror, but she was so paralysed that she could make no effort to escape, even had escape been possible.

The appearance of the Indian was indeed calculated to strike terror to a stouter heart than that of poor Nelly; for besides being partially clad in torn garments, his eyes were sunken and bloodshot, and his whole person was more or less smeared with blood.

As the poor child gazed at this apparition in horror, the Indian said, "Ho!" by way of salutation, and stepping forward, took her hand gently and shook it after the manner of the white man. A gleam of intelligence and surprise at once removed the look of fear from Nelly's face.

"Wapaw!" she exclaimed breathlessly.

"Ho!" replied the Indian, with a nod and a smile, as he laid aside his gun and snowshoes, and squatted himself down before the fire.

There was not much to be gathered from "ho!" but the nod and smile proved to Nelly that the intruder was indeed none other than her old friend Wapaw.

Her alarm being now removed, she perceived that the poor Indian was suffering both from fatigue and wounds -- perhaps from hunger too; but this latter idea was discarded when she observed that several birds, similar to the one she had just killed, hung at the Indian's belt. She rose up quickly, therefore, and, running down to the lake, soon returned with a can of clear water, with which she purposed bathing Wapaw's wounds. Wapaw seized the can, however, and emptied the contents down his throat, so she was constrained to go for a second supply.

Having washed the wounds, which were chiefly on the head and appeared to her to be very severe, although, in reality, they were not so, she set the roasted bird before him and desired him to eat.

Of course she had put a great many questions to Wapaw while thus occupied. Her residence with the Indians had enabled her to speak and understand the Indian tongue a little, and, although she had some difficulty in understanding much of what Wapaw said in reply, she comprehended enough to let her know that a number of white men had been killed by the savages, and that Wapaw was fleeing for his life.

On first hearing this a deadly paleness overspread her face, for she imagined that the white people killed must be her own kindred; but Wapaw quickly relieved her mind on this point.

After this he devoted himself entirely to the roasted bird, and Nelly related to him, as well as she could, the particulars of her own and Roy's escape from the Indians.



Chapter Twenty.

More Surprising Discoveries.

While they were thus occupied, a cry was heard to ring through the forest. The Indian laid his hand on his gun, raised his head, which he turned to one side in a listening attitude, and sat as still as a dark statue. The only motion that could be detected in the man was a slight action in his distended nostrils as he breathed gently.

This attitude was but momentary, however, for the cry was repeated ("Hi! Nelly, hi!") in clear silvery tones, and Wapaw smiled as he recognised Roy's voice, and quietly resumed his former occupation.

Nelly bounded up at once, and ran out to receive her brother, and tell him of the arrival of their old friend.

She slipped on her snow-shoes, and went off in the direction of the cry. On rounding the foot of a cliff she discovered Roy, standing as if he had been petrified, with his eyes glaring at the snow with a mingled look of surprise and alarm.

Nelly's step roused him.

"Ho! Nell," he cried, giving vent to a deep sigh of relief, "I'm thankful to see you -- but look here. What snow-shoe made this track? I came on it just this moment, and it pulled me up slick, I can tell ye."

Nelly at once removed Roy's alarm, and increased his surprise by telling him of the new arrival, who, she said, was friendly, but she did not tell him that he was an old friend.

"But come, now, what have you got for dinner, Roy?" said Nelly, with an arch smile, "for oh! I'm so hungry."

Roy's countenance fell, and he looked like a convicted culprit.

"Nell, I haven't got nothin' at all."

"What a pity! We must just go supperless to bed, I suppose."

"Come, lass, I see by the twinkle in your eye that you've got grub somehow or other. Has the redskin brought some 'at with him?"

"Yes, he has brought a little; but the best fun is that I shot a bird myself, and had it all ready beautifully cooked for your supper, when Wap -- "

"Well, what d'ye mean by Wap?" inquired Roy, as Nelly stopped short.

"Nothing. I only meant to say that the Indian arrived suddenly, and ate it all up."

"The villain! Well, I'll pay him off by eatin' up some o' his grub. Did he say what his name was, or where he came from?" inquired Roy.

"Never mind, you can ask him yourself," said Nelly, as they drew near to the hut; "he seems to me to have been badly wounded by his enemies."

They stooped and entered the hut as Nelly spoke. The Indian looked up at her brother, and, uttering his wonted "Ho!" held out his hand.

"Good luck to ye!" cried Roy, grasping it and shaking it with a feeling of hearty hospitality. "It's good to see yer face, though it is a strange un; but -- hallo! -- I say -- yer face ain't so strange, after all! --  what! Why, you're not Wap -- Wap -- Wapaw!"

The Indian displayed all his teeth, which were very numerous and remarkably white, and nodded his head gently.

"Well now, that beats everything!" cried Roy, seizing the Indian's hand again and shaking it violently; then, turning to Nelly, he said, "Come, Nell, stir yer stumps and pluck two o' them birds. I'll split 'em, an' wash 'em, an' roast 'em, an' we'll all eat 'em -- Wapaw'll be ready for more before it's ready for him. Jump, now, and see if we don't have a feast to-night, if we should starve to-morrow. But I say, Wapaw, don't ye think the redskins may be after you yet?"

The first part of this speech was uttered in wild glee, but the last sentence was spoken more earnestly, as the thought occurred to him that Wapaw might have been closely pursued, for Nelly had told him of the Indian having been wounded by enemies and obliged to fly.

Wapaw shook his head, and made his young friend understand as well as he could that there was little chance of that, as he had travelled with the utmost speed in order to distance his pursuers, and induce them to give up the chase.

"Well, it may be as you say, friend," observed Roy, as he sat down before the fire and pulled off his hunting mocassins and socks, which he replaced by lighter foot-gear more suited to the hut; "but I don't much like the notion o' givin' them a chance to come up and cut all our throats at once. It's not likely, however, that they'll be here to-night, considerin' the pace you say you came at, so we'll make our minds easy, but with your leave we'll cut our sticks to-morrow, an' make tracks for Fort Enterprise. We han't got much in the way o' grub to start wi', it is true, but we have enough at least for two days' eatin', and for the rest, we have our guns, and you to be our guide."

This plan was agreed to by Wapaw, who thereupon advised that they should all lie down to sleep without delay. Roy, who was fatigued with his day's exertions, agreed, and in less than half an hour the three were sound asleep.

Next morning they arose with the sun, much refreshed; and while Wapaw and Nelly collected together and packed on their new sledge the few things that they possessed, Roy went for the last time to cast his line in Silver Lake. He was more fortunate than usual, and returned in an hour with four fine fish of about six pounds' weight each.

With this acceptable, though small, addition to their slender stock of provisions, they left the hut about noon, and commenced their journey, making a considerable detour in order to avoid meeting with any of the Indians who might chance to have continued the pursuit of Wapaw.

That same evening, towards sunset, a party of hunters marched out of the woods, and stood upon the shores of Silver Lake, the tracks about which they began to examine with particular interest. There were six of the party, five of them being white hunters, and one an Indian. We need scarcely add that they were our friend Robin and his companions.

"I tell 'ee what it is," cried Robin, in an excited tone, "that's my Nelly's fut; I'd know the prints o't among a thousand, an' it's quite plain Roy is with her, an' that Wapaw has come on 'em, for their tracks are clear."

"Sure it looks like it," observed Larry O'Dowd, scratching his head as if in perplexity, "but the tracks is so mixed up, it ain't aisy to foller 'em."

"See, here's a well-beaten track goin' into the wood!" cried Walter, who had, like his companions, been searching among the bushes.

Every one followed Walter, who led the way towards the hut, which was finally discovered with a thin, scarcely perceptible line of smoke still issuing from the chimney. They all stopped at once, and held back to allow Robin to advance alone. The poor man went forward with a beating heart, and stopped abruptly at the entrance, where he stood for a few seconds as if he were unable to go in. At length he raised the curtain and looked in; then he entered quickly.

"Gone, Walter, they're gone!" he cried; "come in, lad, and see. Here's evidence o' my dear children everywhere. It's plain, too, that they have left only a few hours agone."

"True for ye, the fire's hot," said Larry, lighting his pipe from the embers in testimony of the truth of his assertion.

"They can't be far off," said Slugs, who was examining every relic of the absent ones with the most minute care. "The less time we lose in follerin' of 'em the better -- what think ye, lad?" The Black Swan nodded his approval of the sentiment.

"What! without sleep or supper?" cried Stiff, whose enthusiasm in the chase had long ago evaporated.

"Ay," said Robin sternly, "I start now. Let those stop here who will."

To do Stiff justice, his objections were never pressed home, so he comforted himself with a quid of tobacco, and accompanied Robin and his men with dogged resolution when they left the hut. Plunging once more into the forest, they followed up the track all night, as they had already followed it up all day.



Chapter Twenty One.

A Gladsome Meeting.

Some hours before dawn Robin Gore came to an abrupt pause, and looking over his shoulder, held up his hand to command silence. Then he pointed to a small mound, on the top of which a faint glow of light was seen falling on the boughs of the shrubs, with which it was crowned.

The moon had just set, but there was sufficient light left to render surrounding objects pretty distinct.

"That's them," said Robin to Walter, in a low whisper, as the latter came close to his side; "no doubt they're sound asleep, an' I'm puzzled how to wake 'em up without givin' 'em a fright."

"Musha! it's a fright that Wapaw will give us, av we start him suddenly, for he's murtherin' quick wi' his rifle," whispered Larry.

"We'd better hide and then give a howl," suggested Stiff, "an', after they're sot up, bring 'em down with a familiar hail."

The deliberations of the party were out short and rendered unnecessary, however, by Wapaw himself. That sharp-eared red man had been startled by the breaking of a branch which Larry O'Dowd chanced to set his foot on, and, before Robin had observed their fire, he had roused Roy and Nelly and hurried with them to the summit of a rocky eminence, from which stronghold they now anxiously watched the proceedings of the hunters. The spot to which they had fled for refuge was almost impregnable, and might have been held for hours by a couple of resolute men against a host of savages.

Robin, after a little further consultation, resolved to send the Black Swan in advance to reconnoitre. This he did, contrary to his wonted custom of taking the lead in everything, because of an unaccountable feeling of dread lest he should not find his children there.

Black Swan at once stepped cautiously forward with his rifle, ready cocked, in the hollow of his left arm, and his finger on the trigger-guard. Step by step he moved towards the encampment without making the slightest noise, and with so little motion that he might easily have been mistaken for a dark shadow. Raising his head over the edge of the encampment he gazed earnestly into it, then he advanced another pace or two, finally he stepped into it, and, standing erect, looked around him. With a wave of his hand he summoned his comrades to advance. Robin Gore's heart beat hard as he approached, followed by the others.

Meanwhile they were closely watched by Roy and Wapaw. When the Black Swan's head appeared, Roy exclaimed in a whisper, "An Injun -- d'ye know him, Wapaw?"

"He is one of our tribe, I think," replied the Indian, in the same low voice, "but I know him not; the light of the fire is not strong."

"If he's one o' your tribe," said Roy, "it's all up with us, for they won't be long o' findin' us here. Keep close to me, Nell. I'll stick by you, lass, don't fear."

Wapaw's brows lowered when he saw the Black Swan step into the encampment, and make the signal to his comrades to advance. He raised his rifle, and took deliberate aim at his heart.

"Roy," he whispered, "get an arrow ready, aim at the next man that steps into the light and let fly; I'll not fire till after you, for the smoke would blind you."

Roy obeyed with a trembling hand. Notwithstanding the rough life he had led in those wild woods of the West, he had never yet been called on to lift his hand against a human being, and the thought of taking life in this deliberate and almost murderous way caused him to shudder; still he felt that their case was desperate, and he nerved himself to the deed.

Another moment, and Robin stood beside the Black Swan. Roy tried to raise his bow, but his heart failed him. Wapaw glanced at him, and said sternly -- 

"Shoot first."

At that moment Obadiah Stiff stepped into the encampment, and, stirring the embers of the fire with a piece of stick, caused a bright flame and showers of sparks to shoot upwards. This revealed the fact that some of the party were white men, so Wapaw lowered his rifle. A single glance of his practised eye told him who they were. Laying his hand suddenly and heavily on Roy's shoulder he pressed him down.

"Come, let us go," he said quickly; "I must see these men alone, and you must keep close -- you must not look."

He said the latter words with emphasis; but in order to make sure that they should not have a chance of looking, he led his young companions to a point whence the encampment could not be seen, and left them there with strict injunctions not to quit the spot until he should return.

In a few seconds Wapaw stepped into the circle of light where Robin and his party were all assembled, and so rapid and noiseless had his movement been, that he was in the midst of them almost before they were aware of his approach.

"Wapaw!" exclaimed Walter in surprise, "why, you seem to have dropped from the clouds."

"Sure it's a ghost ye must be," cried Larry. The Indian took no notice of these remarks, but turned to Robin, who, with a look of deep anxiety, said -- 

"Have 'ee seed the childer, Wapaw?"

"They are safe," answered the Indian.

"Thank God for that!" cried Robin, while a sigh of relief burst from him: "I believe ye, Wapaw, yer a true man an' wouldn't tell me a lie, would ye?"

The tone in which the hunter said this implied that the statement was scarcely a true index to his feelings, and that he would be glad to hear Wapaw assure him that he was indeed telling the truth. But this Indian was a man of truthfulness, and did not deem it necessary to repeat his assertion. He said, however, that he would go and fetch the children, and immediately quitted the camp. Soon after he returned with Roy and Nelly; he had not told them, however, who the strangers were.

When Roy first caught sight of his father he gave a shout of surprise, and stood still as if he were bewildered. Nelly uttered a wild scream, and rushed forward with outstretched arms. Robin met her more than half way, and the next moment folded his long-lost little one to his bosom.



Chapter Twenty Two.

At Silver Lake Once More.

It were needless to detail all that was said and done during the remainder of that night, or, rather, morning, for day began to break soon after the happy meeting narrated in the last chapter. It would require more space than we can afford to tell of all that was said and done; how Robin embraced his children over and over again in the strength of his love, and thanked God in the fervour of his gratitude; how Roy and Nelly were eager to relate all that had befallen them since they were carried away into captivity, in a much shorter time than such a long story could by any possibility be told; how Walter rendered the telling of it much more difficult by frequent interruptions with eager questions, which induced divergencies from which the tale-tellers forgot to return to the points where the interruptions occurred; how Larry O'Dowd complicated matters by sometimes volunteering anecdotes of his own, illustrative of points similar to those which were being related; how Slugs always cut these anecdotes short with a facetious poke in the ribs, which caused Larry to howl; how Stiff rendered confusion worse confounded by trying to cook some breakfast, and by upsetting the whole affair into the fire; and how the children themselves broke in on their own discourse continually with sudden and enthusiastic questions as to the health of their mother and the welfare of the live stock at Fort Enterprise.

All this cannot be described, therefore we leave it to the vivid imagination of the reader.

"Now, comrades," said Robin, after the sun had risen, after breakfast had been and eaten, after every incident had been related at least twice over, and after every conceivable question had been asked four or five times -- "now, comrades, it remains for us to fix what we'll do."

"To the Fort," said Larry O'Dowd abruptly.

"Ay -- home!" cried Walter.

"Oh yes -- home -- home!" exclaimed Roy and Nelly in the same breath.

"Ditto," observed Obadiah Stiff.

Slugs and the Black Swan, being men of few words, said nothing, but nodded approval.

"Well, it's quite plain that we're all of one mind," resumed Robin; "nevertheless, there are one or two points to which I ax yer attention. In the first place, it's now near the end of November. Fort Enterprise, in a straight line, is more nor three weeks' march from hereaway. Our provisions is low. When I left the Fort provisions was low there too, an' if my brother Jeff ha'nt had more nor his usual luck in huntin' they'll be lower yet before long. Now, I think it would be better to go back to Silver Lake for a week or so, hunt an' fish there till we've got a good supply, make noo sleds, load 'em chock full, an' then -- ho! for home. What say ye to that, comrades?"

As every one assented readily to this plan, they proceeded at once to carry it into execution. At first, indeed, Nelly looked a little disappointed, saying that she wanted to get to her darling mother without delay; but, on Walter pointing out to her that it would only delay matters a week or so, and that it would enable the whole party to rest and recruit, and give Wapaw time to recover thoroughly from his wounds, she became reconciled, and put on her snow-shoes to return to Silver Lake with some degree of cheerfulness; and when, in the course of that day's walk, she began to tell her father of all the beauties and wonders of Silver Lake, she was not only reconciled but delighted to return.

"O father!" said she, as they walked briskly through the forest, "you've no notion what a beautiful place Silver Lake is. It's so clear, and so -- so -- oh! I don't know how to tell you; so like the fairy places Walter used to tell us of, with clear water and high cliffs, and the clouds shining up at the clouds shining down, and two suns -- one below and another above. And then the hut! we made it all ourselves."

"What! made the trees and all?" said Robin, with a smile.

"No, of course not the trees; but we cut the trees and piled 'em up, and spread the brush-wood, and -- and -- then the fish! we caught such big ones."

"How big, Nelly?"

"Oh, ever so big!"

"How big may that be?"

"Well, some were so long," (measuring off the size on her arm,) "an' some near as long as my leg -- an' they were good to eat too -- no good! you've no notion; but you'll see and taste 'em too. Then there's the shooskin'! Did you ever shoosk, father?"

"No, lass -- leastways I don't remember, if I did."

"But you know what it is?"

"To be sure, Nelly; ha'nt I seed ye do it often on the slopes at Fort Enterprise?"

"Well, the shooskin' here is far, far better. The first time Roy did it, he said it nearly banged all his bones to pieces -- yes, he said he felt as if his backbone was shoved up into his brain; and I sometimes thought it would squeeze all my ribs together. Oh, it is so nice! You shall try it, father."

Robin laughed heartily at this, and remarked that he would be very glad to try it, though he had no particular desire to have his ribs squeezed together, or his backbone shoved up into his brain!

Then Nelly went on with great animation and volubility to tell of the trapping of the bear, and the snaring of rabbits, and the catching of fish, and of Roy's peculiar method of wading into the lake for ducks, and many other things.

Roy, meanwhile, entertained Walter and Larry O'Dowd with a somewhat similar account of their doings during the months of their residence in that wild region; and thus the journey was beguiled, so that the time seemed to pass on swallows' wings.

Towards evening the party approached the spot where Silver Lake had first burst upon the enraptured gaze of the wandering pair. As they drew near, Roy and Nelly hurried on in advance, and, mounting the fallen tree on which they had formerly rested, waved to the others to come on, and shouted for glee. And well might they shout, for the evening happened to be brighter and calmer, if possible, than the one on which they first saw the lake. The rolling clouds were whiter, too, and the waters looked more silvery than ever.

The exclamations of delight, and the looks of admiration with which the glorious scene was greeted by the hunters when they came up, gratified the hearts of Roy and Nelly very much.

"Oh, how I wish mother was here to see it!" cried Nelly.

"Ain't that a place for a king to live in, daddy?" said Roy, enthusiastically.

"So 'tis, lad, so 'tis -- leastwise it's a goodish spot for a hunter. How say you, Slugs?"

Slugs smiled grimly, and nodded his head.

"Would the red man like to pitch his wigwam there?" said Robin, addressing the Black Swan.

"He has pitched his wigwam here before," replied the Black Swan softly. "When he first took the White Swan home to be his mate, he came to hunt here."

"Och! is it the honeymoon ye spint here?" broke in Larry. "Faix, it's a purty spot for courtin', and no mistake. Is that a beehive over there?" he added, pointing across the lake.

"Why that's our hut -- our palace," cried Nell, with gleeful look.

"Then the sooner we get down to it, and have supper, the better," observed Walter, "for we'll have to work hard to-morrow."

"Come along, then," cried Robin, "an' go you ahead, Roy; beat the track, and show us the way."

Roy accepted the position of honour. Nelly followed him, and the whole band marched off in single file along the shores of Silver Lake. They soon reached the hut, and here again Nelly found many interesting points to dilate upon. She poured her words into willing and sympathetic ears, so that she monopolised nearly all the talk during the time that Larry O'Dowd was preparing supper.

When that meal was being eaten the conversation became more general. Plans were discussed as to the intended procedure on the morrow, and various courses of action fixed. After that, as a matter of course, the pipes came out, and while these were being smoked, only the talkative members of the party kept up the conversation at intervals. Roy and Nelly having exhausted all they had to say, began to feel desperately sleepy, and the latter, having laid her head on her father's knee, fell sound asleep in that position. Soon the pipes were smoked out, the fire was replenished, the blankets unrolled; and in a very brief period of time the whole party was in a state of happy unconsciousness, with the exception of poor Wapaw, whose wounds made him rather restless, and the Black Swan, whose duty it was to take the first watch; for it was, deemed right to set a watch, lest by any chance the Indians should have followed the hunters' tracks, though this was not probable.

Next morning Robin aroused the sleepers somewhat abruptly by shooting a grey hen with his rifle from the tent door.

"There's breakfast for you and me, Nelly, at any rate," remarked the hunter, as he went down to the lake to secure his bird.

"An' won't there be the bones and feathers for the rest of us?" observed Larry, yawning, "so we won't starve this day, anyhow."

In a few minutes every man was actively engaged in work of some sort or other. Robin and Walter prepared fishing-lines from some pieces of buckskin parchment; Black Swan and Slugs went out to cut wood for making sledges; Stiff repaired the snow-shoes of the party, or rather assisted Nelly in this operation; and Larry attended to the preparation of breakfast. Wapaw was the only one who lay still, it being thought better to make him rest, and get strong for the approaching journey.

During the course of the day the lines were tried, and a good number of fish caught. Slugs also went off in search of deer, and returned in the evening with a large stag on his broad shoulders. This raised the spirits of the party greatly, and they feasted that night, with much rejoicing, on venison, marrowbones, and broiled fish!

Thus they spent their time for several days. One party went regularly every morning to fish in the ice-holes; another party roamed the woods, and returned with grouse, or rabbits, and sometimes with deer; while some remained, part of the day at least, in the hut, mending snow-shoes and moccasins, and making other preparations.

In the midst of all this busy labour, the shoosking was not forgotten. One day Robin said to his little daughter, at breakfast, that as they had got nearly enough of provisions for the journey they would take a holiday and go and have a shoosk. The proposal was hailed with delight, and the whole party went off with the new sledges, and spent the forenoon in sliding and tumbling down the hills like very children.

At last everything was ready for a start. The provisions were tightly fastened on the sledges, which were to be drawn by each of the men in turn. Snow-shoes were put on, guns and bows looked to and shouldered, and on a bright, frosty December morning the hunters left the hut, struck into the woods, and set out for Fort Enterprise.

At the top of the slope, beside the fallen tree, they stopped with one consent and gazed back; and there Nelly took her last sad look at Silver Lake, and sorrowfully said her last farewell.



Chapter Twenty Three.

The Happiest Meeting Of All.

The snow was driving through the forests and over the plains of the North American wilderness; the wind was shrieking among the tree-tops, and whirling the drift in great clouds high up into the frosty air; and the sun was setting in a glow of fiery red, when, on the last day of the year, Robin Gore and his followers came to an abrupt halt, and, with one consent, admitted that "the thing was impossible."

"We can't do it, boys," said Robin, resting his rifle against a tree; "so it's o' no use to try. The Fort is good ten miles off, an' the children are dead beat -- "

"No they ain't," interrupted Roy, whose tone and aspect, however, proved that his father's statement was true; "at least I'm not beat yet -- I'm game for two or three hours more."

"Well, lad, p'raps ye are, but Nelly ain't; so we'll camp here, an' take 'em by surprise in the morning early."

Nelly, who had been carried on the backs of those who had broadest shoulders during the last dozen miles, smiled faintly when spoken to, and said she was "ve-y s'eepy!"

So they set to work in the usual style, and were soon comfortably seated in their snowy encampment.

Next morning before dawn Robin awoke them.

"Ho!" he cried, "get up, lads, look alive! A happy New Year to 'ee all, young an' old, red an' white. Kiss me, Nell, dear -- a shake o' yer paw, Roy. An' it's a good New Year's day, too, in more ways than one, praise the Almighty for that."

The whole party was astir immediately, and that feeling of kindly brotherhood which usually pervades the hearts of men on the first day of a new year, induced them to shake hands heartily all round.

"You'll eat your New Year's dinner at home, after all," said Walter to Nelly.

"Sure, an' it's a happy 'ooman yer mother'll be this good day," said Larry, as he stirred up the embers of the fire, and blew them into a flame.

The kettle was boiled, and a good breakfast eaten, because, although it is usually the custom for hunters to start on their day's journey, and accomplish a good many miles of it before breakfast, they had consideration for Roy and Nelly, both of whom were still suffering a little from the fatigue of the previous day. They hoped to be at Fort Enterprise in about four hours, and were anxious to arrive fresh.

The sun was rising when they reached the top of a ridge, whence they could obtain a distant view of the Fort.

"Here we are at home, Nelly," said Robin, stooping down to kiss his child on the forehead.

"Darling, darling mother!" was all that poor Nelly could say, as she tried in vain to see the Fort though the tears which sprang to her eyes.

"Don't you see it, Nell?" said Roy, passing his arm round his sister's waist.

"No, I don't," cried Nelly, brushing the tears away; "oh, do let us go on!"

Robin patted her on the had, and at once resumed the march.

 --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  -- 

That morning Mrs Gore rose from her bed about the saddest woman in the land. Her mind flew back to the last New Year's day, when her children were lost to her, as she feared, for ever. The very fact that people are usually more jocose, and hearty, and happy, on the first day of the year, was sufficient to make her more sorrowful than usual; so she got up and sighed, and then, not being a woman of great self-restraint, she wept.

In a few minutes she dried her eyes, and took up her Bible, and, as she read its blessed pages, she felt comfort -- such as the world can neither give nor take away -- gradually stealing over her soul. When she met her kinsman and his friends at breakfast she was comparatively cheerful, and returned their hearty salutation with some show of a reciprocal spirit.

"Jeff," said Mrs Gore, with a slight sigh, "it's a year, this day, since my two darlings were lost in the snow."

"D'ye say so?" observed Jeff, as he sat down to his morning meal, and commenced eating with much voracity.

Jeff was not an unkind man, but he was very stupid. He said nothing more for some time, but, after consuming nearly a pound of venison steak, he observed suddenly -- 

"Wall, I guess it wor a bad business that -- worn't it, missus?"

"It was," responded Mrs Gore; and, feeling that she had no hope of meeting with sympathy from Jeff, she relapsed into silence. After a time, she said -- 

"But we must get up a feast, Jeff. It won't do to let New Year's day pass without a good dinner."

"That's true as gosp'l," said Jeff. "Feed up is my motto, always. It don't much matter wot turns up, if ye don't feed up yer fit for nothin'; but, contrairy-wise, if ye do feed up, why yer ready for anythin' or nothin', as the case may be."

Having given vent to this sentiment, Jeff finished his meal with a prolonged draught of tea.

"Wall, now," said he, filling his pipe, "we've got enough o' deer's meat an' other things to make a pretty fair feast, missus, but my comrades and we will go an' try to git somethin' fresh for dinner. If we git nothin' else we'll git a appetite and that's worth a good long march any day; so, lads, if -- "

Jeff's speech was interrupted here by a sudden and tremendous outburst of barking on the part of the dogs of the establishment. He sprang up and hastened to the door, followed by his companions and Mrs Gore.

"Injuns, mayhap; see to your guns, boys, we can niver be sure o' the reptiles."

"They're friendly," observed one of Jeff's friends, as they stood at the Fort gate; "enemies never come on in that straightforward fashion."

"Not so sure o' that," said Jeff. "I've seen redskins do somethin' o' that kind when they meant mischief; but, if my eyes ain't telling lies, I'd say there were white men there."

"Ay, an' young folk, too," remarked one of the others.

"Young folk!" exclaimed Mrs Gore, as she shaded her eyes from the sun with her hand, and gazed earnestly at the band which was approaching.

Suddenly one of them ran a little in advance of the rest, and waved a handkerchief. The figure was a small one. A faint cheer was heard in the distance. It was followed, or rather accompanied, by a loud, manly, and well-known shout.

Mrs Gore grew pale, and would have fallen to the ground had not Jeff caught and supported her.

"Why, I do declare it's Robin -- an' -- eh! if there beant the children wi' 'im!"

The advancing party broke into a run as he spoke, another loud cheer burst forth, and in a few seconds Nelly was locked once more in her dear mother's arms.



Chapter Twenty Four.

Conclusion.

It is not necessary to say that there was joy -- powerful, inexpressible --  within the wooden walls of Fort Enterprise on that New Year's morning, and a New Year's hymn of praise welled up continually from the glad mother's heart, finding expression sometimes in her voice, but oftener in her eyes, as she gazed upon the faces of her dear ones, the lost and found.

The flag at Fort Enterprise, which had not flaunted its red field from the flagstaff since the sad day -- that day twelve months exactly -- when the children were lost, once more waved gaily in the frosty air, and glowed in the beams of the wintry sun. The sound of joyful revelry, which had not been heard within the walls of the Fort for a long, long year, once again burst forth with such energy that one might have been led to suppose its being pent up so long had intensified its power.

The huge fireplace roared, and blazed, and crackled, with a log so massive that no other Yule log in the known world could have held a candle to it; and in, on, and around that fire were pots, pans, and goblets innumerable, all of which hissed, and spluttered, and steamed at Larry O'Dowd, as if with glee at the sight of his honest face once again presiding over his own peculiar domain. And the parlour of Fort Enterprise -- that parlour which we have mentioned as being Robin's dining-room and drawing-room, besides being his bedroom and his kitchen -- was converted into a leafy bower by means of pine branches and festooned evergreens, and laid out for a feast the like of which had not been seen there for many a day, and which was transcendently more magnificent than that memorable New Year's day dinner which had been cooked, but not eaten, just three hundred and sixty-five days before.

In short, everything in and about Fort Enterprise bore evidence that its inmates meant to rejoice and make merry on that first day of a new year, as it was meet they should do under such favourable circumstances.

Jeff Gore had shot a deer not many days before, and one of its fat haunches was to be the great dish of the feast; but Robin said that it was not enough: so, after the first congratulations were over, he and Walter, and Slugs, and Black Swan, set off into the forest, and ere long returned with several brace of grouse, and a few rabbits. Roy, with a very sly look, had asked leave to go and have a walk on snow-shoes in the woods with Nelly before dinner, but his father threatened to lock him up in the cellar, so he consented to remain at home for that day and assist his mother.

"Now, Nelly, you and Roy will come help me to prepare the feast," said Mrs Gore, whose eyes were swollen with joyful weeping till they looked like a couple of inflamed oysters; "not that there's much to do, for, now that Larry is come back, we'll leave everything to him except the pl-plum -- poo -- poo -- ding -- oh! my darling!"

Here Mrs Gore broke down for the fifteenth time, and, catching Nelly to her bosom, hugged her.

"Darling mother!" sighed Nelly.

"Och! but it's a sight good for sore eyes, anyhow," exclaimed Larry, looking up from his occupation among the steaming pots and pans.

Wapaw, who was the only other member of the party who chose to remain in the house during the forenoon of that day, sat smoking his pipe in the chimney corner, and regarded the whole scene with that look of stoical solemnity which is peculiar to North American Indians.

"Come, I say, this'll never do, mother," cried Roy, going to the flour-barrel which stood in a corner. "If we're to help you wi' that 'ere poodin', let's have at it at once."

Thus admonished, Mrs Gore and her recovered progeny set to work and fabricated a plum-pudding, which was nearly as hard, almost as heavy as, and much larger than a sixty-four pound cannon ball. It would have killed with indigestion half a regiment of artillery, but it could not affect the hardened frames of these men of the backwoods!

In course of time the board was spread, the viands smoked upon it, and the united party set to work. Mrs Gore sat at the head of the table, with Nelly on one side and Roy on the other. Robin sat at the foot, supported by the White Swan on his right, and Wapaw on his left. Ranged between these were Walter, Slugs, the Black Swan, Jeff Gore, Obadiah Stiff, the two other strangers who came with Jeff, and Larry O'Dowd -- for Larry acted the part of cook only, and did not pretend to "wait." After he had placed the viands on the table, he sat down with the rest. These backwoodsmen ignored waiters. They passed their plates from hand to hand, and when anything was wanted by any one he rose to fetch it himself.

After the plates were cleared away, the tea-kettle was put on the table. In some parts of the backwoods spirits are (fortunately) so difficult to procure, that hunters and trappers live for many months without tasting a drop, and get into the habit of doing entirely without intoxicating drink of any kind. Robin had no spirits except animal spirits, but he had plenty of tea. When it was poured out into huge cups, which might have been styled small slop-basins, and sweetened and passed round, Robin applied his knuckles to the table to command silence.

"Friends," said he, "I niver wos much o' a speechifier, but I could always manage to blurt out my meanin' somehow. Wot I've got to say to you this day is, I'm thankful to the Almighty for givin' me back my childer, an' I'm right glad to see ye all under my roof this Noo Year's day, and so's the wife, I know -- ain't ye, Molly, my dear?"

To this appeal Mrs G replied with a hysterical ye-es, and an application of her apron to the inflamed oysters. Robin continued -- 

"Well, I'm sorry there ain't nothin' stronger in the fort to give 'ee than tea, but for my part I find it strong enough to keep up my spirits, an' yer all heartily welcome to swig buckets-full o' that. There is an old fiddle in the store. If any o' ye can scrape a tune, we'll have a dance. If not, why we'll sing and be jolly."

This speech was followed up by another from Obadiah Stiff, who, with a countenance of the deepest solemnity, requested permission to make a few brief observations.

"Friends," said he, turning the quid of tobacco which usually graced his right cheek into his left, "it's not every day a man's got a chance o' --  o' wot I was a-goin' to obsarve is, that men who are so much indebted to their much-respected host as -- as (Nelly happened to sneeze at this point, and distracted Stiff's attention) as -- yes, I guess we ha'nt often got the chance to chase the redskins, and -- and -- . In short, without makin' an onnecessairy phrase about it -- I'm happy to say that I can play the fiddle, so here's luck."

Mr Stiff sat down abruptly and drained his cup at a draught.

"Pr'aps," said Larry, with a twinkle in his eye, "Mister Stiff would favour the company wi' a song before we commence to cut capers."

"Hear, hear!" from Walter.

"Hurrah!" from Roy.

Mr Stiff cleared his throat and began at once. The tune was so dolorous, and the voice so unmusical, that in any other circumstances it would have been intolerable, but there were lines in it touching upon "good fellowship," which partially redeemed it, and in the last verse there was reference made to "home," and "absent friends," which rendered it a complete success, insomuch that it was concluded amid rapturous cheering, so true is it, as Walter observed, that, "one touch of nature covers a multitude of sins!"

"Let's drink to absent friends an' owld Ireland," cried Larry, filling his cup and pushing the kettle round.

This was drunk with enthusiasm and was followed by a succession of toasts and songs, which were drunk and sung not at the table, but round the fire, to which the party withdrew in order to enjoy their pipes more thoroughly. Then followed a number of anecdotes of stories -- some true, some doubtful, and some fabricated -- which were listened to with deep interest, not only by Roy and Nelly, but by the whole party, including the Indians, who listened intently, with faces like owls, although they did not understand a word that was said.

Many of these stories were so touching that poor Mrs Gore's eyes became more inflamed and more oyster-like than ever. Nelly, too, became sympathetic, and her eyes were similarly affected.

When the evening was pretty well advanced, the violin was sent for and tuned, and Stiff turned out to be a very fair player of Scotch reels; so the party laid aside their pipes, cleared the floor, and began to dance.

It was rough but hearty dancing. Each dancer composed his own steps on the spur of the moment, but executed them with a degree of precision and violence that would have caused civilised dancing masters to blush with shame and envy. Mrs Gore and Nelly danced too, weeping the while with joy, and so did the White Swan, but her performances were peculiar. She danced with a slowness of manner and a rigidity of person that are utterly indescribable. She looked as if all her joints had become inflexible, except those of her knees, and her arms hung straight down at her sides, while she pendulated about the floor and gazed at the rafters in deep solemnity.

How they did keep it up, to be sure! Men of the backwoods find it no easy matter to fatigue their muscles or exhaust their spirits, so they danced all night, and a considerable portion of next morning too. Long before they gave in, however, the females were obliged to retire. They lay down on their rude couches without taking the trouble to undress, and in a few moments after were sound asleep -- Nelly locked in her mother's arms, with their two cheeks touching, their dishevelled hair mingling, and a few tears welling from their inflamed eyes, and mixing as they flowed slowly down their united noses. Sleeping thus, the mother dreamed of home, and Nelly dreamed of Silver Lake.

<eob>

Jack And Jill

By

Louisa May Alcott



Jack and Jill went up the hill To coast with fun and laughter; Jack fell down and broke his crown, And Jill came tumbling after.



Chapter I. The Catastrophe


"Clear the lulla!" was the general cry on a bright December afternoon, when all the boys and girls of Harmony Village were out enjoying the first good snow of the season. Up and down three long coasts they went as fast as legs and sleds could carry them. One smooth path led into the meadow, and here the little folk congregated; one swept across the pond, where skaters were darting about like water-bugs; and the third, from the very top of the steep hill, ended abruptly at a rail fence on the high bank above the road. There was a group of lads and lasses sitting or leaning on this fence to rest after an exciting race, and, as they reposed, they amused themselves with criticising their mates, still absorbed in this most delightful of out-door sports.

"Here comes Frank Minot, looking as solemn as a judge," cried one, as a tall fellow of sixteen spun by, with a set look about the mouth and a keen sparkle of the eyes, fixed on the distant goal with a do-or-die expression.

"Here's Molly Loo And little Boo!"

sang out another; and down came a girl with flying hair, carrying a small boy behind her, so fat that his short legs stuck out from the sides, and his round face looked over her shoulder like a full moon.

"There's Gus Burton; doesn't he go it?" and such a very long boy whizzed by, that it looked almost as if his heels were at the top of the hill when his head was at the bottom!

"Hurrah for Ed Devlin!" and a general shout greeted a sweet-faced lad, with a laugh on his lips, a fine color on his brown cheek, and a gay word for every girl he passed.

"Laura and Lotty keep to the safe coast into the meadow, and Molly Loo is the only girl that dares to try this long one to the pond. I wouldn't for the world; the ice can't be strong yet, though it is cold enough to freeze one's nose off," said a timid damsel, who sat hugging a post and screaming whenever a mischievous lad shook the fence.

"No, she isn't; here's Jack and Jill going like fury."

"Clear the track For jolly Jack!"

sang the boys, who had rhymes and nicknames for nearly every one.

Down came a gay red sled, bearing a boy who seemed all smile and sunshine, so white were his teeth, so golden was his hair, so bright and happy his whole air. Behind him clung a little gypsy of a girl, with black eyes and hair, cheeks as red as her hood, and a face full of fun and sparkle, as she waved Jack's blue tippet like a banner with one hand, and held on with the other.

"Jill goes wherever Jack does, and he lets her. He's such a good-natured chap, he can't say 'No.'"

"To a girl," slyly added one of the boys, who had wished to borrow the red sled, and had been politely refused because Jill wanted it.

"He's the nicest boy in the world, for he never gets mad," said the timid young lady, recalling the many times Jack had shielded her from the terrors which beset her path to school, in the shape of cows, dogs, and boys who made faces and called her "'Fraid-cat."

"He doesn't dare to get mad with Jill, for she'd take his head off in two minutes if he did," growled Joe Flint, still smarting from the rebuke Jill had given him for robbing the little ones of their safe coast because he fancied it.

"She wouldn't! she's a dear! You needn't sniff at her because she is poor. She's ever so much brighter than you are, or she wouldn't always be at the head of your class, old Joe," cried the girls, standing by their friend with a unanimity which proved what a favorite she was.

Joe subsided with as scornful a curl to his nose as its chilly state permitted, and Merry Grant introduced a subject of general interest by asking abruptly, -- 

"Who is going to the candy-scrape to-night?"

"All of us. Frank invited the whole set, and we shall have a tip-top time. We always do at the Minots'," cried Sue, the timid trembler.

"Jack said there was a barrel of molasses in the house, so there would be enough for all to eat and some to carry away. They know how to do things handsomely;" and the speaker licked his lips, as if already tasting the feast in store for him.

"Mrs. Minot is a mother worth having," said Molly Loo, coming up with Boo on the sled; and she knew what it was to need a mother, for she had none, and tried to care for the little brother with maternal love and patience.

"She is just as sweet as she can be!" declared Merry, enthusiastically.

"Especially when she has a candy-scrape," said Joe, trying to be amiable, lest he should be left out of the party.

Whereat they all laughed, and went gayly away for a farewell frolic, as the sun was setting and the keen wind nipped fingers and toes as well as noses.

Down they went, one after another, on the various coasts, -- solemn Frank, long Gus, gallant Ed, fly-away Molly Loo, pretty Laura and Lotty, grumpy Joe, sweet-faced Merry with Sue shrieking wildly behind her, gay Jack and gypsy Jill, always together, -- one and all bubbling over with the innocent jollity born of healthful exercise. People passing in the road below looked up and smiled involuntarily at the red-cheeked lads and lasses, filling the frosty air with peals of laughter and cries of triumph as they flew by in every conceivable attitude; for the fun was at its height now, and the oldest and gravest observers felt a glow of pleasure as they looked, remembering their own young days.

"Jack, take me down that coast. Joe said I wouldn't dare to do it, so I must," commanded Jill, as they paused for breath after the long trudge up hill. Jill, of course, was not her real name, but had been given because of her friendship with Jack, who so admired Janey Pecq's spirit and fun.

"I guess I wouldn't. It is very bumpy and ends in a big drift; not half so nice as this one. Hop on and we'll have a good spin across the pond;" and Jack brought "Thunderbolt" round with a skilful swing and an engaging air that would have won obedience from anybody but wilful Jill.

"It is very nice, but I won't be told I don't 'dare' by any boy in the world. If you are afraid, I'll go alone." And, before he could speak, she had snatched the rope from his hand, thrown herself upon the sled, and was off, helter-skelter, down the most dangerous coast on the hill-side.

She did not get far, however; for, starting in a hurry, she did not guide her steed with care, and the red charger landed her in the snow half-way down, where she lay laughing till Jack came to pick her up.

"If you will go, I'll take you down all right. I'm not afraid, for I've done it a dozen times with the other fellows; but we gave it up because it is short and bad," he said, still good-natured, though a little hurt at the charge of cowardice; for Jack was as brave as a little lion, and with the best sort of bravery, -- the courage to do right.

"So it is; but I must do it a few times, or Joe will plague me and spoil my fun to-night," answered Jill, shaking her skirts and rubbing her blue hands, wet and cold with the snow.

"Here, put these on; I never use them. Keep them if they fit; I only carry them to please mother." And Jack pulled out a pair of red mittens with the air of a boy used to giving away.

"They are lovely warm, and they do fit. Must be too small for your paws, so I'll knit you a new pair for Christmas, and make you wear them, too," said Jill, putting on the mittens with a nod of thanks, and ending her speech with a stamp of her rubber boots to enforce her threat.

Jack laughed, and up they trudged to the spot whence the three coasts diverged.

"Now, which will you have?" he asked, with a warning look in the honest blue eyes which often unconsciously controlled naughty Jill against her will.

"That one!" and the red mitten pointed firmly to the perilous path just tried.

"You will do it?"

"I will!"

"Come on, then, and hold tight."

Jack's smile was gone now, and he waited without a word while Jill tucked herself up, then took his place in front, and off they went on the brief, breathless trip straight into the drift by the fence below.

"I don't see anything very awful in that. Come up and have another. Joe is watching us, and I'd like to show him that we aren't afraid of anything," said Jill, with a defiant glance at a distant boy, who had paused to watch the descent.

"It is a regular 'go-bang,' if that is what you like," answered Jack, as they plowed their way up again.

"It is. You boys think girls like little mean coasts without any fun or danger in them, as if we couldn't be brave and strong as well as you. Give me three go-bangs and then we'll stop. My tumble doesn't count, so give me two more and then I'll be good."

Jill took her seat as she spoke, and looked up with such a rosy, pleading face that Jack gave in at once, and down they went again, raising a cloud of glittering snow-dust as they reined up in fine style with their feet on the fence.

"It's just splendid! Now, one more!" cried Jill, excited by the cheers of a sleighing party passing below.

Proud of his skill, Jack marched back, resolved to make the third "go" the crowning achievement of the afternoon, while Jill pranced after him as lightly as if the big boots were the famous seven-leagued ones, and chattering about the candy-scrape and whether there would be nuts or not.

So full were they of this important question, that they piled on hap-hazard, and started off still talking so busily that Jill forgot to hold tight and Jack to steer carefully. Alas, for the candy-scrape that never was to be! Alas, for poor "Thunderbolt" blindly setting forth on the last trip he ever made! And oh, alas, for Jack and Jill, who wilfully chose the wrong road and ended their fun for the winter! No one knew how it happened, but instead of landing in the drift, or at the fence, there was a great crash against the bars, a dreadful plunge off the steep bank, a sudden scattering of girl, boy, sled, fence, earth, and snow, all about the road, two cries, and then silence.

"I knew they'd do it!" and, standing on the post where he had perched, Joe waved his arms and shouted: "Smash-up! Smash-up! Run! Run!" like a raven croaking over a battlefield when the fight was done.

Down rushed boys and girls ready to laugh or cry, as the case might be, for accidents will happen on the best-regulated coasting-grounds. They found Jack sitting up looking about him with a queer, dazed expression, while an ugly cut on the forehead was bleeding in a way which sobered the boys and frightened the girls half out of their wits.

"He's killed! He's killed!" wailed Sue, hiding her face and beginning to cry.

"No, I'm not. I'll be all right when I get my breath. Where's Jill?" asked Jack, stoutly, though still too giddy to see straight.

The group about him opened, and his comrade in misfortune was discovered lying quietly in the snow with all the pretty color shocked out of her face by the fall, and winking rapidly, as if half stunned. But no wounds appeared, and when asked if she was dead, she answered in a vague sort of way, -- 

"I guess not. Is Jack hurt?"

"Broken his head," croaked Joe, stepping aside, that she might behold the fallen hero vainly trying to look calm and cheerful with red drops running down his cheek and a lump on his forehead.

Jill shut her eyes and waved the girls away, saying, faintly, -- 

"Never mind me. Go and see to him."

"Don't! I'm all right," and Jack tried to get up in order to prove that headers off a bank were mere trifles to him; but at the first movement of the left leg he uttered a sharp cry of pain, and would have fallen if Gus had not caught and gently laid him down.

"What is it, old chap?" asked Frank, kneeling beside him, really alarmed now, the hurts seeming worse than mere bumps, which were common affairs among baseball players, and not worth much notice.

"I lit on my head, but I guess I've broken my leg. Don't frighten mother," and Jack held fast to Frank's arm as he looked into the anxious face bent over him; for, though the elder tyrannized over the younger, the brothers loved one another dearly.

"Lift his head, Frank, while I tie my handkerchief round to stop the bleeding," said a quiet voice, as Ed Devlin laid a handful of soft snow on the wound; and Jack's face brightened as he turned to thank the one big boy who never was rough with the small ones.

"Better get him right home," advised Gus, who stood by looking on, with his little sisters Laura and Lotty clinging to him.

"Take Jill, too, for it's my opinion she has broken her back. She can't stir one bit," announced Molly Loo, with a droll air of triumph, as if rather pleased than otherwise to have her patient hurt the worse; for Jack's wound was very effective, and Molly had a taste for the tragic.

This cheerful statement was greeted with a wail from Susan and howls from Boo, who had earned that name from the ease with which, on all occasions, he could burst into a dismal roar without shedding a tear, and stop as suddenly as he began.

"Oh, I am so sorry! It was my fault; I shouldn't have let her do it," said Jack, distressfully.

"It was all my fault; I made him. If I'd broken every bone I've got, it would serve me right. Don't help me, anybody; I'm a wicked thing, and I deserve to lie here and freeze and starve and die!" cried Jill, piling up punishments in her remorseful anguish of mind and body.

"But we want to help you, and we can settle about blame by and by," whispered Merry with a kiss; for she adored dashing Jill, and never would own that she did wrong.

"Here come the wood-sleds just in time. I'll cut away and tell one of them to hurry up." And, freeing himself from his sisters, Gus went off at a great pace, proving that the long legs carried a sensible head as well as a kind heart.

As the first sled approached, an air of relief pervaded the agitated party, for it was driven by Mr. Grant, a big, benevolent-looking farmer, who surveyed the scene with the sympathetic interest of a man and a father.

"Had a little accident, have you? Well, that's a pretty likely place for a spill. Tried it once myself and broke the bridge of my nose," he said, tapping that massive feature with a laugh which showed that fifty years of farming had not taken all the boy out of him. "Now then, let's see about this little chore, and lively, too, for it's late, and these parties ought to be housed," he added, throwing down his whip, pushing back his cap, and nodding at the wounded with a reassuring smile.

"Jill first, please, sir," said Ed, the gentle squire of dames, spreading his overcoat on the sled as eagerly as ever Raleigh laid down his velvet cloak for a queen to walk upon.

"All right. Just lay easy, my dear, and I won't hurt you a mite if I can help it."

Careful as Mr. Grant was, Jill could have screamed with pain as he lifted her; but she set her lips and bore it with the courage of a little Indian; for all the lads were looking on, and Jill was proud to show that a girl could bear as much as a boy. She hid her face in the coat as soon as she was settled, to hide the tears that would come, and by the time Jack was placed beside her, she had quite a little cistern of salt water stored up in Ed's coat-pocket.

Then the mournful procession set forth, Mr. Grant driving the oxen, the girls clustering about the interesting invalids on the sled, while the boys came behind like a guard of honor, leaving the hill deserted by all but Joe, who had returned to hover about the fatal fence, and poor "Thunderbolt," split asunder, lying on the bank to mark the spot where the great catastrophe occurred.



Chapter II. Two Penitents


Jack and Jill never cared to say much about the night which followed the first coasting party of the season, for it was the saddest and the hardest their short lives had ever known. Jack suffered most in body; for the setting of the broken leg was such a painful job, that it wrung several sharp cries from him, and made Frank, who helped, quite weak and white with sympathy, when it was over. The wounded head ached dreadfully, and the poor boy felt as if bruised all over, for he had the worst of the fall. Dr. Whiting spoke cheerfully of the case, and made so light of broken legs, that Jack innocently asked if he should not be up in a week or so.

"Well, no; it usually takes twenty-one days for bones to knit, and young ones make quick work of it," answered the doctor, with a last scientific tuck to the various bandages, which made Jack feel like a hapless chicken trussed for the spit.

"Twenty-one days! Three whole weeks in bed! I shouldn't call that quick work," groaned the dismayed patient, whose experience of illness had been limited.

"It is a forty days' job, young man, and you must make up your mind to bear it like a hero. We will do our best; but next time, look before you leap, and save your bones. Good-night; you'll feel better in the morning. No jigs, remember;" and off went the busy doctor for another look at Jill, who had been ordered to bed and left to rest till the other case was attended to.

Any one would have thought Jack's plight much the worse, but the doctor looked more sober over Jill's hurt back than the boy's compound fractures; and the poor little girl had a very bad quarter of an hour while he was trying to discover the extent of the injury.

"Keep her quiet, and time will show how much damage is done," was all he said in her hearing; but if she had known that he told Mrs. Pecq he feared serious consequences, she would not have wondered why her mother cried as she rubbed the numb limbs and placed the pillows so tenderly.

Jill suffered most in her mind; for only a sharp stab of pain now and then reminded her of her body; but her remorseful little soul gave her no peace for thinking of Jack, whose bruises and breakages her lively fancy painted in the darkest colors.

"Oh, don't be good to me, Mammy; I made him go, and now he's hurt dreadfully, and may die; and it is all my fault, and everybody ought to hate me," sobbed poor Jill, as a neighbor left the room after reporting in a minute manner how Jack screamed when his leg was set, and how Frank was found white as a sheet, with his head under the pump, while Gus restored the tone of his friend's nerves, by pumping as if the house was on fire.

"Whist, my lass, and go to sleep. Take a sup of the good wine Mrs. Minot sent, for you are as cold as a clod, and it breaks my heart to see my Janey so."

"I can't go to sleep; I don't see how Jack's mother could send me anything when I've half killed him. I want to be cold and ache and have horrid things done to me. Oh, if I ever get out of this bed I'll be the best girl in the world, to pay for this. See if I ain't!" and Jill gave such a decided nod that her tears flew all about the pillow like a shower.

"You'd better begin at once, for you won't get out of that bed for a long while, I'm afraid, my lamb," sighed her mother, unable to conceal the anxiety that lay so heavy on her heart.

"Am I hurt badly, Mammy?"

"I fear it, lass."

"I'm glad of it; I ought to be worse than Jack, and I hope I am. I'll bear it well, and be good right away. Sing, Mammy, and I'll try to go to sleep to please you."

Jill shut her eyes with sudden and unusual meekness, and before her mother had crooned half a dozen verses of an old ballad, the little black head lay still upon the pillow, and repentant Jill was fast asleep with a red mitten in her hand.

Mrs. Pecq was an Englishwoman who had left Montreal at the death of her husband, a French Canadian, and had come to live in the tiny cottage which stood near Mrs. Minot's big house, separated only by an arbor-vitae hedge. A sad, silent person, who had seen better days, but said nothing about them, and earned her bread by sewing, nursing, work in the factory, or anything that came in her way, being anxious to educate her little girl. Now, as she sat beside the bed in the small, poor room, that hope almost died within her, for here was the child laid up for months, probably, and the one ambition and pleasure of the solitary woman's life was to see Janey Pecq's name over all the high marks in the school-reports she proudly brought home.

"She'll win through, please Heaven, and I'll see my lass a gentlewoman yet, thanks to the good friend in yonder, who will never let her want for care," thought the poor soul, looking out into the gloom where a long ray of light streamed from the great house warm and comfortable upon the cottage, like the spirit of kindness which made the inmates friends and neighbors.

Meantime, that other mother sat by her boy's bed as anxious but with better hope, for Mrs. Minot made trouble sweet and helpful by the way in which she bore it; and her boys were learning of her how to find silver linings to the clouds that must come into the bluest skies.

Jack lay wide awake, with hot cheeks, and throbbing head, and all sorts of queer sensations in the broken leg. The soothing potion he had taken did not affect him yet, and he tried to beguile the weary time by wondering who came and went below. Gentle rings at the front door, and mysterious tappings at the back, had been going on all the evening; for the report of the accident had grown astonishingly in its travels, and at eight o'clock the general belief was that Jack had broken both legs, fractured his skull, and lay at the point of death, while Jill had dislocated one shoulder, and was bruised black and blue from top to toe. Such being the case, it is no wonder that anxious playmates and neighbors haunted the doorsteps of the two houses, and that offers of help poured in.

Frank, having tied up the bell and put a notice in the lighted side-window, saying, "Go to the back door," sat in the parlor, supported by his chum, Gus, while Ed played softly on the piano, hoping to lull Jack to sleep. It did soothe him, for a very sweet friendship existed between the tall youth and the lad of thirteen. Ed went with the big fellows, but always had a kind word for the smaller boys; and affectionate Jack, never ashamed to show his love, was often seen with his arm round Ed's shoulder, as they sat together in the pleasant red parlors, where all the young people were welcome and Frank was king.

"Is the pain any easier, my darling?" asked Mrs. Minot, leaning over the pillow, where the golden head lay quiet for a moment.

"Not much. I forget it listening to the music. Dear old Ed is playing all my favorite tunes, and it is very nice. I guess he feels pretty sorry about me."

"They all do. Frank could not talk of it. Gus wouldn't go home to tea, he was so anxious to do something for us. Joe brought back the bits of your poor sled, because he didn't like to leave them lying round for any one to carry off, he said, and you might like them to remember your fall by."

Jack tried to laugh, but it was rather a failure, though he managed to say, cheerfully, -- 

"That was good of old Joe. I wouldn't lend him 'Thunderbolt' for fear he'd hurt it. Couldn't have smashed it up better than I did, could he? Don't think I want any pieces to remind me of that fall. I just wish you'd seen us, mother! It must have been a splendid spill to look at, any way."

"No, thank you; I'd rather not even try to imagine my precious boy going heels over head down that dreadful hill. No more pranks of that sort for some time, Jacky;" and Mrs. Minot looked rather pleased on the whole to have her venturesome bird safe under her maternal wing.

"No coasting till some time in January. What a fool I was to do it! Go-bangs always are dangerous, and that's the fun of the thing. Oh dear!"

Jack threw his arms about and frowned darkly, but never said a word of the wilful little baggage who had led him into mischief; he was too much of a gentleman to tell on a girl, though it cost him an effort to hold his tongue, because Mamma's good opinion was very precious to him, and he longed to explain. She knew all about it, however, for Jill had been carried into the house reviling herself for the mishap, and even in the midst of her own anxiety for her boy, Mrs. Minot understood the state of the case without more words. So she now set his mind at rest by saying, quietly.

"Foolish fun, as you see, dear. Another time, stand firm and help Jill to control her headstrong will. When you learn to yield less and she more, there will be no scrapes like this to try us all."

"I'll remember, mother. I hate not to be obliging, but I guess it would have saved us lots of trouble if I'd said No in the beginning. I tried to, but she would go. Poor Jill! I'll take better care of her next time. Is she very ill, Mamma?"

"I can tell you better to-morrow. She does not suffer much, and we hope there is no great harm done."

"I wish she had a nice place like this to be sick in. It must be very poky in those little rooms," said Jack, as his eye roved round the large chamber where he lay so cosey, warm, and pleasant, with the gay chintz curtains draping doors and windows, the rosy carpet, comfortable chairs, and a fire glowing in the grate.

"I shall see that she suffers for nothing, so don't trouble your kind heart about her to-night, but try to sleep; that's what you need," answered his mother, wetting the bandage on his forehead, and putting a cool hand on the flushed cheeks.

Jack obediently closed his eyes and listened while the boys sang "The Sweet By and By," softening their rough young voices for his sake till the music was as soft as a lullaby. He lay so still his mother thought he was off, but presently a tear slipped out and rolled down the red cheek, wetting her hand as it passed.

"My blessed boy, what is it?" she whispered, with a touch and a tone that only mothers have.

The blue eyes opened wide, and Jack's own sunshiny smile broke through the tears that filled them as he said with a sniff, -- 

"Everybody is so good to me I can't help making a noodle of myself.

"You are not a noodle!" cried Mamma, resenting the epithet. "One of the sweet things about pain and sorrow is that they show us how well we are loved, how much kindness there is in the world, and how easily we can make others happy in the same way when they need help and sympathy. Don't forget that, little son."

"Don't see how I can, with you to show me how nice it is. Kiss me good-night, and then 'I'll be good,' as Jill says."

Nestling his head upon his mother's arm, Jack lay quiet till, lulled by the music of his mates, he drowsed away into the dreamless sleep which is Nurse Nature's healthiest soothing sirup for weary souls and bodies.



Chapter III. Ward No. 1


For some days, nothing was seen and little was heard of the "dear sufferers," as the old ladies called them. But they were not forgotten; the first words uttered when any of the young people met were: "How is Jack?" "Seen Jill yet?" and all waited with impatience for the moment when they could be admitted to their favorite mates, more than ever objects of interest now.

Meantime, the captives spent the first few days in sleep, pain, and trying to accept the hard fact that school and play were done with for months perhaps. But young spirits are wonderfully elastic and soon cheer up, and healthy young bodies heal fast, or easily adapt themselves to new conditions. So our invalids began to mend on the fourth day, and to drive their nurses distracted with efforts to amuse them, before the first week was over.

The most successful attempt originated in Ward No. 1, as Mrs. Minot called Jack's apartment, and we will give our sympathizing readers some idea of this place, which became the stage whereon were enacted many varied and remarkable scenes.

Each of the Minot boys had his own room, and there collected his own treasures and trophies, arranged to suit his convenience and taste. Frank's was full of books, maps, machinery, chemical messes, and geometrical drawings, which adorned the walls like intricate cobwebs. A big chair, where he read and studied with his heels higher than his head, a basket of apples for refreshment at all hours of the day or night, and an immense inkstand, in which several pens were always apparently bathing their feet, were the principal ornaments of his scholastic retreat.

Jack's hobby was athletic sports, for he was bent on having a strong and active body for his happy little soul to live and enjoy itself in. So a severe simplicity reigned in his apartment; in summer, especially, for then his floor was bare, his windows were uncurtained, and the chairs uncushioned, the bed being as narrow and hard as Napoleon's. The only ornaments were dumbbells, whips, bats, rods, skates, boxing-gloves, a big bath-pan and a small library, consisting chiefly of books on games, horses, health, hunting, and travels. In winter his mother made things more comfortable by introducing rugs, curtains, and a fire. Jack, also, relented slightly in the severity of his training, occasionally indulging in the national buckwheat cake, instead of the prescribed oatmeal porridge, for breakfast, omitting his cold bath when the thermometer was below zero, and dancing at night, instead of running a given distance by day.

Now, however, he was a helpless captive, given over to all sorts of coddling, laziness, and luxury, and there was a droll mixture of mirth and melancholy in his face, as he lay trussed up in bed, watching the comforts which had suddenly robbed his room of its Spartan simplicity. A delicious couch was there, with Frank reposing in its depths, half hidden under several folios which he was consulting for a history of the steam-engine, the subject of his next composition.

A white-covered table stood near, with all manner of dainties set forth in a way to tempt the sternest principles. Vases of flowers bloomed on the chimney-piece, -- gifts from anxious young ladies, left with their love. Frivolous story-books and picture-papers strewed the bed, now shrouded in effeminate chintz curtains, beneath which Jack lay like a wounded warrior in his tent. But the saddest sight for our crippled athlete was a glimpse, through a half-opened door, at the beloved dumb-bells, bats, balls, boxing-gloves, and snow-shoes, all piled ignominiously away in the bath-pan, mournfully recalling the fact that their day was over, now, at least for some time.

He was about to groan dismally, when his eye fell on a sight which made him swallow the groan, and cough instead, as if it choked him a little. The sight was his mother's face, as she sat in a low chair rolling bandages, with a basket beside her in which were piles of old linen, lint, plaster, and other matters, needed for the dressing of wounds. As he looked, Jack remembered how steadily and tenderly she had stood by him all through the hard times just past, and how carefully she had bathed and dressed his wound each day in spite of the effort it cost her to give him pain or even see him suffer.

"That's a better sort of strength than swinging twenty-pound dumb-bells or running races; I guess I'll try for that kind, too, and not howl or let her see me squirm when the doctor hurts," thought the boy, as he saw that gentle face so pale and tired with much watching and anxiety, yet so patient, serene, and cheerful, that it was like sunshine.

"Lie down and take a good nap, mother dear, I feel first-rate, and Frank can see to me if I want anything. Do, now," he added, with a persuasive nod toward the couch, and a boyish relish in stirring up his lazy brother.

After some urging, Mamma consented to go to her room for forty winks, leaving Jack in the care of Frank, begging him to be as quiet as possible if the dear boy wished to sleep, and to amuse him if he did not.

Being worn out, Mrs. Minot lengthened her forty winks into a three hours' nap, and as the "dear boy" scorned repose, Mr. Frank had his hands full while on guard.

"I'll read to you. Here's Watt, Arkwright, Fulton, and a lot of capital fellows, with pictures that will do your heart good. Have a bit, will you?" asked the new nurse, flapping the leaves invitingly. -- for Frank had a passion for such things, and drew steam-engines all over his slate, as Tommy Traddles drew hosts of skeletons when low in his spirits.

"I don't want any of your old boilers and stokers and whirligigs. I'm tired of reading, and want something regularly jolly," answered Jack, who had been chasing white buffaloes with "The Hunters of the West," till he was a trifle tired and fractious.

"Play cribbage, euchre, anything you like;" and Frank obligingly disinterred himself from under the folios, feeling that it was hard for a fellow to lie flat a whole week.

"No fun; just two of us. Wish school was over, so the boys would come in; doctor said I might see them now."

"They'll be along by and by, and I'll hail them. Till then, what shall we do? I'm your man for anything, only put a name to it."

"Just wish I had a telegraph or a telephone, so I could talk to Jill. Wouldn't it be fun to pipe across and get an answer!"

"I'll make either you say;" and Frank looked as if trifles of that sort were to be had for the asking.

"Could you, really?"

"We'll start the telegraph first, then you can send things over if you like," said Frank, prudently proposing the surest experiment.

"Go ahead, then. I'd like that, and so would Jill, for I know she wants to hear from me."

"There's one trouble, though; I shall have to leave you alone for a few minutes while I rig up the ropes;" and Frank looked sober, for he was a faithful boy, and did not want to desert his post.

"Oh, never mind; I won't want anything. If I do, I can pound for Ann."

"And wake mother. I'll fix you a better way than that;" and, full of inventive genius, our young Edison spliced the poker to part of a fishing-rod in a jiffy, making a long-handled hook which reached across the room.

"There's an arm for you; now hook away, and let's see how it works," he said, handing over the instrument to Jack, who proceeded to show its unexpected capabilities by hooking the cloth off the table in attempting to get his handkerchief, catching Frank by the hair when fishing for a book, and breaking a pane of glass in trying to draw down the curtain.

"It's so everlasting long, I can't manage it," laughed Jack, as it finally caught in his bed-hangings, and nearly pulled them, ring and all, down upon his head.

"Let it alone, unless you need something very much, and don't bother about the glass. It's just what we want for the telegraph wire or rope to go through. Keep still, and I'll have the thing running in ten minutes;" and, delighted with the job, Frank hurried away, leaving Jack to compose a message to send as soon as it was possible.

"What in the world is that flying across the Minots' yard, -- a brown hen or a boy's kite?" exclaimed old Miss Hopkins, peering out of her window at the singular performances going on in her opposite neighbor's garden.

First, Frank appeared with a hatchet and chopped a clear space in the hedge between his own house and the cottage; next, a clothes line was passed through this aperture and fastened somewhere on the other side; lastly, a small covered basket, slung on this rope, was seen hitching along, drawn either way by a set of strings; then, as if satisfied with his job, Frank retired, whistling "Hail Columbia."

"It's those children at their pranks again. I thought broken bones wouldn't keep them out of mischief long," said the old lady, watching with great interest the mysterious basket travelling up and down the rope from the big house to the cottage.

If she had seen what came and went over the wires of the "Great International Telegraph," she would have laughed till her spectacles flew off her Roman nose. A letter from Jack, with a large orange, went first, explaining the new enterprise: -- 

"Dear Jill, -- It's too bad you can't come over to see me. I am pretty well, but awful tired of keeping still. I want to see you ever so much. Frank has fixed us a telegraph, so we can write and send things. Won't it be jolly! I can't look out to see him do it; but, when you pull your string, my little bell rings, and I know a message is coming. I send you an orange. Do you like gorver jelly? People send in lots of goodies, and we will go halves. Good-by.

"Jack"

Away went the basket, and in fifteen minutes it came back from the cottage with nothing in it but the orange.

"Hullo! Is she mad?" asked Jack, as Frank brought the despatch for him to examine.

But, at the first touch, the hollow peel opened, and out fell a letter, two gum-drops, and an owl made of a peanut, with round eyes drawn at the end where the stem formed a funny beak. Two bits of straw were the legs, and the face looked so like Dr. Whiting that both boys laughed at the sight.

"That's so like Jill; she'd make fun if she was half dead. Let's see what she says;" and Jack read the little note, which showed a sad neglect of the spelling-book: -- 

"Dear Jacky, -- I can't stir and it's horrid. The telly graf is very nice and we will have fun with it. I never ate any gorver jelly. The orange was first rate. Send me a book to read. All about bears and ships and crockydiles. The doctor was coming to see you, so I sent him the quickest way. Molly Loo says it is dreadful lonesome at school without us. Yours truly,

"Jill"

Jack immediately despatched the book and a sample of guava jelly, which unfortunately upset on the way, to the great detriment of "The Wild Beasts of Asia and Africa." Jill promptly responded with the loan of a tiny black kitten, who emerged spitting and scratching, to Jack's great delight; and he was cudgelling his brains as to how a fat white rabbit could be transported, when a shrill whistle from without saved Jill from that inconvenient offering.

"It's the fellows; do you want to see them?" asked Frank, gazing down with calm superiority upon the three eager faces which looked up at him.

"Guess I do!" and Jack promptly threw the kitten overboard, scorning to be seen by any manly eye amusing himself with such girlish toys.

Bang! went the front door; tramp, tramp, tramp, came six booted feet up the stairs; and, as Frank threw wide the door, three large beings paused on the threshold to deliver the courteous "Hullo!" which is the established greeting among boys on all social occasions.

"Come along, old fellows; I'm ever so glad to see you!" cried the invalid, with such energetic demonstrations of the arms that he looked as if about to fly or crow, like an excited young cockerel.

"How are you, Major?"

"Does the leg ache much, Jack?"

"Mr. Phipps says you'll have to pay for the new rails."

With these characteristic greetings, the gentlemen cast away their hats and sat down, all grinning cheerfully, and all with eyes irresistibly fixed upon the dainties, which proved too much for the politeness of ever-hungry boys.

"Help yourselves," said Jack, with a hospitable wave. "All the dear old ladies in town have been sending in nice things, and I can't begin to eat them up. Lend a hand and clear away this lot, or we shall have to throw them out of the window. Bring on the doughnuts and the tarts and the shaky stuff in the entry closet, Frank, and let's have a lark."

No sooner said than done. Gus took the tarts, Joe the doughnuts, Ed the jelly, and Frank suggested "spoons all round" for the Italian cream. A few trifles in the way of custard, fruit, and wafer biscuits were not worth mentioning; but every dish was soon emptied, and Jack said, as he surveyed the scene of devastation with great satisfaction, -- 

"Call again to-morrow, gentlemen, and we will have another bout. Free lunches at 5 P.M. till further notice. Now tell me all the news."

For half an hour, five tongues went like mill clappers, and there is no knowing when they would have stopped if the little bell had not suddenly rung with a violence that made them jump.

"That's Jill; see what she wants, Frank;" and while his brother sent off the basket, Jack told about the new invention, and invited his mates to examine and admire.

They did so, and shouted with merriment when the next despatch from Jill arrived. A pasteboard jumping-jack, with one leg done up in cotton-wool to preserve the likeness, and a great lump of molasses candy in a brown paper, with accompanying note: -- 

"Dear Sir, -- I saw the boys go in, and know you are having a nice time, so I send over the candy Molly Loo and Merry brought me. Mammy says I can't eat it, and it will all melt away if I keep it. Also a picture of Jack Minot, who will dance on one leg and waggle the other, and make you laugh. I wish I could come, too. Don't you hate grewel? I do. -- In haste,

"J.P."

"Let's all send her a letter," proposed Jack, and out came pens, ink, paper, and the lamp, and every one fell to scribbling. A droll collection was the result, for Frank drew a picture of the fatal fall with broken rails flying in every direction, Jack with his head swollen to the size of a balloon, and Jill in two pieces, while the various boys and girls were hit off with a sly skill that gave Gus legs like a stork, Molly Loo hair several yards long, and Boo a series of visible howls coming out of an immense mouth in the shape of o's. The oxen were particularly good, for their horns branched like those of the moose, and Mr. Grant had a patriarchal beard which waved in the breeze as he bore the wounded girl to a sled very like a funeral pyre, the stakes being crowned with big mittens like torches.

"You ought to be an artist. I never saw such a dabster as you are. That's the very moral of Joe, all in a bunch on the fence, with a blot to show how purple his nose was," said Gus, holding up the sketch for general criticism and admiration.

"I'd rather have a red nose than legs like a grasshopper; so you needn't twit, Daddy," growled Joe, quite unconscious that a blot actually did adorn his nose, as he labored over a brief despatch.

The boys enjoyed the joke, and one after the other read out his message to the captive lady: -- 

"Dear Jill, -- Sorry you ain't here. Great fun. Jack pretty lively. Laura and Lot would send love if they knew of the chance. Fly round and get well.

"Gus"

"Dear Gilliflower, -- Hope you are pretty comfortable in your 'dungeon cell.' Would you like a serenade when the moon comes? Hope you will soon be up again, for we miss you very much. Shall be very happy to help in any way I can. Love to your mother. Your true friend,

"E.D."

"Miss Pecq.

"Dear Madam, -- I am happy to tell you that we are all well, and hope you are the same. I gave Jem Cox a licking because he went to your desk. You had better send for your books. You won't have to pay for the sled or the fence. Jack says he will see to it. We have been having a spread over here. First-rate things. I wouldn't mind breaking a leg, if I had such good grub and no chores to do. No more now, from yours, with esteem,

"Joseph P. Flint"

Joe thought that an elegant epistle, having copied portions of it from the "Letter Writer," and proudly read it off to the boys, who assured him that Jill would be much impressed.

"Now, Jack, hurry up and let us send the lot off, for we must go," said Gus, as Frank put the letters in the basket, and the clatter of tea-things was heard below.

"I'm not going to show mine. It's private and you mustn't look," answered Jack, patting down an envelope with such care that no one had a chance to peep.

But Joe had seen the little note copied, and while the others were at the window working the telegraph he caught up the original, carelessly thrust by Jack under the pillow, and read it aloud before any one knew what he was about.

"My Dear, -- I wish I could send you some of my good times. As I can't, I send you much love, and I hope you will try and be patient as I am going to, for it was our fault, and we must not make a fuss now. Ain't mothers sweet? Mine is coming over to-morrow to see you and tell me how you are. This round thing is a kiss for good-night.

"Your Jack"

"Isn't that spoony? You'd better hide your face, I think. He's getting to be a regular mollycoddle, isn't he?" jeered Joe, as the boys laughed, and then grew sober, seeing Jack's head buried in the bedclothes, after sending a pillow at his tormentor.

It nearly hit Mrs. Minot, coming in with her patient's tea on a tray, and at sight of her the guests hurriedly took leave, Joe nearly tumbling downstairs to escape from Frank, who would have followed, if his mother had not said quickly, "Stay, and tell me what is the matter."

"Only teasing Jack a bit. Don't be mad, old boy, Joe didn't mean any harm, and it was rather soft, now wasn't it?" asked Frank, trying to appease the wounded feelings of his brother.

"I charged you not to worry him. Those boys were too much for the poor dear, and I ought not to have left him," said Mamma, as she vainly endeavored to find and caress the yellow head burrowed so far out of sight that nothing but one red ear was visible.

"He liked it, and we got on capitally till Joe roughed him about Jill. Ah, Joe's getting it now! I thought Gus and Ed would do that little job for me," added Frank, running to the window as the sound of stifled cries and laughter reached him.

The red ear heard also, and Jack popped up his head to ask, with interest, -- 

"What are they doing to him?"

"Rolling him in the snow, and he's howling like fun."

"Serves him right," muttered Jack, with a frown. Then, as a wail arose suggestive of an unpleasant mixture of snow in the mouth and thumps on the back, he burst out laughing, and said, good-naturedly, "Go and stop them, Frank; I won't mind, only tell him it was a mean trick. Hurry! Gus is so strong he doesn't know how his pounding hurts."

Off ran Frank, and Jack told his wrongs to his mother. She sympathized heartily, and saw no harm in the affectionate little note, which would please Jill, and help her to bear her trials patiently.

"It isn't silly to be fond of her, is it? She is so nice and funny, and tries to be good, and likes me, and I won't be ashamed of my friends, if folks do laugh," protested Jack, with a rap of his teaspoon.

"No, dear, it is quite kind and proper, and I'd rather have you play with a merry little girl than with rough boys till you are big enough to hold your own," answered Mamma, putting the cup to his lips that the reclining lad might take his broma without spilling.

"Pooh! I don't mean that; I'm strong enough now to take care of myself," cried Jack, stoutly. "I can thrash Joe any day, if I like. Just look at my arm; there's muscle for you!" and up went a sleeve, to the great danger of overturning the tray, as the boy proudly displayed his biceps and expanded his chest, both of which were very fine for a lad of his years. "If I'd been on my legs, he wouldn't have dared to insult me, and it was cowardly to hit a fellow when he was down."

Mrs. Minot wanted to laugh at Jack's indignation, but the bell rang, and she had to go and pull in the basket, much amused at the new game.

Burning to distinguish herself in the eyes of the big boys, Jill had sent over a tall, red flannel night-cap, which she had been making for some proposed Christmas plays, and added the following verse, for she was considered a gifted rhymester at the game parties: -- 

"When it comes night, We put out the light. Some blow with a puff, Some turn down and snuff; But neat folks prefer A nice extinguisher. So here I send you back One to put on Mr. Jack."

"Now, I call that regularly smart; not one of us could do it, and I just wish Joe was here to see it. I want to send once more, something good for tea; she hates gruel so;" and the last despatch which the Great International Telegraph carried that day was a baked apple and a warm muffin, with "J. M.'s best regards."



Chapter IV. Ward No. 2.


Things were not so gay in Ward No. 2, for Mrs. Pecq was very busy, and Jill had nothing to amuse her but flying visits from the girls, and such little plays as she could invent for herself in bed. Fortunately, she had a lively fancy, and so got on pretty well, till keeping still grew unbearable, and the active child ached in every limb to be up and out. That, however, was impossible, for the least attempt to sit or stand brought on the pain that took her breath away and made her glad to lie flat again. The doctor spoke cheerfully, but looked sober, and Mrs. Pecq began to fear that Janey was to be a cripple for life. She said nothing, but Jill's quick eyes saw an added trouble in the always anxious face, and it depressed her spirits, though she never guessed half the mischief the fall had done.

The telegraph was a great comfort, and the two invalids kept up a lively correspondence, not to say traffic in light articles, for the Great International was the only aerial express in existence. But even this amusement flagged after a time; neither had much to tell, and when the daily health bulletins had been exchanged, messages gave out, and the basket's travels grew more and more infrequent. Neither could read all the time, games were soon used up, their mates were at school most of the day, and after a week or two the poor children began to get pale and fractious with the confinement, always so irksome to young people.

"I do believe the child will fret herself into a fever, mem, and I'm clean distraught to know what to do for her. She never used to mind trifles, but now she frets about the oddest things, and I can't change them. This wall-paper is well enough, but she has taken a fancy that the spots on it look like spiders, and it makes her nervous. I've no other warm place to put her, and no money for a new paper. Poor lass! There are hard times before her, I'm fearing."

Mrs. Pecq said this in a low voice to Mrs. Minot, who came in as often as she could, to see what her neighbor needed; for both mothers were anxious, and sympathy drew them to one another. While one woman talked, the other looked about the little room, not wondering in the least that Jill found it hard to be contented there. It was very neat, but so plain that there was not even a picture on the walls, nor an ornament upon the mantel, except the necessary clock, lamp, and match-box. The paper was ugly, being a deep buff with a brown figure that did look very like spiders sprawling over it, and might well make one nervous to look at day after day.

Jill was asleep in the folding chair Dr. Whiting had sent, with a mattress to make it soft. The back could be raised or lowered at will; but only a few inches had been gained as yet, and the thin hair pillow was all she could bear. She looked very pretty as she lay, with dark lashes against the feverish cheeks, lips apart, and a cloud of curly black locks all about the face pillowed on one arm. She seemed like a brilliant little flower in that dull place, -- for the French blood in her veins gave her a color, warmth, and grace which were very charming. Her natural love of beauty showed itself in many ways: a red ribbon had tied up her hair, a gay but faded shawl was thrown over the bed, and the gifts sent her were arranged with care upon the table by her side among her own few toys and treasures. There was something pathetic in this childish attempt to beautify the poor place, and Mrs. Minot's eyes were full as she looked at the tired woman, whose one joy and comfort lay there in such sad plight.

"My dear soul, cheer up, and we will help one another through the hard times," she said, with a soft hand on the rough one, and a look that promised much.

"Please God, we will, mem! With such good friends, I never should complain. I try not to do it, but it breaks my heart to see my little lass spoiled for life, most like;" and Mrs. Pecq pressed the kind hand with a despondent sigh.

"We won't say, or even think, that, yet. Everything is possible to youth and health like Janey's. We must keep her happy, and time will do the rest, I'm sure. Let us begin at once, and have a surprise for her when she wakes."

As she spoke, Mrs. Minot moved quietly about the room, pinning the pages of several illustrated papers against the wall at the foot of the bed, and placing to the best advantage the other comforts she had brought.

"Keep up your heart, neighbor. I have an idea in my head which I think will help us all, if I can carry it out," she said, cheerily, as she went, leaving Mrs. Pecq to sew on Jack's new night-gowns, with swift fingers, and the grateful wish that she might work for these good friends forever.

As if the whispering and rustling had disturbed her, Jill soon began to stir, and slowly opened the eyes which had closed so wearily on the dull December afternoon. The bare wall with its brown spiders no longer confronted her, but the colored print of a little girl dancing to the tune her father was playing on a guitar, while a stately lady, with satin dress, ruff, and powder, stood looking on, well pleased. The quaint figure, in its belaced frock, quilted petticoat, and red-heeled shoes, seemed to come tripping toward her in such a life-like way, that she almost saw the curls blow back, heard the rustle of the rich brocade, and caught the sparkle of the little maid's bright eyes.

"Oh, how pretty! Who sent them?" asked Jill, eagerly, as her eye glanced along the wall, seeing other new and interesting things beyond: an elephant-hunt, a ship in full sail, a horse-race, and a ball-room.

"The good fairy who never comes empty-handed. Look round a bit and you will see more pretties all for you, my dearie;" and her mother pointed to a bunch of purple grapes in a green leaf plate, a knot of bright flowers pinned on the white curtain, and a gay little double gown across the foot of the bed.

Jill clapped her hands, and was enjoying her new pleasures, when in came Merry and Molly Loo, with Boo, of course, trotting after her like a fat and amiable puppy. Then the good times began; the gown was put on, the fruit tasted, and the pictures were studied like famous works of art.

"It's a splendid plan to cover up that hateful wall. I'd stick pictures all round and have a gallery. That reminds me! Up in the garret at our house is a box full of old fashion-books my aunt left. I often look at them on rainy days, and they are very funny. I'll go this minute and get every one. We can pin them up, or make paper dolls;" and away rushed Molly Loo, with the small brother waddling behind, for, when he lost sight of her, he was desolate indeed.

The girls had fits of laughter over the queer costumes of years gone by, and put up a splendid procession of ladies in full skirts, towering hats, pointed slippers, powdered hair, simpering faces, and impossible waists.

"I do think this bride is perfectly splendid, the long train and veil are so sweet," said Jill, revelling in fine clothes as she turned from one plate to another.

"I like the elephants best, and I'd give anything to go on a hunt like that!" cried Molly Loo, who rode cows, drove any horse she could get, had nine cats, and was not afraid of the biggest dog that ever barked.

"I fancy 'The Dancing Lesson;' it is so sort of splendid, with the great windows, gold chairs, and fine folks. Oh, I would like to live in a castle with a father and mother like that," said Merry, who was romantic, and found the old farmhouse on the hill a sad trial to her high-flown ideas of elegance.

"Now, that ship, setting out for some far-away place, is more to my mind. I weary for home now and then, and mean to see it again some day;" and Mrs. Pecq looked longingly at the English ship, though it was evidently outward bound. Then, as if reproaching herself for discontent, she added: "It looks like those I used to see going off to India with a load of missionaries. I came near going myself once, with a lady bound for Siam; but I went to Canada with her sister, and here I am."

"I'd like to be a missionary and go where folks throw their babies to the crocodiles. I'd watch and fish them out, and have a school, and bring them up, and convert all the people till they knew better," said warm-hearted Molly Loo, who befriended every abused animal and forlorn child she met.

"We needn't go to Africa to be missionaries; they have 'em nearer home and need 'em, too. In all the big cities there are a many, and they have their hands full with the poor, the wicked, and the helpless. One can find that sort of work anywhere, if one has a mind," said Mrs. Pecq.

"I wish we had some to do here. I'd so like to go round with baskets of tea and rice, and give out tracts and talk to people. Wouldn't you, girls?" asked Molly, much taken with the new idea.

"It would be rather nice to have a society all to ourselves, and have meetings and resolutions and things," answered Merry, who was fond of little ceremonies, and always went to the sewing circle with her mother.

"We wouldn't let the boys come in. We'd have it a secret society, as they do their temperance lodge, and we'd have badges and pass-words and grips. It would be fun if we can only get some heathen to work at!" cried Jill, ready for fresh enterprises of every sort.

"I can tell you someone to begin on right away," said her mother, nodding at her. "As wild a little savage as I'd wish to see. Take her in hand, and make a pretty-mannered lady of her. Begin at home, my lass, and you'll find missionary work enough for a while."

"Now, Mammy, you mean me! Well, I will begin; and I'll be so good, folks won't know me. Being sick makes naughty children behave in story-books, I'll see if live ones can't;" and Jill put on such a sanctified face that the girls laughed and asked for their missions also, thinking they would be the same.

"You, Merry, might do a deal at home helping mother, and setting the big brothers a good example. One little girl in a house can do pretty much as she will, especially if she has a mind to make plain things nice and comfortable, and not long for castles before she knows how to do her own tasks well," was the first unexpected reply.

Merry colored, but took the reproof sweetly, resolving to do what she could, and surprised to find how many ways seemed open to her after a few minutes' thought.

"Where shall I begin? I'm not afraid of a dozen crocodiles after Miss Bat;" and Molly Loo looked about her with a fierce air, having had practice in battles with the old lady who kept her father's house.

"Well, dear, you haven't far to look for as nice a little heathen as you'd wish;" and Mrs. Pecq glanced at Boo, who sat on the floor staring hard at them, attracted by the dread word "crocodile." He had a cold and no handkerchief, his little hands were red with chilblains, his clothes shabby, he had untidy darns in the knees of his stockings, and a head of tight curls that evidently had not been combed for some time.

"Yes, I know he is, and I try to keep him decent, but I forget, and he hates to be fixed, and Miss Bat doesn't care, and father laughs when I talk about it."

Poor Molly Loo looked much ashamed as she made excuses, trying at the same time to mend matters by seizing Boo and dusting him all over with her handkerchief, giving a pull at his hair as if ringing bells, and then dumping him down again with the despairing exclamation: "Yes, we're a pair of heathens, and there's no one to save us if I don't."

That was true enough; for Molly's father was a busy man, careless of everything but his mills, Miss Bat was old and lazy, and felt as if she might take life easy after serving the motherless children for many years as well as she knew how. Molly was beginning to see how much amiss things were at home, and old enough to feel mortified, though, as yet, she had done nothing to mend the matter except be kind to the little boy.

"You will, my dear," answered Mrs. Pecq, encouragingly, for she knew all about it. "Now you've each got a mission, let us see how well you will get on. Keep it secret, if you like, and report once a week. I'll be a member, and we'll do great things yet."

"We won't begin till after Christmas; there is so much to do, we never shall have time for any more. Don't tell, and we'll start fair at New Year's, if not before," said Jill, taking the lead as usual. Then they went on with the gay ladies, who certainly were heathen enough in dress to be in sad need of conversion, -- to common-sense at least.

"I feel as if I was at a party," said Jill, after a pause occupied in surveying her gallery with great satisfaction, for dress was her delight, and here she had every conceivable style and color.

"Talking of parties, isn't it too bad that we must give up our Christmas fun? Can't get on without you and Jack, so we are not going to do a thing, but just have our presents," said Merry, sadly, as they began to fit different heads and bodies together, to try droll effects.

"I shall be all well in a fortnight, I know; but Jack won't, for it will take more than a month to mend his poor leg. May be they will have a dance in the boys' big room, and he can look on," suggested Jill, with a glance at the dancing damsel on the wall, for she dearly loved it, and never guessed how long it would be before her light feet would keep time to music again.

"You'd better give Jack a hint about the party. Send over some smart ladies, and say they have come to his Christmas ball," proposed audacious Molly Loo, always ready for fun.

So they put a preposterous green bonnet, top-heavy with plumes, on a little lady in yellow, who sat in a carriage; the lady beside her, in winter costume of velvet pelisse and ermine boa, was fitted to a bride's head with its orange flowers and veil, and these works of art were sent over to Jack, labelled "Miss Laura and Lotty Burton going to the Minots' Christmas ball," -- a piece of naughtiness on Jill's part, for she knew Jack liked the pretty sisters, whose gentle manners made her own wild ways seem all the more blamable.

No answer came for a long time, and the girls had almost forgotten their joke in a game of Letters, when "Tingle, tangle!" went the bell, and the basket came in heavily laden. A roll of colored papers was tied outside, and within was a box that rattled, a green and silver horn, a roll of narrow ribbons, a spool of strong thread, some large needles, and a note from Mrs. Minot: -- 

"Dear Jill, -- I think of having a Christmas tree so that our invalids can enjoy it, and all your elegant friends are cordially invited. Knowing that you would like to help, I send some paper for sugar-plum horns and some beads for necklaces. They will brighten the tree and please the girls for themselves or their dolls. Jack sends you a horn for a pattern, and will you make a ladder-necklace to show him how? Let me know if you need anything.

"Yours in haste,

"Anna Minot"

"She knew what the child would like, bless her kind heart," said Mrs. Pecq to herself, and something brighter than the most silvery bead shone on Jack's shirt-sleeve, as she saw the rapture of Jill over the new work and the promised pleasure.

Joyful cries greeted the opening of the box, for bunches of splendid large bugles appeared in all colors, and a lively discussion went on as to the best contrasts. Jill could not refuse to let her friends share the pretty work, and soon three necklaces glittered on three necks, as each admired her own choice.

"I'd be willing to hurt my back dreadfully, if I could lie and do such lovely things all day," said Merry, as she reluctantly put down her needle at last, for home duties waited to be done, and looked more than ever distasteful after this new pleasure.

"So would I! Oh, do you think Mrs. Minot will let you fill the horns when they are done? I'd love to help you then. Be sure you send for me!" cried Molly Loo, arching her neck like a proud pigeon to watch the glitter of her purple and gold necklace on her brown gown.

"I'm afraid you couldn't be trusted, you love sweeties so, and I'm sure Boo couldn't. But I'll see about it," replied Jill, with a responsible air.

The mention of the boy recalled him to their minds, and looking round they found him peacefully absorbed in polishing up the floor with Molly's pocket-handkerchief and oil from the little machine-can. Being torn from this congenial labor, he was carried off shining with grease and roaring lustily.

But Jill did not mind her loneliness now, and sang like a happy canary while she threaded her sparkling beads, or hung the gay horns to dry, ready for their cargoes of sweets. So Mrs. Minot's recipe for sunshine proved successful, and mother-wit made the wintry day a bright and happy one for both the little prisoners.



Chapter V. Secrets


There were a great many clubs in Harmony Village, but as we intend to interest ourselves with the affairs of the young folks only, we need not dwell upon the intellectual amusements of the elders. In summer, the boys devoted themselves to baseball, the girls to boating, and all got rosy, stout, and strong, in these healthful exercises. In winter, the lads had their debating club, the lasses a dramatic ditto. At the former, astonishing bursts of oratory were heard; at the latter, everything was boldly attempted, from Romeo and Juliet to Mother Goose's immortal melodies. The two clubs frequently met and mingled their attractions in a really entertaining manner, for the speakers made good actors, and the young actresses were most appreciative listeners to the eloquence of each budding Demosthenes.

Great plans had been afoot for Christmas or New Year, but when the grand catastrophe put an end to the career of one of the best "spouters," and caused the retirement of the favorite "singing chambermaid," the affair was postponed till February, when Washington's birthday was always celebrated by the patriotic town, where the father of his country once put on his nightcap, or took off his boots, as that ubiquitous hero appears to have done in every part of the United States.

Meantime the boys were studying Revolutionary characters, and the girls rehearsing such dramatic scenes as they thought most appropriate and effective for the 22d. In both of these attempts they were much helped by the sense and spirit of Ralph Evans, a youth of nineteen, who was a great favorite with the young folks, not only because he was a good, industrious fellow, who supported his grandmother, but also full of talent, fun, and ingenuity. It was no wonder every one who really knew him liked him, for he could turn his hand to anything, and loved to do it. If the girls were in despair about a fire-place when acting "The Cricket on the Hearth," he painted one, and put a gas-log in it that made the kettle really boil, to their great delight. If the boys found the interest of their club flagging, Ralph would convulse them by imitations of the "Member from Cranberry Centre," or fire them with speeches of famous statesmen. Charity fairs could not get on without him, and in the store where he worked he did many an ingenious job, which made him valued for his mechanical skill, as well as for his energy and integrity.

Mrs. Minot liked to have him with her sons, because they also were to paddle their own canoes by and by, and she believed that, rich or poor, boys make better men for learning to use the talents they possess, not merely as ornaments, but tools with which to carve their own fortunes; and the best help toward this end is an example of faithful work, high aims, and honest living. So Ralph came often, and in times of trouble was a real rainy-day friend. Jack grew very fond of him during his imprisonment, for the good youth ran in every evening to get commissions, amuse the boy with droll accounts of the day's adventures, or invent lifts, bed-tables, and foot-rests for the impatient invalid. Frank found him a sure guide through the mechanical mysteries which he loved, and spent many a useful half-hour discussing cylinders, pistons, valves, and balance-wheels. Jill also came in for her share of care and comfort; the poor little back lay all the easier for the air-cushion Ralph got her, and the weary headaches found relief from the spray atomizer, which softly distilled its scented dew on the hot forehead till she fell asleep.

Round the beds of Jack and Jill met and mingled the schoolmates of whom our story treats. Never, probably, did invalids have gayer times than our two, after a week of solitary confinement; for school gossip crept in, games could not be prevented, and Christmas secrets were concocted in those rooms till they were regular conspirators' dens, when they were not little Bedlams.

After the horn and bead labors were over, the stringing of pop-corn on red, and cranberries on white, threads, came next, and Jack and Jill often looked like a new kind of spider in the pretty webs hung about them, till reeled off to bide their time in the Christmas closet. Paper flowers followed, and gay garlands and bouquets blossomed, regardless of the snow and frost without. Then there was a great scribbling of names, verses, and notes to accompany the steadily increasing store of odd parcels which were collected at the Minots', for gifts from every one were to ornament the tree, and contributions poured in as the day drew near.

But the secret which most excited the young people was the deep mystery of certain proceedings at the Minot house. No one but Frank, Ralph, and Mamma knew what it was, and the two boys nearly drove the others distracted by the tantalizing way in which they hinted at joys to come, talked strangely about birds, went measuring round with foot-rules, and shut themselves up in the Boys' Den, as a certain large room was called. This seemed to be the centre of operations, but beyond the fact of the promised tree no ray of light was permitted to pass the jealously guarded doors. Strange men with paste-pots and ladders went in, furniture was dragged about, and all sorts of boyish lumber was sent up garret and down cellar. Mrs. Minot was seen pondering over heaps of green stuff, hammering was heard, singular bundles were smuggled upstairs, flowering plants betrayed their presence by whiffs of fragrance when the door was opened, and Mrs. Pecq was caught smiling all by herself in a back bedroom, which usually was shut up in winter.

"They are going to have a play, after all, and that green stuff was the curtain," said Molly Loo, as the girls talked it over one day, when they sat with their backs turned to one another, putting last stitches in certain bits of work which had to be concealed from all eyes, though it was found convenient to ask one another's taste as to the color, materials, and sizes of these mysterious articles.

"I think it is going to be a dance. I heard the boys doing their steps when I went in last evening to find out whether Jack liked blue or yellow best, so I could put the bow on his pen-wiper," declared Merry, knitting briskly away at the last of the pair of pretty white bed-socks she was making for Jill right under her inquisitive little nose.

"They wouldn't have a party of that kind without Jack and me. It is only an extra nice tree, you see if it isn't," answered Jill from behind the pillows which made a temporary screen to hide the toilet mats she was preparing for all her friends.

"Every one of you is wrong, and you'd better rest easy, for you won't find out the best part of it, try as you may." And Mrs. Pecq actually chuckled as she, too, worked away at some bits of muslin, with her back turned to the very unsocial-looking group.

"Well, I don't care, we've got a secret all our own, and won't ever tell, will we?" cried Jill, falling back on the Home Missionary Society, though it was not yet begun.

"Never!" answered the girls, and all took great comfort in the idea that one mystery would not be cleared up, even at Christmas.

Jack gave up guessing, in despair, after he had suggested a new dining-room where he could eat with the family, a private school in which his lessons might go on with a tutor, or a theatre for the production of the farces in which he delighted.

"It is going to be used to keep something in that you are very fond of," said Mamma, taking pity on him at last.

"Ducks?" asked Jack, with a half pleased, half puzzled air, not quite seeing where the water was to come from.

Frank exploded at the idea, and added to the mystification by saying, -- 

"There will be one little duck and one great donkey in it." Then, fearing he had told the secret, he ran off, quacking and braying derisively.

"It is to be used for creatures that I, too, am fond of, and you know neither donkeys nor ducks are favorites of mine," said Mamma, with a demure expression, as she sat turning over old clothes for the bundles that always went to poor neighbors, with a little store of goodies, at this time of the year.

"I know! I know! It is to be a new ward for more sick folks, isn't it, now?" cried Jack, with what he thought a great proof of shrewdness.

"I don't see how I could attend to many more patients till this one is off my hands," answered Mamma, with a queer smile, adding quickly, as if she too was afraid of letting the cat out of the bag: "That reminds me of a Christmas I once spent among the hospitals and poor-houses of a great city with a good lady who, for thirty years, had made it her mission to see that these poor little souls had one merry day. We gave away two hundred dolls, several great boxes of candy and toys, besides gay pictures, and new clothes to orphan children, sick babies, and half-grown innocents. Ah, my boy, that was a day to remember all my life, to make me doubly grateful for my blessings, and very glad to serve the helpless and afflicted, as that dear woman did."

The look and tone with which the last words were uttered effectually turned Jack's thoughts from the great secret, and started another small one, for he fell to planning what he would buy with his pocket-money to surprise the little Pats and Biddies who were to have no Christmas tree.



Chapter VI. Surprises


"Is it pleasant?" was the question Jill asked before she was fairly awake on Christmas morning.

"Yes, dear; as bright as heart could wish. Now eat a bit, and then I'll make you nice for the day's pleasure. I only hope it won't be too much for you," answered Mrs. Pecq, bustling about, happy, yet anxious, for Jill was to be carried over to Mrs. Minot's, and it was her first attempt at going out since the accident.

It seemed as if nine o'clock would never come, and Jill, with wraps all ready, lay waiting in a fever of impatience for the doctor's visit, as he wished to superintend the moving. At last he came, found all promising, and having bundled up his small patient, carried her, with Frank's help, in her chair-bed to the ox-sled, which was drawn to the next door, and Miss Jill landed in the Boys' Den before she had time to get either cold or tired. Mrs. Minot took her things off with a cordial welcome, but Jill never said a word, for, after one exclamation, she lay staring about her, dumb with surprise and delight at what she saw.

The great room was entirely changed; for now it looked like a garden, or one of the fairy scenes children love, where in-doors and out-of-doors are pleasantly combined. The ceiling was pale blue, like the sky; the walls were covered with a paper like a rustic trellis, up which climbed morning-glories so naturally that the many-colored bells seemed dancing in the wind. Birds and butterflies flew among them, and here and there, through arches in the trellis, one seemed to look into a sunny summer world, contrasting curiously with the wintry landscape lying beyond the real windows, festooned with evergreen garlands, and curtained only by stands of living flowers. A green drugget covered the floor like grass, rustic chairs from the garden stood about, and in the middle of the room a handsome hemlock waited for its pretty burden. A Yule-log blazed on the wide hearth, and over the chimney-piece, framed in holly, shone the words that set all hearts to dancing, "Merry Christmas!"

"Do you like it, dear? This is our surprise for you and Jack, and here we mean to have good times together," said Mrs. Minot, who had stood quietly enjoying the effect of her work.

"Oh, it is so lovely I don't know what to say!" and Jill put up both arms, as words failed her, and grateful kisses were all she had to offer.

"Can you suggest anything more to add to the pleasantness?" asked the gentle lady, holding the small hands in her own, and feeling well repaid by the child's delight.

"Only Jack;" and Jill's laugh was good to hear, as she glanced up with merry, yet wistful eyes.

"You are right. We'll have him in at once, or he will come hopping on one leg;" and away hurried his mother, laughing, too, for whistles, shouts, thumps, and violent demonstrations of all kinds had been heard from the room where Jack was raging with impatience, while he waited for his share of the surprise.

Jill could hardly lie still when she heard the roll of another chair-bed coming down the hall, its passage enlivened with cries of "Starboard! Port! Easy now! Pull away!" from Ralph and Frank, as they steered the recumbent Columbus on his first voyage of discovery.

"Well, I call that handsome!" was Jack's exclamation, when the full beauty of the scene burst upon his view. Then he forgot all about it and gave a whoop of pleasure, for there beside the fire was an eager face, two hands beckoning, and Jill's voice crying, joyfully, -- 

"I'm here! I'm here! Oh, do come, quick!" Down the long room rattled the chair, Jack cheering all the way, and brought up beside the other one, as the long-parted friends exclaimed, with one accord, -- 

"Isn't this jolly!"

It certainly did look so, for Ralph and Frank danced a wild sort of fandango round the tree, Dr. Whiting stood and laughed, while the two mothers beamed from the door-way, and the children, not knowing whether to laugh or to cry, compromised the matter by clapping their hands and shouting, "Merry Christmas to everybody!" like a pair of little maniacs.

Then they all sobered down, and the busy ones went off to the various duties of the day, leaving the young invalids to repose and enjoy themselves together.

"How nice you look," said Jill, when they had duly admired the pretty room.

"So do you," gallantly returned Jack, as he surveyed her with unusual interest.

They did look very nice, though happiness was the principal beautifier. Jill wore a red wrapper, with the most brilliant of all the necklaces sparkling at her throat, over a nicely crimped frill her mother had made in honor of the day. All the curly black hair was gathered into a red net, and a pair of smart little moccasins covered the feet that had not stepped for many a weary day. Jack was not so gay, but had made himself as fine as circumstances would permit. A gray dressing-gown, with blue cuffs and collar, was very becoming to the blonde youth; an immaculate shirt, best studs, sleeve-buttons, blue tie, and handkerchief wet with cologne sticking out of the breast-pocket, gave an air of elegance in spite of the afghan spread over the lower portions of his manly form. The yellow hair was brushed till it shone, and being parted in the middle, to hide the black patch, made two engaging little "quirls" on his forehead. The summer tan had faded from his cheeks, but his eyes were as blue as the wintry sky, and nearly every white tooth was visible as he smiled on his partner in misfortune, saying cheerily, -- 

"I'm ever so glad to see you again; guess we are over the worst of it now, and can have good times. Won't it be fun to stay here all the while, and amuse one another?"

"Yes, indeed; but one day is so short! It will be stupider than ever when I go home to-night," answered Jill, looking about her with longing eyes.

"But you are not going home to-night; you are to stay ever so long. Didn't Mamma tell you?"

"No. Oh, how splendid! Am I really? Where will I sleep? What will Mammy do without me?" and Jill almost sat up, she was so delighted with the new surprise.

"That room in there is all fixed for you. I made Frank tell me so much. Mamma said I might tell you, but I didn't think she would be able to hold in if she saw you first. Your mother is coming, too, and we are all going to have larks together till we are well."

The splendor of this arrangement took Jill's breath away, and before she got it again, in came Frank and Ralph with two clothes-baskets of treasures to be hung upon the tree. While they wired on the candles the children asked questions, and found out all they wanted to know about the new plans and pleasures.

"Who fixed all this?"

"Mamma thought of it, and Ralph and I did it. He's the man for this sort of thing, you know. He proposed cutting out the arches and sticking on birds and butterflies just where they looked best. I put those canaries over there, they looked so well against the blue;" and Frank proudly pointed out some queer orange-colored fowls, looking as if they were having fits in the air, but very effective, nevertheless.

"Your mother said you might call this the Bird Room. We caught a scarlet-tanager for you to begin with, didn't we, Jack?" and Ralph threw a bon-bon at Jill, who looked very like a bright little bird in a warm nest.

"Good for you! Yes, and we are going to keep her in this pretty cage till we can both fly off together. I say, Jill, where shall we be in our classes when we do get back?" and Jack's merry face fell at the thought.

"At the foot, if we don't study and keep up. Doctor said I might study sometimes, if I'd lie still as long as he thought best, and Molly brought home my books, and Merry says she will come in every day and tell me where the lessons are. I don't mean to fall behind, if my backbone is cracked," said Jill, with a decided nod that made several black rings fly out of the net to dance on her forehead.

"Frank said he'd pull me along in my Latin, but I've been lazy and haven't done a thing. Let's go at it and start fair for New Year," proposed Jack, who did not love study as the bright girl did, but was ashamed to fall behind her in anything.

"All right. They've been reviewing, so we can keep up when they begin, if we work next week, while the rest have a holiday. Oh, dear, I do miss school dreadfully;" and Jill sighed for the old desk, every blot and notch of which was dear to her.

"There come our things, and pretty nice they look, too," said Jack; and his mother began to dress the tree, hanging up the gay horns, the gilded nuts, red and yellow apples and oranges, and festooning long strings of pop-corn and scarlet cranberries from bough to bough, with the glittering necklaces hung where the light would show their colors best.

"I never saw such a splendid tree before. I'm glad we could help, though we were ill. Is it all done now?" asked Jill, when the last parcel was tied on and everybody stood back to admire the pretty sight.

"One thing more. Hand me that box, Frank, and be very careful that you fasten this up firmly, Ralph," answered Mrs. Minot, as she took from its wrappings the waxen figure of a little child. The rosy limbs were very life-like, so was the smiling face under the locks of shining hair. Both plump arms were outspread as if to scatter blessings over all, and downy wings seemed to flutter from the dimpled shoulders, making an angel of the baby.

"Is it St. Nicholas?" asked Jill, who had never seen that famous personage, and knew but little of Christmas festivities.

"It is the Christ-child, whose birthday we are celebrating. I got the best I could find, for I like the idea better than old Santa Claus; though we may have him, too," said Mamma, holding the little image so that both could see it well.

"It looks like a real baby;" and Jack touched the rosy foot with the tip of his finger, as if expecting a crow from the half-open lips.

"It reminds me of the saints in the chapel of the Sacred Heart in Montreal. One little St. John looked like this, only he had a lamb instead of wings," said Jill, stroking the flaxen hair, and wishing she dared ask for it to play with.

"He is the children's saint to pray to, love, and imitate, for he never forgot them, but blessed and healed and taught them all his life. This is only a poor image of the holiest baby ever born, but I hope it will keep his memory in your minds all day, because this is the day for good resolutions, happy thoughts, and humble prayers, as well as play and gifts and feasting."

While she spoke, Mrs. Minot, touching the little figure as tenderly as if it were alive, had tied a broad white ribbon round it, and, handing it to Ralph, bade him fasten it to the hook above the tree-top, where it seemed to float as if the downy wings supported it.

Jack and Jill lay silently watching, with a sweet sort of soberness in their young faces, and for a moment the room was very still as all eyes looked up at the Blessed Child. The sunshine seemed to grow more golden as it flickered on the little head, the flames glanced about the glittering tree as if trying to climb and kiss the baby feet, and, without, a chime of bells rang sweetly, calling people to hear again the lovely story of the life begun on Christmas Day.

Only a minute, but it did them good, and presently, when the pleasant work was over, and the workers gone, the boys to church, and Mamma to see about lunch for the invalids, Jack said, gravely, to Jill, -- 

"I think we ought to be extra good, every one is so kind to us, and we are getting well, and going to have such capital times. Don't see how we can do anything else to show we are grateful."

"It isn't easy to be good when one is sick," said Jill, thoughtfully. "I fret dreadfully, I get so tired of being still. I want to scream sometimes, but I don't, because it would scare Mammy, so I cry. Do you cry, Jack?"

"Men never do. I want to tramp round when things bother me; but I can't, so I kick and say, 'Hang it!' and when I get very bad I pitch into Frank, and he lets me. I tell you, Jill, he's a good brother!" and Jack privately resolved then and there to invite Frank to take it out of him in any form he pleased as soon as health would permit.

"I rather think we shall grow good in this pretty place, for I don't see how we can be bad if we want to, it is all so nice and sort of pious here," said Jill, with her eyes on the angel over the tree.

"A fellow can be awfully hungry, I know that. I didn't half eat breakfast, I was in such a hurry to see you, and know all about the secrets. Frank kept saying I couldn't guess, that you had come, and I never would be ready, till finally I got mad and fired an egg at him, and made no end of a mess."

Jack and Jill went off into a gale of laughter at the idea of dignified Frank dodging the egg that smashed on the wall, leaving an indelible mark of Jack's besetting sin, impatience.

Just then Mrs. Minot came in, well pleased to hear such pleasant sounds, and to see two merry faces, where usually one listless one met her anxious eyes.

"The new medicine works well, neighbor," she said to Mrs. Pecq, who followed with the lunch tray.

"Indeed it does, mem. I feel as if I'd taken a sup myself, I'm that easy in my mind."

And she looked so, too, for she seemed to have left all her cares in the little house when she locked the door behind her, and now stood smiling with a clean apron on, so fresh and cheerful, that Jill hardly knew her own mother.

"Things taste better when you have someone to eat with you," observed Jack, as they devoured sandwiches, and drank milk out of little mugs with rosebuds on them.

"Don't eat too much, or you won't be ready for the next surprise," said his mother, when the plates were empty, and the last drop gone down throats dry with much chatter.

"More surprises! Oh, what fun!" cried Jill. And all the rest of the morning, in the intervals of talk and play, they tried to guess what it could be.

At two o'clock they found out, for dinner was served in the Bird Room, and the children revelled in the simple feast prepared for them. The two mothers kept the little bed-tables well supplied, and fed their nurslings like maternal birds, while Frank presided over the feast with great dignity, and ate a dinner which would have astonished Mamma, if she had not been too busy to observe how fast the mince pie vanished.

"The girls said Christmas was spoiled because of us; but I don't think so, and they won't either, when they see this splendid place and know all about our nice plans," said Jill, luxuriously eating the nut-meats Jack picked out for her, as they lay in Eastern style at the festive board.

"I call this broken bones made easy. I never had a better Christmas. Have a raisin? Here's a good fat one." And Jack made a long arm to Jill's mouth, which began to sing "Little Jack Horner" as an appropriate return.

"It would have been a lonesome one to all of us, I'm thinking, but for your mother, boys. My duty and hearty thanks to you, mem," put in grateful Mrs. Pecq, bowing over her coffee-cup as she had seen ladies bow over their wine-glasses at dinner parties in Old England.

"I rise to propose a health, Our Mothers." And Frank stood up with a goblet of water, for not even at Christmas time was wine seen on that table.

"Hip, hip, hurrah!" called Jack, baptizing himself with a good sprinkle, as he waved his glass and drank the toast with a look that made his mother's eyes fill with happy tears.

Jill threw her mother a kiss, feeling very grown up and elegant to be dining out in such style. Then they drank every one's health with much merriment, till Frank declared that Jack would float off on the deluge of water he splashed about in his enthusiasm, and Mamma proposed a rest after the merry-making.

"Now the best fun is coming, and we have not long to wait," said the boy, when naps and rides about the room had whiled away the brief interval between dinner and dusk, for the evening entertainment was to be an early one, to suit the invalids' bedtime.

"I hope the girls will like their things. I helped to choose them, and each has a nice present. I don't know mine, though, and I'm in a twitter to see it," said Jill, as they lay waiting for the fun to begin.

"I do; I chose it, so I know you will like one of them, any way."

"Have I got more than one?"

"I guess you'll think so when they are handed down. The bell was going all day yesterday, and the girls kept bringing in bundles for you; I see seven now," and Jack rolled his eyes from one mysterious parcel to another hanging on the laden boughs.

"I know something, too. That square bundle is what you want ever so much. I told Frank, and he got it for his present. It is all red and gold outside, and every sort of color inside; you'll hurrah when you see it. That roundish one is yours too; I made them," cried Jill, pointing to a flat package tied to the stem of the tree, and a neat little roll in which were the blue mittens that she had knit for him.

"I can wait;" but the boy's eyes shone with eagerness, and he could not resist firing two or three pop-corns at it to see whether it was hard or soft.

"That barking dog is for Boo, and the little yellow sled, so Molly can drag him to school, he always tumbles down so when it is slippery," continued Jill, proud of her superior knowledge, as she showed a small spotted animal hanging by its tail, with a red tongue displayed as if about to taste the sweeties in the horn below.

"Don't talk about sleds, for mercy's sake! I never want to see another, and you wouldn't, either, if you had to lie with a flat-iron tied to your ankle, as I do," said Jack, with a kick of the well leg and an ireful glance at the weight attached to the other that it might not contract while healing.

"Well, I think plasters, and liniment, and rubbing, as bad as flat-irons any day. I don't believe you have ached half so much as I have, though it sounds worse to break legs than to sprain your back," protested Jill, eager to prove herself the greater sufferer, as invalids are apt to be.

"I guess you wouldn't think so if you'd been pulled round as I was when they set my leg. Caesar, how it did hurt!" and Jack squirmed at the recollection of it.

"You didn't faint away as I did when the doctor was finding out if my vertebrums were hurt, so now!" cried Jill, bound to carry her point, though not at all clear what vertebrae were.

"Pooh! Girls always faint. Men are braver, and I didn't faint a bit in spite of all that horrid agony."

"You howled; Frank told me so. Doctor said I was a brave girl, so you needn't brag, for you'll have to go on a crutch for a while. I know that."

"You may have to use two of them for years, may be. I heard the doctor tell my mother so. I shall be up and about long before you will. Now then!"

Both children were getting excited, for the various pleasures of the day had been rather too much for them, and there is no knowing but they would have added the sad surprise of a quarrel to the pleasant ones of the day, if a cheerful whistle had not been heard, as Ralph came in to light the candles and give the last artistic touches to the room.

"Well, young folks, how goes it? Had a merry time so far?" he asked, as he fixed the steps and ran up with a lighted match in his hand.

"Very nice, thank you," answered a prim little voice from the dusk below, for only the glow of the fire filled the room just then.

Jack said nothing, and two red sulky faces were hidden in the dark, watching candle after candle sputter, brighten, and twinkle, till the trembling shadows began to flit away like imps afraid of the light.

"Now he will see my face, and I know it is cross," thought Jill, as Ralph went round the last circle, leaving another line of sparks among the hemlock boughs.

Jack thought the same, and had just got the frown smoothed out of his forehead, when Frank brought a fresh log, and a glorious blaze sprung up, filling every corner of the room, and dancing over the figures in the long chairs till they had to brighten whether they liked it or not. Presently the bell began to ring and gay voices to sound below: then Jill smiled in spite of herself as Molly Loo's usual cry of "Oh, dear, where is that child?" reached her, and Jack could not help keeping time to the march Ed played, while Frank and Gus marshalled the procession.

"Ready!" cried Mrs. Minot, at last, and up came the troop of eager lads and lasses, brave in holiday suits, with faces to match. A unanimous "O, o, o!" burst from twenty tongues, as the full splendor of the tree, the room, and its inmates, dawned upon them; for not only did the pretty Christ-child hover above, but Santa Claus himself stood below, fur-clad, white-bearded, and powdered with snow from the dredging-box.

Ralph was a good actor, and, when the first raptures were over he distributed the presents with such droll speeches, jokes, and gambols, that the room rang with merriment, and passers-by paused to listen, sure that here, at least, Christmas was merry. It would be impossible to tell about all the gifts or the joy of the receivers, but every one was satisfied, and the king and queen of the revels so overwhelmed with little tokens of good-will, that their beds looked like booths at a fair. Jack beamed over the handsome postage-stamp book which had long been the desire of his heart, and Jill felt like a millionaire, with a silver fruit-knife, a pretty work-basket, and oh! -- coals of fire on her head! -- a ring from Jack.

A simple little thing enough, with one tiny turquoise forget-me-not, but something like a dew-drop fell on it when no one was looking, and she longed to say, "I'm sorry I was cross; forgive me, Jack." But it could not be done then, so she turned to admire Merry's bed-shoes, the pots of pansies, hyacinths, and geranium which Gus and his sisters sent for her window garden, Molly's queer Christmas pie, and the zither Ed promised to teach her how to play upon.

The tree was soon stripped, and pop-corns strewed the floor as the children stood about picking them off the red threads when candy gave out, with an occasional cranberry by way of relish. Boo insisted on trying the new sled at once, and enlivened the trip by the squeaking of the spotted dog, the toot of a tin trumpet, and shouts of joy at the splendor of the turn-out.

The girls all put on their necklaces, and danced about like fine ladies at a ball. The boys fell to comparing skates, balls, and cuff-buttons on the spot, while the little ones devoted all their energies to eating everything eatable they could lay their hands on.

Games were played till nine o'clock, and then the party broke up, after they had taken hands round the tree and sung a song written by one whom you all know, -- so faithfully and beautifully does she love and labor for children the world over.

The Blessed Day

"What shall little children bring On Christmas Day, on Christmas Day? What shall little children bring On Christmas Day in the morning? This shall little children bring On Christmas Day, on Christmas Day; Love and joy to Christ their king, On Christmas Day in the morning!

"What shall little children sing On Christmas Day, on Christmas Day? What shall little children sing On Christmas Day in the morning? The grand old carols shall they sing On Christmas Day, on Christmas Day; With all their hearts, their offerings bring On Christmas Day in the morning."

Jack was carried off to bed in such haste that he had only time to call out, "Good-night!" before he was rolled away, gaping as he went. Jill soon found herself tucked up in the great white bed she was to share with her mother, and lay looking about the pleasant chamber, while Mrs. Pecq ran home for a minute to see that all was safe there for the night.

After the merry din the house seemed very still, with only a light step now and then, the murmur of voices not far away, or the jingle of sleigh-bells from without, and the little girl rested easily among the pillows, thinking over the pleasures of the day, too wide-awake for sleep. There was no lamp in the chamber, but she could look into the pretty Bird Room, where the fire-light still shone on flowery walls, deserted tree, and Christ-child floating above the green. Jill's eyes wandered there and lingered till they were full of regretful tears, because the sight of the little angel recalled the words spoken when it was hung up, the good resolution she had taken then, and how soon it was broken.

"I said I couldn't be bad in that lovely place, and I was a cross, ungrateful girl after all they've done for Mammy and me. Poor Jack was hurt the worst, and he was brave, though he did scream. I wish I could go and tell him so, and hear him say, 'All right.' Oh, me, I've spoiled the day!"

A great sob choked more words, and Jill was about to have a comfortable cry, when someone entered the other room, and she saw Frank doing something with a long cord and a thing that looked like a tiny drum. Quiet as a bright-eyed mouse, Jill peeped out wondering what it was, and suspecting mischief, for the boy was laughing to himself as he stretched the cord, and now and then bent over the little object in his hand, touching it with great care.

"May be it's a torpedo to blow up and scare me; Jack likes to play tricks. Well, I'll scream loud when it goes off, so he will be satisfied that I'm dreadfully frightened," thought Jill, little dreaming what the last surprise of the day was to be.

Presently a voice whispered, -- 

"I say! Are you awake?"

"Yes."

"Any one there but you?"

"No."

"Catch this, then. Hold it to your ear and see what you'll get."

The little drum came flying in, and, catching it, Jill, with some hesitation, obeyed Frank's order. Judge of her amazement when she caught in broken whispers these touching words: -- 

"Sorry I was cross. Forgive and forget. Start fair to-morrow. All right. Jack."

Jill was so delighted with this handsome apology, that she could not reply for a moment, then steadied her voice, and answered back in her sweetest tone, -- 

"I'm sorry, too. Never, never, will again. Feel much better now. Good-night, you dear old thing."

Satisfied with the success of his telephone, Frank twitched back the drum and vanished, leaving Jill to lay her cheek upon the hand that wore the little ring and fall asleep, saying to herself, with a farewell glance at the children's saint, dimly seen in the soft gloom, "I will not forget. I will be good!"



Chapter VII. Jill's Mission


The good times began immediately, and very little studying was done that week in spite of the virtuous resolutions made by certain young persons on Christmas Day. But, dear me, how was it possible to settle down to lessons in the delightful Bird Room, with not only its own charms to distract one, but all the new gifts to enjoy, and a dozen calls a day to occupy one's time?

"I guess we'd better wait till the others are at school, and just go in for fun this week," said Jack, who was in great spirits at the prospect of getting up, for the splints were off, and he hoped to be promoted to crutches very soon.

"I shall keep my Speller by me and take a look at it every day, for that is what I'm most backward in. But I intend to devote myself to you, Jack, and be real kind and useful. I've made a plan to do it, and I mean to carry it out, any way," answered Jill, who had begun to be a missionary, and felt that this was a field of labor where she could distinguish herself.

"Here's a home mission all ready for you, and you can be paying your debts beside doing yourself good," Mrs. Pecq said to her in private, having found plenty to do herself.

Now Jill made one great mistake at the outset -- she forgot that she was the one to be converted to good manners and gentleness, and devoted her efforts to looking after Jack, finding it much easier to cure other people's faults than her own. Jack was a most engaging heathen, and needed very little instruction; therefore Jill thought her task would be an easy one. But three or four weeks of petting and play had rather demoralized both children, so Jill's Speller, though tucked under the sofa pillow every day, was seldom looked at, and Jack shirked his Latin shamefully. Both read all the story-books they could get, held daily levees in the Bird Room, and all their spare minutes were spent in teaching Snowdrop, the great Angora cat, to bring the ball when they dropped it in their game. So Saturday came, and both were rather the worse for so much idleness, since daily duties and studies are the wholesome bread which feeds the mind better than the dyspeptic plum-cake of sensational reading, or the unsubstantial bon-bons of frivolous amusement.

It was a stormy day, so they had few callers, and devoted themselves to arranging the album; for these books were all the rage just then, and boys met to compare, discuss, buy, sell, and "swap" stamps with as much interest as men on 'Change gamble in stocks. Jack had a nice little collection, and had been saving up pocket-money to buy a book in which to preserve his treasures. Now, thanks to Jill's timely suggestion, Frank had given him a fine one, and several friends had contributed a number of rare stamps to grace the large, inviting pages. Jill wielded the gum-brush and fitted on the little flaps, as her fingers were skilful at this nice work, and Jack put each stamp in its proper place with great rustling of leaves and comparing of marks. Returning, after a brief absence, Mrs. Minot beheld the countenances of the workers adorned with gay stamps, giving them a very curious appearance.

"My dears! what new play have you got now? Are you wild Indians? or letters that have gone round the world before finding the right address?" she asked, laughing at the ridiculous sight, for both were as sober as judges and deeply absorbed in some doubtful specimen.

"Oh, we just stuck them there to keep them safe; they get lost if we leave them lying round. It's very handy, for I can see in a minute what I want on Jill's face and she on mine, and put our fingers on the right chap at once," answered Jack, adding, with an anxious gaze at his friend's variegated countenance, "Where the dickens is my New Granada? It's rare, and I wouldn't lose it for a dollar."

"Why, there it is on your own nose. Don't you remember you put it there because you said mine was not big enough to hold it?" laughed Jill, tweaking a large orange square off the round nose of her neighbor, causing it to wrinkle up in a droll way, as the gum made the operation slightly painful.

"So I did, and gave you Little Bolivar on yours. Now I'll have Alsace and Lorraine, 1870. There are seven of them, so hold still and see how you like it," returned Jack, picking the large, pale stamps one by one from Jill's forehead, which they crossed like a band.

She bore it without flinching, saying to herself with a secret smile, as she glanced at the hot fire, which scorched her if she kept near enough to Jack to help him, "This really is being like a missionary, with a tattooed savage to look after. I have to suffer a little, as the good folks did who got speared and roasted sometimes; but I won't complain a bit, though my forehead smarts, my arms are tired, and one cheek is as red as fire."

"The Roman States make a handsome page, don't they?" asked Jack, little dreaming of the part he was playing in Jill's mind. "Oh, I say, isn't Corea a beauty? I'm ever so proud of that;" and he gazed fondly on a big blue stamp, the sole ornament of one page.

"I don't see why the Cape of Good Hope has pyramids. They ought to go in Egypt. The Sandwich Islands are all right, with heads of the black kings and queens on them," said Jill, feeling that they were very appropriate to her private play.

"Turkey has crescents, Australia swans, and Spain women's heads, with black bars across them. Frank says it is because they keep women shut up so; but that was only his fun. I'd rather have a good, honest green United States, with Washington on it, or a blue one-center with old Franklin, than all their eagles and lions and kings and queens put together," added the democratic boy, with a disrespectful slap on a crowned head as he settled Heligoland in its place.

"Why does Austria have Mercury on the stamp, I wonder? Do they wear helmets like that?" asked Jill, with the brush-handle in her mouth as she cut a fresh batch of flaps.

"May be he was postman to the gods, so he is put on stamps now. The Prussians wear helmets, but they have spikes like the old Roman fellows. I like Prussians ever so much; they fight splendidly, and always beat. Austrians have a handsome uniform, though."

"Talking of Romans reminds me that I have not heard your Latin for two days. Come, lazybones, brace up, and let us have it now. I've done my compo, and shall have just time before I go out for a tramp with Gus," said Frank, putting by a neat page to dry, for he studied every day like a conscientious lad as he was.

"Don't know it. Not going to try till next week. Grind away over your old Greek as much as you like, but don't bother me," answered Jack, frowning at the mere thought of the detested lesson.

But Frank adored his Xenophon, and would not see his old friend, Caesar, neglected without an effort to defend him; so he confiscated the gum-pot, and effectually stopped the stamp business by whisking away at one fell swoop all that lay on Jill's table.

"Now then, young man, you will quit this sort of nonsense and do your lesson, or you won't see these fellows again in a hurry. You asked me to hear you, and I'm going to do it; here's the book."

Frank's tone was the dictatorial one, which Jack hated and always found hard to obey, especially when he knew he ought to do it. Usually, when his patience was tried, he strode about the room, or ran off for a race round the garden, coming back breathless, but good-tempered. Now both these vents for irritation were denied him, and he had fallen into the way of throwing things about in a pet. He longed to send Caesar to perpetual banishment in the fire blazing close by, but resisted the temptation, and answered honestly, though gruffly: "I know I did, but I don't see any use in pouncing on a fellow when he isn't ready. I haven't got my lesson, and don't mean to worry about it; so you may just give me back my things and go about your business."

"I'll give you back a stamp for every perfect lesson you get, and you won't see them on any other terms;" and, thrusting the treasures into his pocket, Frank caught up his rubber boots, and went off swinging them like a pair of clubs, feeling that he would give a trifle to be able to use them on his lazy brother.

At this high-handed proceeding, and the threat which accompanied it, Jack's patience gave out, and catching up Caesar, as he thought, sent him flying after the retreating tyrant with the defiant declaration, -- 

"Keep them, then, and your old book, too! I won't look at it till you give all my stamps back and say you are sorry. So now!"

It was all over before Mamma could interfere, or Jill do more than clutch and cling to the gum-brush. Frank vanished unharmed, but the poor book dashed against the wall to fall half open on the floor, its gay cover loosened, and its smooth leaves crushed by the blow.

"It's the album! O Jack, how could you?" cried Jill, dismayed at sight of the precious book so maltreated by the owner.

"Thought it was the other. Guess it isn't hurt much. Didn't mean to hit him, any way. He does provoke me so," muttered Jack, very red and shamefaced as his mother picked up the book and laid it silently on the table before him. He did not know what to do with himself, and was thankful for the stamps still left him, finding great relief in making faces as he plucked them one by one from his mortified countenance. Jill looked on, half glad, half sorry that her savage showed such signs of unconverted ferocity, and Mrs. Minot went on writing letters, wearing the grave look her sons found harder to bear than another person's scolding. No one spoke for a moment, and the silence was becoming awkward when Gus appeared in a rubber suit, bringing a book to Jack from Laura and a note to Jill from Lotty.

"Look here, you just trundle me into my den, please, I'm going to have a nap, it's so dull to-day I don't feel like doing much," said Jack, when Gus had done his errands, trying to look as if he knew nothing about the fracas.

Jack folded his arms and departed like a warrior borne from the battle-field, to be chaffed unmercifully for a "pepper-pot," while Gus made him comfortable in his own room.

"I heard once of a boy who threw a fork at his brother and put his eye out. But he didn't mean to, and the brother forgave him, and he never did so any more," observed Jill, in a pensive tone, wishing to show that she felt all the dangers of impatience, but was sorry for the culprit.

"Did the boy ever forgive himself?" asked Mrs. Minot.

"No, 'm; I suppose not. But Jack didn't hit Frank, and feels real sorry, I know."

"He might have, and hurt him very much. Our actions are in our own hands, but the consequences of them are not. Remember that, my dear, and think twice before you do anything."

"Yes, 'm, I will;" and Jill composed herself to consider what missionaries usually did when the natives hurled tomahawks and boomerangs at one another, and defied the rulers of the land.

Mrs. Minot wrote one page of a new letter, then stopped, pushed her papers about, thought a little, and finally got up, saying, as if she found it impossible to resist the yearning of her heart for the naughty boy, -- 

"I am going to see if Jack is covered up, he is so helpless, and liable to take cold. Don't stir till I come back."

"No, 'm, I won't."

Away went the tender parent to find her son studying Caesar for dear life, and all the more amiable for the little gust which had blown away the temporary irritability. The brothers were often called "Thunder and Lightning," because Frank lowered and growled and was a good while clearing up, while Jack's temper came and went like a flash, and the air was all the clearer for the escape of dangerous electricity. Of course Mamma had to stop and deliver a little lecture, illustrated by sad tales of petulant boys, and punctuated with kisses which took off the edge of these afflicting narratives.

Jill meantime meditated morally on the superiority of her own good temper over the hasty one of her dear playmate, and just when she was feeling unusually uplifted and secure, alas! like so many of us, she fell, in the most deplorable manner.

Glancing about the room for something to do, she saw a sheet of paper lying exactly out of reach, where it had fluttered from the table unperceived. At first her eye rested on it as carelessly as it did on the stray stamp Frank had dropped; then, as if one thing suggested the other, she took it into her head that the paper was Frank's composition, or, better still, a note to Annette, for the two corresponded when absence or weather prevented the daily meeting at school.

"Wouldn't it be fun to keep it till he gives back Jack's stamps? It would plague him so if it was a note, and I do believe it is, for compo's don't begin with two words on one side. I'll get it, and Jack and I will plan some way to pay him off, cross thing!"

Forgetting her promise not to stir, also how dishonorable it was to read other people's letters, Jill caught up the long-handled hook, often in use now, and tried to pull the paper nearer. It would not come at once, for a seam in the carpet held it, and Jill feared to tear or crumple it if she was not very careful. The hook was rather heavy and long for her to manage, and Jack usually did the fishing, so she was not very skilful; and just as she was giving a particularly quick jerk, she lost her balance, fell off the sofa, and dropped the pole with a bang.

"Oh, my back!" was all she could think or say as she felt the jar all through her little body, and a corresponding fear in her guilty little mind that someone would come and find out the double mischief she had been at. For a moment she lay quite still to recover from the shock, then as the pain passed she began to wonder how she should get back, and looked about her to see if she could do it alone. She thought she could, as the sofa was near and she had improved so much that she could sit up a little if the doctor would have let her. She was gathering herself together for the effort, when, within arm's reach now, she saw the tempting paper, and seized it with glee, for in spite of her predicament she did want to tease Frank. A glance showed that it was not the composition nor a note, but the beginning of a letter from Mrs. Minot to her sister, and Jill was about to lay it down when her own name caught her eye, and she could not resist reading it. Hard words to write of one so young, doubly hard to read, and impossible to forget.

"Dear Lizzie, -- Jack continues to do very well, and will soon be up again. But we begin to fear that the little girl is permanently injured in the back. She is here, and we do our best for her; but I never look at her without thinking of Lucinda Snow, who, you remember, was bedridden for twenty years, owing to a fall at fifteen. Poor little Janey does not know yet, and I hope" -- There it ended, and "poor little Janey's" punishment for disobedience began that instant. She thought she was getting well because she did not suffer all the time, and every one spoke cheerfully about "by and by." Now she knew the truth, and shut her eyes with a shiver as she said, low, to herself, -- 

"Twenty years! I couldn't bear it; oh, I couldn't bear it!"

A very miserable Jill lay on the floor, and for a while did not care who came and found her; then the last words of the letter -- "I hope" -- seemed to shine across the blackness of the dreadful "twenty years" and cheer her up a bit, for despair never lives long in young hearts, and Jill was a brave child.

"That is why Mammy sighs so when she dresses me, and every one is so good to me. Perhaps Mrs. Minot doesn't really know, after all. She was dreadfully scared about Jack, and he is getting well. I'd like to ask Doctor, but he might find out about the letter. Oh, dear, why didn't I keep still and let the horrid thing alone!"

As she thought that, Jill pushed the paper away, pulled herself up, and with much painful effort managed to get back to her sofa, where she laid herself down with a groan, feeling as if the twenty years had already passed over her since she tumbled off.

"I've told a lie, for I said I wouldn't stir. I've hurt my back, I've done a mean thing, and I've got paid for it. A nice missionary I am; I'd better begin at home, as Mammy told me to;" and Jill groaned again, remembering her mother's words. "Now I've got another secret to keep all alone, for I'd be ashamed to tell the girls. I guess I'll turn round and study my spelling; then no one will see my face."

Jill looked the picture of a good, industrious child as she lay with her back to the large table, her book held so that nothing was to be seen but one cheek and a pair of lips moving busily. Fortunately, it is difficult for little sinners to act a part, and, even if the face is hidden, something in the body seems to betray the internal remorse and shame. Usually, Jill lay flat and still; now her back was bent in a peculiar way as she leaned over her book, and one foot wagged nervously, while on the visible cheek was a Spanish stamp with a woman's face looking through the black bars, very suggestively, if she had known it. How long the minutes seemed till some one came, and what a queer little jump her heart gave when Mrs. Minot's voice said, cheerfully, "Jack is all right, and, I declare, so is Jill. I really believe there is a telegraph still working somewhere between you two, and each knows what the other is about without words."

"I didn't have any other book handy, so I thought I'd study awhile," answered Jill, feeling that she deserved no praise for her seeming industry.

She cast a sidelong glance as she spoke, and seeing that Mrs. Minot was looking for the letter, hid her face and lay so still she could hear the rustle of the paper as it was taken from the floor. It was well she did not also see the quick look the lady gave her as she turned the letter and found a red stamp sticking to the under side, for this unlucky little witness told the story.

Mrs. Minot remembered having seen the stamp lying close to the sofa when she left the room, for she had had half a mind to take it to Jack, but did not, thinking Frank's plan had some advantages. She also recollected that a paper flew off the table, but being in haste she had not stopped to see what it was. Now, the stamp and the letter could hardly have come together without hands, for they lay a yard apart, and here, also, on the unwritten portion of the page, was the mark of a small green thumb. Jill had been winding wool for a stripe in her new afghan, and the green ball lay on her sofa. These signs suggested and confirmed what Mrs. Minot did not want to believe; so did the voice, attitude, and air of Jill, all very unlike her usual open, alert ways.

The kind lady could easily forgive the reading of her letter since the girl had found such sad news there, but the dangers of disobedience were serious in her case, and a glance showed that she was suffering either in mind or body -- perhaps both.

"I will wait for her to tell me. She is an honest child, and the truth will soon come out," thought Mrs. Minot, as she took a clean sheet, and Jill tried to study.

"Shall I hear your lesson, dear? Jack means to recite his like a good boy, so suppose you follow his example," she said, presently.

"I don't know as I can say it, but I'll try."

Jill did try, and got on bravely till she came to the word "permanent;" there she hesitated, remembering where she saw it last.

"Do you know what that means?" asked her teacher, thinking to help her on by defining the word.

"Always -- for a great while -- or something like that; doesn't it?" faltered Jill, with a tight feeling in her throat, and the color coming up, as she tried to speak easily, yet felt so shame-stricken she could not.

"Are you in pain, my child? Never mind the lesson; tell me, and I'll do something for you."

The kind words, the soft hand on her hot cheek, and the pity in the eyes that looked at her, were too much for Jill. A sob came first, and then the truth, told with hidden face and tears that washed the blush away, and set free the honest little soul that could not hide its fault from such a friend.

"I knew it all before, and was sure you would tell me, else you would not be the child I love and like to help so well."

Then, while she soothed Jill's trouble, Mrs. Minot told her story and showed the letter, wishing to lessen, if possible, some part of the pain it had given.

"Sly old stamp! To go and tell on me when I meant to own up, and get some credit if I could, after being so mean and bad," said Jill, smiling through her tears when she saw the tell-tale witnesses against her.

"You had better stick it in your book to remind you of the bad consequences of disobedience, then perhaps this lesson will leave a 'permanent' impression on your mind and memory," answered Mrs. Minot, glad to see her natural gayety coming back, and hoping that she had forgotten the contents of the unfortunate letter. But she had not; and presently, when the sad affair had been talked over and forgiven, Jill asked, slowly, as she tried to put on a brave look, -- 

"Please tell me about Lucinda Snow. If I am to be like her, I might as well know how she managed to bear it so long."

"I'm sorry you ever heard of her, and yet perhaps it may help you to bear your trial, dear, which I hope will never be as heavy a one as hers. This Lucinda I knew for years, and though at first I thought her fate the saddest that could be, I came at last to see how happy she was in spite of her affliction, how good and useful and beloved."

"Why, how could she be? What did she do?" cried Jill, forgetting her own troubles to look up with an open, eager face again.

"She was so patient, other people were ashamed to complain of their small worries; so cheerful, that her own great one grew lighter; so industrious, that she made both money and friends by pretty things she worked and sold to her many visitors. And, best of all, so wise and sweet that she seemed to get good out of everything, and make her poor room a sort of chapel where people went for comfort, counsel, and an example of a pious life. So, you see, Lucinda was not so very miserable after all."

"Well, if I could not be as I was, I'd like to be a woman like that. Only, I hope I shall not!" answered Jill, thoughtfully at first, then coming out so decidedly with the last words that it was evident the life of a bedridden saint was not at all to her mind.

"So do I; and I mean to believe that you will not. Meantime, we can try to make the waiting as useful and pleasant as possible. This painful little back will be a sort of conscience to remind you of what you ought to do and leave undone, and so you can be learning obedience. Then, when the body is strong, it will have formed a good habit to make duty easier; and my Lucinda can be a sweet example, even while lying here, if she chooses."

"Can I?" and Jill's eyes were full of softer tears as the comfortable, cheering words sank into her heart, to blossom slowly by and by into her life, for this was to be a long lesson, hard to learn, but very useful in the years to come.

When the boys returned, after the Latin was recited and peace restored, Jack showed her a recovered stamp promptly paid by Frank, who was as just as he was severe, and Jill asked for the old red one, though she did not tell why she wanted it, nor show it put away in the spelling-book, a little seal upon a promise made to be kept.



Chapter VIII. Merry and Molly


Now let us see how the other missionaries got on with their tasks.

Farmer Grant was a thrifty, well-to-do man, anxious to give his children greater advantages than he had enjoyed, and to improve the fine place of which he was justly proud. Mrs. Grant was a notable housewife, as ambitious and industrious as her husband, but too busy to spend any time on the elegancies of life, though always ready to help the poor and sick like a good neighbor and Christian woman. The three sons -- Tom, Dick, and Harry -- were big fellows of seventeen, nineteen, and twenty-one; the first two on the farm, and the elder in a store just setting up for himself. Kind-hearted but rough-mannered youths, who loved Merry very much, but teased her sadly about her "fine lady airs," as they called her dainty ways and love of beauty.

Merry was a thoughtful girl, full of innocent fancies, refined tastes, and romantic dreams, in which no one sympathized at home, though she was the pet of the family. It did seem, to an outsider, as if the delicate little creature had got there by mistake, for she looked very like a tea-rose in a field of clover and dandelions, whose highest aim in life was to feed cows and help make root beer.

When the girls talked over the new society, it pleased Merry very much, and she decided not only to try and love work better, but to convert her family to a liking for pretty things, as she called her own more cultivated tastes.

"I will begin at once, and show them that I don't mean to shirk my duty, though I do want to be nice," thought she, as she sat at supper one night and looked about her, planning her first move.

Not a very cheering prospect for a lover of the beautiful, certainly, for the big kitchen, though as neat as wax, had nothing lovely in it, except a red geranium blooming at the window. Nor were the people all that could be desired, in some respects, as they sat about the table shovelling in pork and beans with their knives, drinking tea from their saucers, and laughing out with a hearty "Haw, haw," when anything amused them. Yet the boys were handsome, strong specimens, the farmer a hale, benevolent-looking man, the housewife a pleasant, sharp-eyed matron, who seemed to find comfort in looking often at the bright face at her elbow, with the broad forehead, clear eyes, sweet mouth, and quiet voice that came like music in among the loud masculine ones, or the quick, nervous tones of a woman always in a hurry.

Merry's face was so thoughtful that evening that her father observed it, for, when at home, he watched her as one watches a kitten, glad to see anything so pretty, young, and happy, at its play.

"Little daughter has got something on her mind, I mistrust. Come and tell father all about it," he said, with a sounding slap on his broad knee as he turned his chair from the table to the ugly stove, where three pairs of wet boots steamed underneath, and a great kettle of cider apple-sauce simmered above.

"When I've helped clear up, I'll come and talk. Now, mother, you sit down and rest; Roxy and I can do everything," answered Merry, patting the old rocking-chair so invitingly that the tired woman could not resist, especially as watching the kettle gave her an excuse for obeying.

"Well, I don't care if I do, for I've been on my feet since five o'clock. Be sure you cover things up, and shut the buttery door, and put the cat down cellar, and sift your meal. I'll see to the buckwheats last thing before I go to bed."

Mrs. Grant subsided with her knitting, for her hands were never idle; Tom tilted his chair back against the wall and picked his teeth with his pen-knife; Dick got out a little pot of grease, to make the boots water-tight; and Harry sat down at the small table to look over his accounts, with an important air, -- for every one occupied this room, and the work was done in the out-kitchen behind.

Merry hated clearing up, but dutifully did every distasteful task, and kept her eye on careless Roxy till all was in order; then she gladly went to perch on her father's knee, seeing in all the faces about her the silent welcome they always wore for the "little one."

"Yes, I do want something, but I know you will say it is silly," she began, as her father pinched her blooming cheek, with the wish that his peaches would ever look half as well.

"Shouldn't wonder if it was a doll now;" and Mr. Grant stroked her head with an indulgent smile, as if she was about six instead of fifteen.

"Why, father, you know I don't! I haven't played with dollies for years and years. No; I want to fix up my room pretty, like Jill's. I'll do it all myself, and only want a few things, for I don't expect it to look as nice as hers."

Indignation gave Merry courage to state her wishes boldly, though she knew the boys would laugh. They did, and her mother said in a tone of surprise, -- 

"Why, child, what more can you want? I'm sure your room is always as neat as a new pin, thanks to your bringing up, and I told you to have a fire there whenever you wanted to."

"Let me have some old things out of the garret, and I'll show you what I want. It is neat, but so bare and ugly I hate to be there. I do so love something pretty to look at!" and Merry gave a little shiver of disgust as she turned her eyes away from the large greasy boot Dick was holding up to be sure it was well lubricated all round.

"So do I, and that's a fact. I couldn't get on without my pretty girl here, any way. Why, she touches up the old place better than a dozen flower-pots in full blow," said the farmer, as his eye went from the scarlet geranium to the bright young face so near his own.

"I wish I had a dozen in the sitting-room window. Mother says they are not tidy, but I'd keep them neat, and I know you'd like it," broke in Merry, glad of the chance to get one of the long-desired wishes of her heart fulfilled.

"I'll fetch you some next time I go over to Ballad's. Tell me what you want, and we'll have a posy bed somewhere round, see if we don't," said her father, dimly understanding what she wanted.

"Now, if mother says I may fix my room, I shall be satisfied, and I'll do my chores without a bit of fuss, to show how grateful I am," said the girl, thanking her father with a kiss, and smiling at her mother so wistfully that the good woman could not refuse.

"You may have anything you like out of the blue chest. There's a lot of things there that the moths got at after Grandma died, and I couldn't bear to throw or give 'em away. Trim up your room as you like, and mind you don't forget your part of the bargain," answered Mrs. Grant, seeing profit in the plan.

"I won't; I'll work all the morning to-morrow, and in the afternoon I'll get ready to show you what I call a nice, pretty room," answered Merry, looking so pleased it seemed as if another flower had blossomed in the large bare kitchen.

She kept her word, and the very stormy afternoon when Jill got into trouble, Merry was working busily at her little bower. In the blue chest she found a variety of treasures, and ignoring the moth holes, used them to the best advantage, trying to imitate the simple comfort with a touch of elegance which prevailed in Mrs. Minot's back bedroom.

Three faded red-moreen curtains went up at the windows over the chilly paper shades, giving a pleasant glow to the bare walls. A red quilt with white stars, rather the worse for many washings, covered the bed, and a gay cloth the table, where a judicious arrangement of books and baskets concealed the spots. The little air-tight stove was banished, and a pair of ancient andirons shone in the fire-light. Grandma's last and largest braided rug lay on the hearth, and her brass candlesticks adorned the bureau, over the mirror of which was festooned a white muslin skirt, tied up with Merry's red sash. This piece of elegance gave the last touch to her room, she thought, and she was very proud of it, setting forth all her small store of trinkets in a large shell, with an empty scent bottle, and a clean tidy over the pincushion. On the walls she hung three old-fashioned pictures, which she ventured to borrow from the garret till better could be found. One a mourning piece, with a very tall lady weeping on an urn in a grove of willows, and two small boys in knee breeches and funny little square tails to their coats, looking like cherubs in large frills. The other was as good as a bonfire, being an eruption of Vesuvius, and very lurid indeed, for the Bay of Naples was boiling like a pot, the red sky raining rocks, and a few distracted people lying flat upon the shore. The third was a really pretty scene of children dancing round a May-pole, for though nearly a hundred years old, the little maids smiled and the boys pranced as gayly as if the flowers they carried were still alive and sweet.

"Now I'll call them all to see, and say that it is pretty. Then I'll enjoy it, and come here when things look dismal and bare everywhere else," said Merry, when at last it was done. She had worked all the afternoon, and only finished at supper time, so the candles had to be lighted that the toilette might look its best, and impress the beholders with an idea of true elegance. Unfortunately, the fire smoked a little, and a window was set ajar to clear the room; an evil-disposed gust blew in, wafting the thin drapery within reach of the light, and when Merry threw open the door proudly thinking to display her success, she was horrified to find the room in a blaze, and half her labor all in vain.

The conflagration was over in a minute, however, for the boys tore down the muslin and stamped out the fire with much laughter, while Mrs. Grant bewailed the damage to her carpet, and poor Merry took refuge in her father's arms, refusing to be comforted in spite of his kind commendation of "Grandma's fixins."

The third little missionary had the hardest time of all, and her first efforts were not much more satisfactory nor successful than the others. Her father was away from morning till night, and then had his paper to read, books to keep, or "a man to see down town," so that, after a hasty word at tea, he saw no more of the children till another evening, as they were seldom up at his early breakfast. He thought they were well taken care of, for Miss Bathsheba Dawes was an energetic, middle-aged spinster when she came into the family, and had been there fifteen years, so he did not observe, what a woman would have seen at once, that Miss Bat was getting old and careless, and everything about the house was at sixes and sevens. She took good care of him, and thought she had done her duty if she got three comfortable meals, nursed the children when they were ill, and saw that the house did not burn up. So Maria Louisa and Napoleon Bonaparte got on as they could, without the tender cares of a mother. Molly had been a happy-go-lucky child, contented with her pets, her freedom, and little Boo to love; but now she was just beginning to see that they were not like other children, and to feel ashamed of it.

"Papa is busy, but Miss Bat ought to see to us; she is paid for it, and goodness knows she has an easy time now, for if I ask her to do anything, she groans over her bones, and tells me young folks should wait on themselves. I take all the care of Boo off her hands, but I can't wash my own things, and he hasn't a decent trouser to his blessed little legs. I'd tell papa, but it wouldn't do any good; he'd only say, 'Yes, child, yes, I'll attend to it,' and never do a thing."

This used to be Molly's lament, when some especially trying event occurred, and if the girls were not there to condole with her, she would retire to the shed-chamber, call her nine cats about her, and, sitting in the old bushel basket, pull her hair about her ears, and scold all alone. The cats learned to understand this habit, and nobly did their best to dispel the gloom which now and then obscured the sunshine of their little mistress. Some of them would creep into her lap and purr till the comfortable sound soothed her irritation; the sedate elders sat at her feet blinking with such wise and sympathetic faces, that she felt as if half a dozen Solomons were giving her the sagest advice; while the kittens frisked about, cutting up their drollest capers till she laughed in spite of herself. When the laugh came, the worst of the fit was over, and she soon cheered up, dismissing the consolers with a pat all round, a feast of good things from Miss Bat's larder, and the usual speech: -- 

"Well, dears, it's of no use to worry. I guess we shall get along somehow, if we don't fret."

With which wise resolution, Molly would leave her retreat and freshen up her spirits by a row on the river or a romp with Boo, which always finished the case. Now, however, she was bound to try the new plan and do something toward reforming not only the boy's condition, but the disorder and discomfort of home.

"I'll play it is Siam, and this the house of a native, and I'm come to show the folks how to live nicely. Miss Bat won't know what to make of it, and I can't tell her, so I shall get some fun out of it, any way," thought Molly, as she surveyed the dining-room the day her mission began.

The prospect was not cheering; and, if the natives of Siam live in such confusion, it is high time they were attended to. The breakfast-table still stood as it was left, with slops of coffee on the cloth; bits of bread, egg-shells, and potato-skins lay about, and one lonely sausage was cast away in the middle of a large platter. The furniture was dusty, stove untidy, and the carpet looked as if crumbs had been scattered to chickens who declined their breakfast. Boo was sitting on the sofa, with his arm through a hole in the cover, hunting for some lost treasure put away there for safe keeping, like a little magpie as he was. Molly fancied she washed and dressed him well enough; but to-day she seemed to see more clearly, and sighed as she thought of the hard job in store for her if she gave him the thorough washing he needed, and combed out that curly mop of hair.

"I'll clear up first and do that by and by. I ought to have a nice little tub and good towels, like Mrs. Minot, and I will, too, if I buy them myself," she said, piling up cups with an energy that threatened destruction to handles.

Miss Bat, who was trailing about the kitchen, with her head pinned up in a little plaid shawl, was so surprised by the demand for a pan of hot water and four clean towels, that she nearly dropped her snuff-box, chief comfort of her lazy soul.

"What new whimsey now? Generally, the dishes stand round till I have time to pick 'em up, and you are off coasting or careering somewhere. Well, this tidy fit won't last long, so I may as well make the most of it," said Miss Bat, as she handed out the required articles, and then pushed her spectacles from the tip of her sharp nose to her sharper black eyes for a good look at the girl who stood primly before her, with a clean apron on and her hair braided up instead of flying wildly about her shoulders.

"Umph!" was all the comment that Miss Bat made on this unusual neatness, and she went on scraping her saucepans, while Molly returned to her work, very well pleased with the effect of her first step, for she felt that the bewilderment of Miss Bat would be a constant inspiration to fresh efforts.

An hour of hard work produced an agreeable change in the abode of the native, for the table was cleared, room swept and dusted, fire brightened, and the holes in the sofa-covering were pinned up till time could be found to mend them. To be sure, rolls of lint lay in corners, smears of ashes were on the stove hearth, and dust still lurked on chair rounds and table legs. But too much must not be expected of a new convert, so the young missionary sat down to rest, well pleased and ready for another attempt as soon as she could decide in what direction it should be made. She quailed before Boo as she looked at the unconscious innocent peacefully playing with the spotted dog, now bereft of his tail, and the lone sausage with which he was attempting to feed the hungry animal, whose red mouth always gaped for more.

"It will be an awful job, and he is so happy I won't plague him yet. Guess I'll go and put my room to rights first, and pick up some clean clothes to put on him, if he is alive after I get through with him," thought Molly, foreseeing a stormy passage for the boy, who hated a bath as much as some people hate a trip across the Atlantic.

Up she went, and finding the fire out felt discouraged, thought she would rest a little more, so retired under the blankets to read one of the Christmas books. The dinner-bell rang while she was still wandering happily in "Nelly's Silver Mine," and she ran down to find that Boo had laid out a railroad all across her neat room, using bits of coal for sleepers and books for rails, over which he was dragging the yellow sled laden with a dismayed kitten, the tailless dog, and the remains of the sausage, evidently on its way to the tomb, for Boo took bites at it now and then, no other lunch being offered him.

"Oh dear! why can't boys play without making such a mess," sighed Molly, picking up the feathers from the duster with which Boo had been trying to make a "cocky-doo" of the hapless dog. "I'll wash him right after dinner, and that will keep him out of mischief for a while," she thought, as the young engineer unsuspiciously proceeded to ornament his already crocky countenance with squash, cranberry sauce, and gravy, till he looked more like a Fiji chief in full war-paint than a Christian boy.

"I want two pails of hot water, please, Miss Bat, and the big tub," said Molly, as the ancient handmaid emptied her fourth cup of tea, for she dined with the family, and enjoyed her own good cooking in its prime.

"What are you going to wash now?"

"Boo -- I'm sure he needs it enough;" and Molly could not help laughing as the victim added to his brilliant appearance by smearing the colors all together with a rub of two grimy hands, making a fine "Turner" of himself.

"Now, Maria Louisa Bemis, you ain't going to cut up no capers with that child! The idea of a hot bath in the middle of the day, and him full of dinner, and croupy into the bargain! Wet a corner of a towel at the kettle-spout and polish him off if you like, but you won't risk his life in no bath-tubs this cold day."

Miss Bat's word was law in some things, so Molly had to submit, and took Boo away, saying, loftily, as she left the room, -- 

"I shall ask father, and do it to-night, for I will not have my brother look like a pig."

"My patience! how the Siamese do leave their things round," she exclaimed, as she surveyed her room after making up the fire and polishing off Boo. "I'll put things in order, and then mend up my rags, if I can find my thimble. Now, let me see;" and she went to exploring her closet, bureau, and table, finding such disorder everywhere that her courage nearly gave out.

She had clothes enough, but all needed care; even her best dress had two buttons off, and her Sunday hat but one string. Shoes, skirts, books, and toys lay about, and her drawers were a perfect chaos of soiled ruffles, odd gloves, old ribbons, boot lacings, and bits of paper.

"Oh, my heart, what a muddle! Mrs. Minot wouldn't think much of me if she could see that," said Molly, recalling how that lady once said she could judge a good deal of a little girl's character and habits by a peep at her top drawer, and went on, with great success, to guess how each of the school-mates kept her drawer.

"Come, missionary, clear up, and don't let me find such a glory-hole again, or I'll report you to the society," said Molly, tipping the whole drawer-full out upon the bed, and beguiling the tiresome job by keeping up the new play.

Twilight came before it was done, and a great pile of things loomed up on her table, with no visible means of repair, -- for Molly's work-basket was full of nuts, and her thimble down a hole in the shed-floor, where the cats had dropped it in their play.

"I'll ask Bat for hooks and tape, and papa for some money to buy scissors and things, for I don't know where mine are. Glad I can't do any more now! Being neat is such hard work!" and Molly threw herself down on the rug beside the old wooden cradle in which Boo was blissfully rocking, with a cargo of toys aboard.

She watched her time, and as soon as her father had done supper, she hastened to say, before he got to his desk, -- 

"Please, papa, I want a dollar to get some brass buttons and things to fix Boo's clothes with. He wore a hole in his new trousers coasting down the Kembles' steps. And can't I wash him? He needs it, and Miss Bat won't let me have a tub."

"Certainly, child, certainly; do what you like, only don't keep me. I must be off, or I shall miss Jackson, and he's the man I want;" and, throwing down two dollars instead of one, Mr. Bemis hurried away, with a vague impression that Boo had swallowed a dozen brass buttons, and Miss Bat had been coasting somewhere in a bath-pan; but catching Jackson was important, so he did not stop to investigate.

Armed with the paternal permission, Molly carried her point, and oh, what a dreadful evening poor Boo spent! First, he was decoyed upstairs an hour too soon, then put in a tub by main force and sternly scrubbed, in spite of shrieks that brought Miss Bat to the locked door to condole with the sufferer, scold the scrubber, and depart, darkly prophesying croup before morning.

"He always howls when he is washed; but I shall do it, since you won't, and he must get used to it. I will not have people tell me he's neglected, if I can help it," cried Molly, working away with tears in her eyes -- for it was as hard for her as for Boo; but she meant to be thorough for once in her life, no matter what happened.

When the worst was over, she coaxed him with candy and stories till the long task of combing out the curls was safely done; then, in the clean night-gown with a blue button newly sewed on, she laid him in bed, worn out, but sweet as a rose.

"Now, say your prayers, darling, and go to sleep with the nice red blanket all tucked round so you won't get cold," said Molly, rather doubtful of the effect of the wet head.

"No, I won't! Going to sleep now!" and Boo shut his eyes wearily, feeling that his late trials had not left him in a prayerful mood.

"Then you'll be a real little heathen, as Mrs. Pecq called you, and I don't know what I shall do with you," said Molly, longing to cuddle rather than scold the little fellow, whose soul needed looking after as well as his body.

"No, no; I won't be a heevin! I don't want to be frowed to the trockindiles. I will say my prayers! oh, I will!" and, rising in his bed, Boo did so, with the devotion of an infant Samuel, for he remembered the talk when the society was formed.

Molly thought her labors were over for that night, and soon went to bed, tired with her first attempts. But toward morning she was wakened by the hoarse breathing of the boy, and was forced to patter away to Miss Bat's room, humbly asking for the squills, and confessing that the prophecy had come to pass.

"I knew it! Bring the child to me, and don't fret. I'll see to him, and next time you do as I say," was the consoling welcome she received as the old lady popped up a sleepy but anxious face in a large flannel cap, and shook the bottle with the air of a general who had routed the foe before and meant to do it again.

Leaving her little responsibility in Miss Bat's arms, Molly retired to wet her pillow with a few remorseful tears, and to fall asleep, wondering if real missionaries ever killed their pupils in the process of conversion.

So the girls all failed in the beginning; but they did not give up, and succeeded better next time, as we shall see.



Chapter IX. The Debating Club


"Look here, old man, we ought to have a meeting. Holidays are over, and we must brace up and attend to business," said Frank to Gus, as they strolled out of the schoolyard one afternoon in January, apparently absorbed in conversation, but in reality waiting for a blue cloud and a scarlet feather to appear on the steps.

"All right. When, where, and what?" asked Gus, who was a man of few words.

"To-night, our house, subject, 'Shall girls go to college with us?' Mother said we had better be making up our minds, because every one is talking about it, and we shall have to be on one side or the other, so we may as well settle it now," answered Frank, for there was an impression among the members that all vexed questions would be much helped by the united eloquence and wisdom of the club.

"Very good; I'll pass the word and be there. Hullo, Neddy! The D.C. meets to-night, at Minot's, seven sharp. Co-ed, &c.," added Gus, losing no time, as a third boy came briskly round the corner, with a little bag in his hand.

"I'll come. Got home an hour earlier to-night, and thought I'd look you up as I went by," responded Ed Devlin, as he took possession of the third post, with a glance toward the schoolhouse to see if a seal-skin cap, with a long, yellow braid depending therefrom, was anywhere in sight.

"Very good of you, I'm sure," said Gus, ironically, not a bit deceived by this polite attention.

"The longest way round is sometimes the shortest way home, hey, Ed?" and Frank gave him a playful poke that nearly sent him off his perch.

Then they all laughed at some joke of their own, and Gus added, "No girls coming to hear us to-night. Don't think it, my son.

"More's the pity," and Ed shook his head regretfully over the downfall of his hopes.

"Can't help it; the other fellows say they spoil the fun, so we have to give in, sometimes, for the sake of peace and quietness. Don't mind having them a bit myself," said Frank, in such a tone of cheerful resignation that they laughed again, for the "Triangle," as the three chums were called, always made merry music.

"We must have a game party next week. The girls like that, and so do I," candidly observed Gus, whose pleasant parlors were the scene of many such frolics.

"And so do your sisters and your cousins and your aunts," hummed Ed, for Gus was often called Admiral because he really did possess three sisters, two cousins, and four aunts, besides mother and grandmother, all living in the big house together.

The boys promptly joined in the popular chorus, and other voices all about the yard took it up, for the "Pinafore" epidemic raged fearfully in Harmony Village that winter.

"How's business?" asked Gus, when the song ended, for Ed had not returned to school in the autumn, but had gone into a store in the city.

"Dull; things will look up toward spring, they say. I get on well enough, but I miss you fellows dreadfully;" and Ed put a hand on the broad shoulder of each friend, as if he longed to be a school-boy again.

"Better give it up and go to college with me next year," said Frank, who was preparing for Boston University, while Gus fitted for Harvard.

"No; I've chosen business, and I mean to stick to it, so don't you unsettle my mind. Have you practised that March?" asked Ed, turning to a gayer subject, for he had his little troubles, but always looked on the bright side of things.

"Skating is so good, I don't get much time. Come early, and we'll have a turn at it."

"I will. Must run home now."

"Pretty cold loafing here."

"Mail is in by this time."

And with these artless excuses the three boys leaped off the posts, as if one spring moved them, as a group of girls came chattering down the path. The blue cloud floated away beside Frank, the scarlet feather marched off with the Admiral, while the fur cap nodded to the gray hat as two happy faces smiled at each other.

The same thing often happened, for twice a-day the streets were full of young couples walking to and from school together, smiled at by the elders, and laughed at by the less susceptible boys and girls, who went alone or trooped along in noisy groups. The prudent mothers had tried to stop this guileless custom, but found it very difficult, as the fathers usually sympathized with their sons, and dismissed the matter with the comfortable phrase, "Never mind; boys will be boys." "Not forever," returned the anxious mammas, seeing the tall lads daily grow more manly, and the pretty daughters fast learning to look demure when certain names were mentioned.

It could not be stopped without great parental sternness and the danger of deceit, for co-education will go on outside of school if not inside, and the safest way is to let sentiment and study go hand in hand, with teachers and parents to direct and explain the great lesson all are the better for learning soon or late. So the elders had to give in, acknowledging that this sudden readiness to go to school was a comfort, that the new sort of gentle emulation worked wonders in lazy girls and boys, and that watching these "primrose friendships" bud, blossom, and die painless deaths, gave a little touch of romance to their own work-a-day lives.

"On the whole I'd rather have my sons walking, playing, and studying with bright, well-mannered girls, than always knocking about with rough boys," said Mrs. Minot at one of the Mothers' Meetings, where the good ladies met to talk over their children, and help one another to do their duty by them.

"I find that Gus is more gentle with his sisters since Juliet took him in hand, for he wants to stand well with her, and they report him if he troubles them. I really see no harm in the little friendship, though I never had any such when I was a girl," said Mrs. Burton, who adored her one boy and was his confidante.

"My Merry seems to be contented with her brothers so far, but I shouldn't wonder if I had my hands full by and by," added Mrs. Grant, who already foresaw that her sweet little daughter would be sought after as soon as she should lengthen her skirts and turn up her bonny brown hair.

Molly Loo had no mother to say a word for her, but she settled matters for herself by holding fast to Merry, and declaring that she would have no escort but faithful Boo.

It is necessary to dwell a moment upon this new amusement, because it was not peculiar to Harmony Village, but appears everywhere as naturally as the game parties and croquet which have taken the place of the husking frolics and apple-bees of olden times, and it is impossible to dodge the subject if one attempts to write of boys and girls as they really are nowadays.

"Here, my hero, see how you like this. If it suits, you will be ready to march as soon as the doctor gives the word," said Ralph, coming into the Bird Room that evening with a neat little crutch under his arm.

"Ha, ha, that looks fine! I'd like to try it right off, but I won't till I get leave. Did you make it yourself, Ral?" asked Jack, handling it with delight, as he sat bolt upright, with his leg on a rest, for he was getting on capitally now.

"Mostly. Rather a neat job, I flatter myself."

"I should say so. What a clever fellow you are! Any new inventions lately?" asked Frank, coming up to examine and admire.

"Only an anti-snoring machine and an elbow-pad," answered Ralph, with a twinkle in his eye, as if reminded of something funny.

"Go on, and tell about them. I never heard of an anti-snorer. Jack better have one," said Frank, interested at once.

"Well, a rich old lady kept her family awake with that lively music, so she sent to Shirtman and Codleff for something to stop it. They thought it was a good joke, and told me to see what I could do. I thought it over, and got up the nicest little affair you ever saw. It went over the mouth, and had a tube to fit the ear, so when the lady snored she woke herself up and stopped it. It suited exactly. I think of taking out a patent," concluded Ralph, joining in the boys' laugh at the droll idea.

"What was the pad?" asked Frank, returning to the small model of an engine he was making.

"Oh, that was a mere trifle for a man who had a tender elbow-joint and wanted something to protect it. I made a little pad to fit on, and his crazy-bone was safe."

"I planned to have you make me a new leg if this one was spoilt," said Jack, sure that his friend could invent anything under the sun.

"I'd do my best for you. I made a hand for a fellow once, and that got me my place, you know," answered Ralph, who thought little of such mechanical trifles, and longed to be painting portraits or modelling busts, being an artist as well as an inventor.

Here Gus, Ed, and several other boys came in, and the conversation became general. Grif, Chick, and Brickbat were three young gentlemen whose own respectable names were usually ignored, and they cheerfully answered to these nicknames.

As the clock struck seven, Frank, who ruled the club with a rod of iron when Chairman, took his place behind the study table. Seats stood about it, and a large, shabby book lay before Gus, who was Secretary, and kept the records with a lavish expenditure of ink, to judge by the blots. The members took their seats, and nearly all tilted back their chairs and put their hands in their pockets, to keep them out of mischief; for, as every one knows, it is impossible for two lads to be near each other and refrain from tickling or pinching. Frank gave three raps with an old croquet-mallet set on a short handle, and with much dignity opened the meeting.

"Gentlemen, the business of the club will be attended to, and then we will discuss the question, 'Shall girls go to our colleges?' The Secretary will now read the report of the last meeting."

Clearing his throat, Gus read the following brief and elegant report: -- 

"Club met, December 18th, at the house of G. Burton, Esq. Subject: 'Is summer or winter best fun?' A lively pow-wow. About evenly divided. J. Flint fined five cents for disrespect to the Chair. A collection of forty cents taken up to pay for breaking a pane of glass during a free fight of the members on the door-step. E. Devlin was chosen Secretary for the coming year, and a new book contributed by the Chairman."

"That's all."

"Is there any other business before the meeting?" asked Frank, as the reader closed the old book with a slam and shoved the new one across the table.

Ed rose, and glancing about him with an appealing look, said, as if sure his proposition would not be well received, "I wish to propose the name of a new member. Bob Walker wants to join, and I think we ought to let him. He is trying to behave well, and I am sure we could help him. Can't we?"

All the boys looked sober, and Joe, otherwise Brickbat, said, bluntly, "I won't. He's a bad lot, and we don't want any such here. Let him go with chaps of his own sort."

"That is just what I want to keep him from! He's a good-hearted boy enough, only no one looks after him; so he gets into scrapes, as we should, if we were in his place, I dare say. He wants to come here, and would be so proud if he was let in, I know he'd behave. Come now, let's give him a chance," and Ed looked at Gus and Frank, sure that if they stood by him he should carry his point.

But Gus shook his head, as if doubtful of the wisdom of the plan, and Frank said gravely: "You know we made the rule that the number should never be over eight, and we cannot break it."

"You needn't. I can't be here half the time, so I will resign and let Bob have my place," began Ed, but he was silenced by shouts of "No, no, you shan't!" "We won't let you off!" "Club would go to smash, if you back out!"

"Let him have my place; I'm the youngest, and you won't miss me," cried Jack, bound to stand by Ed at all costs.

"We might do that," said Frank, who did object to small boys, though willing to admit this particular one.

"Better make a new rule to have ten members, and admit both Bob and Tom Grant," said Ralph, whereat Grif grinned and Joe scowled, for one lad liked Merry's big brother and the other did not.

"That's a good idea! Put it to vote," said Gus, too kind-hearted to shut the door on any one.

"First I want to ask if all you fellows are ready to stand by Bob, out of the club as well as in, for it won't do much good to be kind to him here and cut him at school and in the street," said Ed, heartily in earnest about the matter.

"I will!" cried Jack, ready to follow where his beloved friend led, and the others nodded, unwilling to be outdone by the youngest member.

"Good! With all of us to lend a hand, we can do a great deal; and I tell you, boys, it is time, if we want to keep poor Bob straight. We all turn our backs on him, so he loafs round the tavern, and goes with fellows we don't care to know. But he isn't bad yet, and we can keep him up, I'm sure, if we just try. I hope to get him into the Lodge, and that will be half the battle, won't it, Frank?" added Ed, sure that this suggestion would have weight with the honorable Chairman.

"Bring him along; I'm with you!" answered Frank, making up his mind at once, for he had joined the Temperance Lodge four years ago, and already six boys had followed his example.

"He is learning to smoke, but we'll make him drop it before it leads to worse. You can help him there, Admiral, if you only will," added Ed, giving a grateful look at one friend, and turning to the other.

"I'm your man;" and Gus looked as if he knew what he promised, for he had given up smoking to oblige his father, and kept his word like a hero.

"You other fellows can do a good deal by just being kind and not twitting him with old scrapes, and I'll do anything I can for you all to pay for this;" and Ed sat down with a beaming smile, feeling that his cause was won.

The vote was taken, and all hands went up, for even surly Joe gave in; so Bob and Tom were duly elected, and proved their gratitude for the honor done them by becoming worthy members of the club. It was only boys' play now, but the kind heart and pure instincts of one lad showed the others how to lend a helping hand to a comrade in danger, and win him away from temptation to the safer pastimes of their more guarded lives.

Well pleased with themselves -- for every genuine act or word, no matter how trifling it seems, leaves a sweet and strengthening influence behind -- the members settled down to the debate, which was never very long, and often only an excuse for fun of all sorts.

"Ralph, Gus, and Ed are for, and Brickbat, Grif, and Chick against, I suppose?" said Frank, surveying his company like a general preparing for battle.

"No, sir! I believe in co-everything!" cried Chick, a mild youth, who loyally escorted a chosen damsel home from school every day.

A laugh greeted this bold declaration, and Chick sat down, red but firm.

"I'll speak for two since the Chairman can't, and Jack won't go against those who pet him most to death," said Joe, who, not being a favorite with the girls, considered them a nuisance and lost no opportunity of telling them so.

"Fire away, then, since you are up;" commanded Frank.

"Well," began Joe, feeling too late how much he had undertaken, "I don't know a great deal about it, and I don't care, but I do not believe in having girls at college. They don't belong there, nobody wants 'em, and they'd better be at home darning their stockings."

"Yours, too," put in Ralph, who had heard that argument so often he was tired of it.

"Of course; that's what girls are for. I don't mind 'em at school, but I'd just as soon they had a room to themselves. We should get on better."

"You would if Mabel wasn't in your class and always ahead of you," observed Ed, whose friend was a fine scholar, and he very proud of the fact.

"Look here, if you fellows keep interrupting, I won't sit down for half an hour," said Joe, well knowing that eloquence was not his gift, but bound to have his say out.

Deep silence reigned, for that threat quelled the most impatient member, and Joe prosed on, using all the arguments he had ever heard, and paying off several old scores by sly hits of a personal nature, as older orators often do.

"It is clear to my mind that boys would get on better without any girls fooling round. As for their being as smart as we are, it is all nonsense, for some of 'em cry over their lessons every day, or go home with headaches, or get mad and scold all recess, because something 'isn't fair.' No, sir; girls ain't meant to know much, and they can't. Wise folks say so and I believe 'em. Haven't got any sisters myself, and I don't want any, for they don't seem to amount to much, according to those who do have 'em."

Groans from Gus and Ed greeted the closing remarks of the ungallant Joe, who sat down, feeling that he had made somebody squirm. Up jumped Grif, the delight of whose life was practical jokes, which amiable weakness made him the terror of the girls, though they had no other fault to find with the merry lad.

"Mr. Chairman, the ground I take is this: girls have not the strength to go to college with us. They couldn't row a race, go on a lark, or take care of themselves, as we do. They are all well enough at home, and I like them at parties, but for real fun and go I wouldn't give a cent for them," began Grif, whose views of a collegiate life were confined to the enjoyments rather than the studies of that festive period. "I have tried them, and they can't stand anything. They scream if you tell them there is a mouse in the room, and run if they see a big dog. I just put a cockroach in Molly's desk one day, and when she opened it she jumped as if she was shot."

So did the gentlemen of the club, for at that moment half-a-dozen fire-crackers exploded under the chair Grif had left, and flew wildly about the room. Order was with difficulty restored, the mischievous party summarily chastised and commanded to hold his tongue, under penalty of ejectment from the room if he spoke again. Firmly grasping that red and unruly member, Grif composed himself to listen, with his nose in the air and his eyes shining like black beads.

Ed was always the peace-maker, and now, when he rose with his engaging smile, his voice fell like oil upon the troubled waters, and his bright face was full of the becoming bashfulness which afflicts youths of seventeen when touching upon such subjects of newly acquired interest as girls and their pleasant but perplexing ways.

"It seems to me we have hardly considered the matter enough to be able to say much. But I think that school would be awfully dry and dismal without -- ahem! -- any young ladies to make it nice. I wouldn't give a pin to go if there was only a crowd of fellows, though I like a good game as well as any man. I pity any boy who has no sisters," continued Ed, warming up as he thought of his own, who loved him dearly, as well they might, for a better brother never lived. "Home wouldn't be worth having without them to look after a fellow, to keep him out of scrapes, help him with his lessons, and make things jolly for his friends. I tell you we can't do without girls, and I'm not ashamed to say that I think the more we see of them, and try to be like them in many ways, the better men we shall be by and by."

"Hear! hear!" cried Frank, in his deepest tone, for he heartily agreed to that, having talked the matter over with his mother, and received much light upon things which should always be set right in young heads and hearts. And who can do this so wisely and well as mothers, if they only will?

Feeling that his sentiments had been approved, and he need not be ashamed of the honest color in his cheeks, Ed sat down amid the applause of his side, especially of Jack, who pounded so vigorously with his crutch that Mrs. Pecq popped in her head to see if anything was wanted.

"No, thank you, ma'am, we were only cheering Ed," said Gus, now upon his legs, and rather at a loss what to say till Mrs. Pecq's appearance suggested an idea, and he seized upon it.

"My honored friend has spoken so well that I have little to add. I agree with him, and if you want an example of what girls can do, why, look at Jill. She's young, I know, but a first-rate scholar for her age. As for pluck, she is as brave as a boy, and almost as smart at running, rowing, and so on. Of course, she can't play ball -- no girl can; their arms are not made right to throw -- but she can catch remarkably well. I'll say that for her. Now, if she and Mabel -- and -- and -- some others I could name, are so clever and strong at the beginning, I don't see why they shouldn't keep up and go along with us all through. I'm willing, and will do what I can to help other fellows' sisters as I'd like to have them help mine. And I'll punch their heads if they don't;" and Gus subsided, assured, by a burst of applause, that his manly way of stating the case met with general approval.

"We shall be happy to hear from our senior member if he will honor us with a few remarks," said Frank, with a bow to Ralph.

No one ever knew whom he would choose to personate, for he never spoke in his own character. Now he rose slowly, put one hand in his bosom, and fixing his eye sternly on Grif, who was doing something suspicious with a pin, gave them a touch of Sergeant Buzfuz, from the Pickwick trial, thinking that the debate was not likely to throw much light on the subject under discussion. In the midst of this appeal to "Me lud and gentlemen of the jury," he suddenly paused, smoothed his hair down upon his forehead, rolled up his eyes, and folding his hands, droned out Mr. Chadband's sermon on Peace, delivered over poor Jo, and ending with the famous lines: -- 

"Oh, running stream of sparkling joy, To be a glorious human boy!"

Then, setting his hair erect with one comprehensive sweep, he caught up his coat-skirts over his arm, and, assuming a parliamentary attitude, burst into a comical medley, composed of extracts from Jefferson Brick's and Lafayette Kettle's speeches, and Elijah Pogram's Defiance, from "Martin Chuzzlewit." Gazing at Gus, who was convulsed with suppressed merriment, he thundered forth: -- 

"In the name of our common country, sir, in the name of that righteous cause in which we are jined, and in the name of the star-spangled banner, I thank you for your eloquent and categorical remarks. You, sir, are a model of a man fresh from Natur's mould. A true-born child of this free hemisphere; verdant as the mountains of our land; bright and flowin' as our mineral Licks; unspiled by fashion as air our boundless perearers. Rough you may be; so air our Barrs. Wild you may be; so air our Buffalers. But, sir, you air a Child of Freedom, and your proud answer to the Tyrant is, that your bright home is in the Settin' Sun. And, sir, if any man denies this fact, though it be the British Lion himself, I defy him. Let me have him here!" -- smiting the table, and causing the inkstand to skip -- "here, upon this sacred altar! Here, upon the ancestral ashes cemented with the glorious blood poured out like water on the plains of Chickabiddy Lick. Alone I dare that Lion, and tell him that Freedom's hand once twisted in his mane, he rolls a corse before me, and the Eagles of the Great Republic scream, Ha, ha!"

By this time the boys were rolling about in fits of laughter; even sober Frank was red and breathless, and Jack lay back, feebly squealing, as he could laugh no more. In a moment Ralph was as meek as a Quaker, and sat looking about him with a mildly astonished air, as if inquiring the cause of such unseemly mirth. A knock at the door produced a lull, and in came a maid with apples.

"Time's up; fall to and make yourselves comfortable," was the summary way in which the club was released from its sterner duties and permitted to unbend its mighty mind for a social half-hour, chiefly devoted to whist, with an Indian war-dance as a closing ceremony.



Chapter X. The Dramatic Club


While Jack was hopping gayly about on his crutches, poor Jill was feeling the effects of her second fall, and instead of sitting up, as she hoped to do after six weeks of rest, she was ordered to lie on a board for two hours each day. Not an easy penance, by any means, for the board was very hard, and she could do nothing while she lay there, as it did not slope enough to permit her to read without great fatigue of both eyes and hands. So the little martyr spent her first hour of trial in sobbing, the second in singing, for just as her mother and Mrs. Minot were deciding in despair that neither she nor they could bear it, Jill suddenly broke out into a merry chorus she used to hear her father sing: -- 

"Faut jouer le mirliton, Faut jouer le mirlitir, Faut jouer le mirliter, Mir -- li -- ton."

The sound of the brave little voice was very comforting to the two mothers hovering about her, and Jack said, with a look of mingled pity and admiration, as he brandished his crutch over the imaginary foes, -- 

"That's right! Sing away, and we'll play you are an Indian captive being tormented by your enemies, and too proud to complain. I'll watch the clock, and the minute time is up I'll rush in and rescue you."

Jill laughed, but the fancy pleased her, and she straightened herself out under the gay afghan, while she sang, in a plaintive voice, another little French song her father taught her: -- 

"J'avais une colombe blanche, J'avais un blanc petit pigeon, Tous deux volaient, de branche en branche, Jusqu'au faîte de mon dongeon: Mais comme un coup de vent d'automne, S'est abattu là, l'épervier, Et ma colombe si mignonne Ne revient plus au colombier."

"My poor Jean had a fine voice, and always hoped the child would take after him. It would break his heart to see her lying there trying to cheer her pain with the songs he used to sing her to sleep with," said Mrs. Pecq, sadly.

"She really has a great deal of talent, and when she is able she shall have some lessons, for music is a comfort and a pleasure, sick or well," answered Mrs. Minot, who had often admired the fresh voice, with its pretty accent.

Here Jill began the Canadian boat-song, with great vigor, as if bound to play her part of Indian victim with spirit, and not disgrace herself by any more crying. All knew the air, and joined in, especially Jack, who came out strong on the "Row, brothers, row," but ended in a squeak on a high note, so drolly, that the rest broke down. So the hour that began with tears ended with music and laughter, and a new pleasure to think of for the future.

After that day Jill exerted all her fortitude, for she liked to have the boys call her brave and admire the cheerful way in which she endured two hours of discomfort. She found she could use her zither as it lay upon her breast, and every day the pretty music began at a certain hour, and all in the house soon learned to love and listen for it. Even the old cook set open her kitchen door, saying pitifully, "Poor darlint, hear how purty she's singin', wid the pain, on that crewel boord. It's a little saint, she is. May her bed above be aisy!"

Frank would lift her gently on and off, with a kind word that comforted her immensely, and gentle Ed would come and teach her new bits of music, while the other fellows were frolicking below. Ralph added his share to her amusement, for he asked leave to model her head in clay, and set up his work in a corner, coming to pat, scrape, and mould whenever he had a spare minute, amusing her by his lively chat, and showing her how to shape birds, rabbits, and queer faces in the soft clay, when the songs were all sung and her fingers tired of the zither.

The girls sympathized very heartily with her new trial, and brought all manner of gifts to cheer her captivity. Merry and Molly made a gay screen by pasting pictures on the black cambric which covered the folding frame that stood before her to keep the draughts from her as she lay on her board. Bright birds and flowers, figures and animals, covered one side, and on the other they put mottoes, bits of poetry, anecdotes, and short stories, so that Jill could lie and look or read without the trouble of holding a book. It was not all done at once, but grew slowly, and was a source of instruction as well as amusement to them all, as they read carefully, that they might make good selections.

But the thing that pleased Jill most was something Jack did, for he gave up going to school, and stayed at home nearly a fortnight after he might have gone, all for her sake. The day the doctor said he might try it if he would be very careful, he was in great spirits, and limped about, looking up his books, and planning how he would astonish his mates by the rapidity of his recovery. When he sat down to rest he remembered Jill, who had been lying quietly behind the screen, while he talked with his mother, busy putting fresh covers on the books.

"She is so still, I guess she is asleep," thought Jack, peeping round the corner.

No, not asleep, but lying with her eyes fixed on the sunny window, beyond which the bright winter world sparkled after a fresh snow-fall. The jingle of sleigh-bells could be heard, the laughter of boys and girls on their way to school, all the pleasant stir of a new day of happy work and play for the rest of the world, more lonely, quiet, and wearisome than ever to her since her friend and fellow-prisoner was set free and going to leave her.

Jack understood that patient, wistful look, and, without a word, went back to his seat, staring at the fire so soberly, that his mother presently asked: "What are you thinking of so busily, with that pucker in your forehead?"

"I've about made up my mind that I won't go to school just yet," answered Jack, slowly lifting his head, for it cost him something to give up the long-expected pleasure.

"Why not?" and Mrs. Minot looked much surprised, till Jack pointed to the screen, and, making a sad face to express Jill's anguish, answered in a cheerful tone, "Well, I'm not sure that it is best. Doctor did not want me to go, but said I might because I teased. I shall be sure to come to grief, and then every one will say, 'I told you so,' and that is so provoking. I'd rather keep still a week longer. Hadn't I better?"

His mother smiled and nodded as she said, sewing away at much-abused old Caesar, as if she loved him, "Do as you think best, dear. I always want you at home, but I don't wonder you are rather tired of it after this long confinement."

"I say, Jill, should I be in your way if I didn't go to school till the first of February?" called Jack, laughing to himself at the absurdity of the question.

"Not much!" answered a glad voice from behind the screen, and he knew the sorrowful eyes were shining with delight, though he could not see them.

"Well, I guess I may as well, and get quite firm on my legs before I start. Another week or so will bring me up if I study hard, so I shall not lose my time. I'll tackle my Latin as soon as it's ready, mother."

Jack got a hearty kiss with the neatly covered book, and Mamma loved him for the little sacrifice more than if he had won a prize at school. He did get a reward, for, in five minutes from the time he decided, Jill was singing like a bobolink, and such a medley of merry music came from behind the screen, that it was a regular morning concert. She did not know then that he stayed for her sake, but she found it out soon after, and when the time came did as much for him, as we shall see.

It proved a wise decision, for the last part of January was so stormy Jack could not have gone half the time. So, while the snow drifted, and bitter winds raged, he sat snugly at home amusing Jill, and getting on bravely with his lessons, for Frank took great pains with him to show his approbation of the little kindness, and, somehow, the memory of it seemed to make even the detested Latin easier.

With February fair weather set in, and Jack marched happily away to school, with Jill's new mittens on his hands, Mamma nodding from the door-step, and Frank ready to give him a lift on the new sled, if the way proved too long or too rough.

"I shall not have time to miss him now, for we are to be very busy getting ready for the Twenty-second. The Dramatic Club meets to-night, and would like to come here, if they may, so I can help?" said Jill, as Mrs. Minot came up, expecting to find her rather low in her mind.

"Certainly; and I have a basket of old finery I looked up for the club when I was rummaging out bits of silk for your blue quilt," answered the good lady, who had set up a new employment to beguile the hours of Jack's absence.

When the girls arrived, that evening, they found Mrs. Chairwoman surrounded by a strew of theatrical properties, enjoying herself very much. All brought such contributions as they could muster, and all were eager about a certain tableau which was to be the gem of the whole, they thought. Jill, of course, was not expected to take any part, but her taste was good, so all consulted her as they showed their old silks, laces, and flowers, asking who should be this, and who that. All wanted to be the "Sleeping Beauty," for that was the chosen scene, with the slumbering court about the princess, and the prince in the act of awakening her. Jack was to be the hero, brave in his mother's velvet cape, red boots, and a real sword, while the other boys were to have parts of more or less splendor.

"Mabel should be the Beauty, because her hair is so lovely," said Juliet, who was quite satisfied with her own part of the Queen.

"No, Merry ought to have it, as she is the prettiest, and has that splendid veil to wear," answered Molly, who was to be the maid of honor, cuffing the little page, Boo.

"I don't care a bit, but my feather would be fine for the Princess, and I don't know as Emma would like to have me lend it to any one else," said Annette, waving a long white plume over her head, with girlish delight in its grace.

"I should think the white silk dress, the veil, and the feather ought to go together, with the scarlet crape shawl and these pearls. That would be sweet, and just what princesses really wear," advised Jill, who was stringing a quantity of old Roman pearls.

"We all want to wear the nice things, so let us draw lots. Wouldn't that be the fairest way?" asked Merry, looking like a rosy little bride, under a great piece of illusion, which had done duty in many plays.

"The Prince is light, so the Princess must be darkish. We ought to choose the girl who will look best, as it is a picture. I heard Miss Delano say so, when the ladies got up the tableaux, last winter, and every one wanted to be Cleopatra," said Jill decidedly.

"You choose, and then if we can't agree we will draw lots," proposed Susy, who, being plain, knew there was little hope of her getting a chance in any other way.

So all stood in a row, and Jill, from her sofa, surveyed them critically, feeling that the one Jack would really prefer was not among the number.

"I choose that one, for Juliet wants to be Queen, Molly would make faces, and the others are too big or too light," pronounced Jill, pointing to Merry, who looked pleased, while Mabel's face darkened, and Susy gave a disdainful sniff.

"You'd better draw lots, and then there will be no fuss. Ju and I are out of the fight, but you three can try, and let this settle the matter," said Molly, handing Jill a long strip of paper.

All agreed to let it be so, and when the bits were ready drew in turn. This time fate was evidently on Merry's side, and no one grumbled when she showed the longest paper.

"Go and dress, then come back, and we'll plan how we are to be placed before we call up the boys," commanded Jill, who was manager, since she could be nothing else.

The girls retired to the bedroom and began to "rig up," as they called it; but discontent still lurked among them, and showed itself in sharp words, envious looks, and disobliging acts.

"Am I to have the white silk and the feather?" asked Merry, delighted with the silvery shimmer of the one and the graceful droop of the other, though both were rather shabby.

"You can use your own dress. I don't see why you should have everything," answered Susy, who was at the mirror, putting a wreath of scarlet flowers on her red head, bound to be gay since she could not be pretty.

"I think I'd better keep the plume, as I haven't anything else that is nice, and I'm afraid Emma wouldn't like me to lend it," added Annette, who was disappointed that Mabel was not to be the Beauty.

"I don't intend to act at all!" declared Mabel, beginning to braid up her hair with a jerk, out of humor with the whole affair.

"I think you are a set of cross, selfish girls to back out and keep your nice things just because you can't all have the best part. I'm ashamed of you!" scolded Molly, standing by Merry, who was sadly surveying her mother's old purple silk, which looked like brown in the evening.

"I'm going to have Miss Delano's red brocade for the Queen, and I shall ask her for the yellow-satin dress for Merry when I go to get mine, and tell her how mean you are," said Juliet, frowning under her gilt-paper crown as she swept about in a red table-cloth for train till the brocade arrived.

"Perhaps you'd like to have Mabel cut her hair off, so Merry can have that, too?" cried Susy, with whom hair was a tender point.

"Light hair isn't wanted, so Ju will have to give hers, or you'd better borrow Miss Bat's frisette," added Mabel, with a scornful laugh.

"I just wish Miss Bat was here to give you girls a good shaking. Do let someone else have a chance at the glass, you peacock!" exclaimed Molly Loo, pushing Susy aside to arrange her own blue turban, out of which she plucked the pink pompon to give Merry.

"Don't quarrel about me. I shall do well enough, and the scarlet shawl will hide my ugly dress," said Merry, from the corner, where she sat waiting for her turn at the mirror.

As she spoke of the shawl her eye went in search of it, and something that she saw in the other room put her own disappointment out of her head. Jill lay there all alone, rather tired with the lively chatter, and the effort it cost her not to repine at being shut out from the great delight of dressing up and acting.

Her eyes were closed, her net was off, and all the pretty black curls lay about her shoulders as one hand idly pulled them out, while the other rested on the red shawl, as if she loved its glowing color and soft texture. She was humming to herself the little song of the dove and the donjon, and something in the plaintive voice, the solitary figure, went straight to Merry's gentle heart.

"Poor Jilly can't have any of the fun," was the first thought; then came a second, that made Merry start and smile, and in a minute whisper so that all but Jill could hear her, "Girls, I'm not going to be the Princess. But I've thought of a splendid one!"

"Who?" asked the rest, staring at one another, much surprised by this sudden announcement.

"Hush! Speak low, or you will spoil it all. Look in the Bird Room, and tell me if that isn't a prettier Princess than I could make?"

They all looked, but no one spoke, and Merry added, with sweet eagerness, "It is the only thing poor Jill can be, and it would make her so happy; Jack would like it, and it would please every one, I know. Perhaps she will never walk again, so we ought to be very good to her, poor dear."

The last words, whispered with a little quiver in the voice, settled the matter better than hours of talking, for girls are tender-hearted creatures, and not one of these but would have gladly given all the pretty things she owned to see Jill dancing about well and strong again. Like a ray of sunshine the kind thought touched and brightened every face; envy, impatience, vanity, and discontent flew away like imps at the coming of the good fairy, and with one accord they all cried, -- 

"It will be lovely; let us go and tell her!"

Forgetting their own adornment, out they trooped after Merry, who ran to the sofa, saying, with a smile which was reflected in all the other faces, "Jill, dear, we have chosen another Princess, and I know you'll like her."

"Who is it?" asked Jill, languidly, opening her eyes without the least suspicion of the truth.

"I'll show you;" and taking the cherished veil from her own head, Merry dropped it like a soft cloud over Jill; Annette added the long plume, Susy laid the white silk dress about her, while Juliet and Mabel lifted the scarlet shawl to spread it over the foot of the sofa, and Molly tore the last ornament from her turban, a silver star, to shine on Jill's breast. Then they all took hands and danced round the couch, singing, as they laughed at her astonishment, "There she is! There she is! Princess Jill as fine as you please!

"Do you really mean it? But can I? Is it fair? How sweet of you! Come here and let me hug you all!" cried Jill, in a rapture at the surprise, and the pretty way in which it was done.

The grand scene on the Twenty-second was very fine, indeed; but the little tableau of that minute was infinitely better, though no one saw it, as Jill tried to gather them all in her arms, for that nosegay of girlish faces was the sweeter, because each one had sacrificed her own little vanity to please a friend, and her joy was reflected in the eyes that sparkled round the happy Princess.

"Oh, you dear, kind things, to think of me and give me all your best clothes! I never shall forget it, and I'll do anything for you. Yes! I'll write and ask Mrs. Piper to lend us her ermine cloak for the king. See if I don't!"

Shrieks of delight hailed this noble offer, for no one had dared to borrow the much-coveted mantle, but all agreed that the old lady would not refuse Jill. It was astonishing how smoothly everything went after this, for each was eager to help, admire, and suggest, in the friendliest way; and when all were dressed, the boys found a party of very gay ladies waiting for them round the couch, where lay the brightest little Princess ever seen.

"Oh, Jack, I'm to act! Wasn't it dear of the girls to choose me? Don't they look lovely? Aren't you glad?" cried Jill, as the lads stared and the lasses blushed and smiled, well pleased at the frank admiration the boyish faces showed.

"I guess I am! You are a set of trumps, and we'll give you a first-class spread after the play to pay for it. Won't we, fellows?" answered Jack, much gratified, and feeling that now he could act his own part capitally.

"We will. It was a handsome thing to do, and we think well of you for it. Hey, Gus?" and Frank nodded approvingly at all, though he looked only at Annette.

"As king of this crowd, I call it to order," said Gus, retiring to the throne, where Juliet sat laughing in her red table-cloth.

"We'll have 'The Fair One with Golden Locks' next time; I promise you that," whispered Ed to Mabel, whose shining hair streamed over her blue dress like a mantle of gold-colored silk.

"Girls are pretty nice things, aren't they? Kind of 'em to take Jill in. Don't Molly look fine, though?" and Grif's black eyes twinkled as he planned to pin her skirts to Merry's at the first opportunity.

"Susy looks as gay as a feather-duster. I like her. She never snubs a fellow," said Joe, much impressed with the splendor of the court ladies.

The boys' costumes were not yet ready, but they posed well, and all had a merry time, ending with a game of blind-man's-buff, in which every one caught the right person in the most singular way, and all agreed as they went home in the moonlight that it had been an unusually jolly meeting.

So the fairy play woke the sleeping beauty that lies in all of us, and makes us lovely when we rouse it with a kiss of unselfish good-will, for, though the girls did not know it then, they had adorned themselves with pearls more precious than the waxen ones they decked their Princess in.



Chapter XI. "Down Brakes"


The greatest people have their weak points, and the best-behaved boys now and then yield to temptation and get into trouble, as everybody knows. Frank was considered a remarkably well-bred and proper lad, and rather prided himself on his good reputation, for he never got into scrapes like the other fellows. Well, hardly ever, for we must confess that at rare intervals his besetting sin overcame his prudence, and he proved himself an erring, human boy. Steam-engines had been his idols for years, and they alone could lure him from the path of virtue. Once, in trying to investigate the mechanism of a toy specimen, which had its little boiler and ran about whistling and puffing in the most delightful way, he nearly set the house afire by the sparks that dropped on the straw carpet. Another time, in trying experiments with the kitchen tea-kettle, he blew himself up, and the scars of that explosion he still carried on his hands.

He was long past such childish amusements now, but his favorite haunt was the engine-house of the new railroad, where he observed the habits of his pets with never-failing interest, and cultivated the good-will of stokers and brakemen till they allowed him many liberties, and were rather flattered by the admiration expressed for their iron horses by a young gentleman who liked them better even than his Greek and Latin.

There was not much business doing on this road as yet, and the two cars of the passenger-trains were often nearly empty, though full freight-trains rolled from the factory to the main road, of which this was only a branch. So things went on in a leisurely manner, which gave Frank many opportunities of pursuing his favorite pastime. He soon knew all about No. 11, his pet engine, and had several rides on it with Bill, the engineer, so that he felt at home there, and privately resolved that when he was a rich man he would have a road of his own, and run trains as often as he liked.

Gus took less interest than his friend in the study of steam, but usually accompanied him when he went over after school to disport himself in the engine-house, interview the stoker, or see if there was anything new in the way of brakes.

One afternoon they found No. 11 on the side-track, puffing away as if enjoying a quiet smoke before starting. No cars were attached, and no driver was to be seen, for Bill was off with the other men behind the station-house, helping the expressman, whose horse had backed down a bank and upset the wagon.

"Good chance for a look at the old lady," said Frank, speaking of the engine as Bill did, and jumping aboard with great satisfaction, followed by Gus.

"I'd give ten dollars if I could run her up to the bend and back," he added, fondly touching the bright brass knobs and glancing at the fire with a critical eye.

"You couldn't do it alone," answered Gus, sitting down on the grimy little perch, willing to indulge his mate's amiable weakness.

"Give me leave to try? Steam is up, and I could do it as easy as not;" and Frank put his hand on the throttle-valve, as if daring Gus to give the word.

"Fire up and make her hum!" laughed Gus, quoting Bill's frequent order to his mate, but with no idea of being obeyed.

"All right; I'll just roll her up to the switch and back again. I've often done it with Bill;" and Frank cautiously opened the throttle-valve, threw back the lever, and the great thing moved with a throb and a puff.

"Steady, old fellow, or you'll come to grief. Here, don't open that!" shouted Gus, for just at that moment Joe appeared at the switch, looking ready for mischief.

"Wish he would; no train for twenty minutes, and we could run up to the bend as well as not," said Frank, getting excited with the sense of power, as the monster obeyed his hand so entirely that it was impossible to resist prolonging the delight.

"By George, he has! Stop her! Back her! Hold on, Frank!" cried Gus, as Joe, only catching the words "Open that!" obeyed, without the least idea that they would dare to leave the siding.

But they did, for Frank rather lost his head for a minute, and out upon the main track rolled No. 11 as quietly as a well-trained horse taking a familiar road.

"Now you've done it! I'll give you a good thrashing when I get back!" roared Gus, shaking his fist at Joe, who stood staring, half-pleased, half-scared, at what he had done.

"Are you really going to try it?" asked Gus, as they glided on with increasing speed, and he, too, felt the charm of such a novel adventure, though the consequences bid fair to be serious.

"Yes, I am," answered Frank, with the grim look he always wore when his strong will got the upper hand. "Bill will give it to us, any way, so we may as well have our fun out. If you are afraid, I'll slow down and you can jump off," and his brown eyes sparkled with the double delight of getting his heart's desire and astonishing his friend at the same time by his skill and coolness.

"Go ahead. I'll jump when you do;" and Gus calmly sat down again, bound in honor to stand by his mate till the smash came, though rather dismayed at the audacity of the prank.

"Don't you call this just splendid?" exclaimed Frank, as they rolled along over the crossing, past the bridge, toward the curve, a mile from the station.

"Not bad. They are yelling like mad after us. Better go back, if you can," said Gus, who was anxiously peering out, and, in spite of his efforts to seem at ease, not enjoying the trip a particle.

"Let them yell. I started to go to the curve, and I'll do it if it costs me a hundred dollars. No danger; there's no train under twenty minutes, I tell you," and Frank pulled out his watch. But the sun was in his eyes, and he did not see clearly, or he would have discovered that it was later than he thought.

On they went, and were just rounding the bend when a shrill whistle in front startled both boys, and drove the color out of their cheeks.

"It's the factory train!" cried Gus, in a husky tone, as he sprang to his feet.

"No; it's the five-forty on the other road," answered Frank, with a queer thrill all through him at the thought of what might happen if it was not. Both looked straight ahead as the last tree glided by, and the long track lay before them, with the freight train slowly coming down. For an instant, the boys stood as if paralyzed.

"Jump!" said Gus, looking at the steep bank on one side and the river on the other, undecided which to try.

"Sit still!" commanded Frank, collecting his wits, as he gave a warning whistle to retard the on-coming train, while he reversed the engine and went back faster than he came.

A crowd of angry men was waiting for them, and Bill stood at the open switch in a towering passion as No. 11 returned to her place unharmed, but bearing two pale and frightened boys, who stepped slowly and silently down, without a word to say for themselves, while the freight train rumbled by on the main track.

Frank and Gus never had a very clear idea as to what occurred during the next few minutes, but vaguely remembered being well shaken, sworn at, questioned, threatened with direful penalties, and finally ordered off the premises forever by the wrathful depot-master. Joe was nowhere to be seen, and as the two culprits walked away, trying to go steadily, while their heads spun round, and all the strength seemed to have departed from their legs, Frank said, in an exhausted tone, -- 

"Come down to the boat-house and rest a minute."

Both were glad to get out of sight, and dropped upon the steps red, rumpled, and breathless, after the late exciting scene. Gus generously forebore to speak, though he felt that he was the least to blame; and Frank, after eating a bit of snow to moisten his dry lips, said, handsomely, -- 

"Now, don't you worry, old man. I'll pay the damages, for it was my fault. Joe will dodge, but I won't, so make your mind easy.

"We sha'n't hear the last of this in a hurry," responded Gus, relieved, yet anxious, as he thought of the reprimand his father would give him.

"I hope mother won't hear of it till I tell her quietly myself. She will be so frightened, and think I'm surely smashed up, if she is told in a hurry;" and Frank gave a shiver, as all the danger he had run came over him suddenly.

"I thought we were done for when we saw that train. Guess we should have been if you had not had your wits about you. I always said you were a cool one;" and Gus patted Frank's back with a look of great admiration, for, now that it was all over, he considered it a very remarkable performance.

"Which do you suppose it will be, fine or imprisonment?" asked Frank, after sitting in a despondent attitude for a moment.

"Shouldn't wonder if it was both. Running off with an engine is no joke, you know."

"What did possess me to be such a fool?" groaned Frank, repenting, all too late, of yielding to the temptation which assailed him.

"Bear up, old fellow, I'll stand by you; and if the worst comes, I'll call as often as the rules of the prison allow," said Gus, consolingly, as he gave his afflicted friend an arm, and they walked away, both feeling that they were marked men from that day forth.

Meantime, Joe, as soon as he recovered from the shock of seeing the boys actually go off, ran away, as fast as his legs could carry him, to prepare Mrs. Minot for the loss of her son; for the idea of their coming safely back never occurred to him, his knowledge of engines being limited. A loud ring at the bell brought Mrs. Pecq, who was guarding the house, while Mrs. Minot entertained a parlor full of company.

"Frank's run off with No. 11, and he'll be killed sure. Thought I'd come up and tell you," stammered Joe, all out of breath and looking wild.

He got no further, for Mrs. Pecq clapped one hand over his mouth, caught him by the collar with the other, and hustled him into the ante-room before any one else could hear the bad news.

"Tell me all about it, and don't shout. What's come to the boy?" she demanded, in a tone that reduced Joe to a whisper at once.

"Go right back and see what has happened to him, then come and tell me quietly. I'll wait for you here. I wouldn't have his mother startled for the world," said the good soul, when she knew all.

"Oh, I dar'sn't! I opened the switch as they told me to, and Bill will half kill me when he knows it!" cried Joe, in a panic, as the awful consequences of his deed rose before him, showing both boys mortally injured and several trains wrecked.

"Then take yourself off home and hold your tongue. I'll watch the door, for I won't have any more ridiculous boys tearing in to disturb my lady."

Mrs. Pecq often called this good neighbor "my lady" when speaking of her, for Mrs. Minot was a true gentlewoman, and much pleasanter to live with than the titled mistress had been.

Joe scudded away as if the constable was after him, and presently Frank was seen slowly approaching with an unusually sober face and a pair of very dirty hands.

"Thank heaven, he's safe!" and, softly opening the door, Mrs. Pecq actually hustled the young master into the ante-room as unceremoniously as she had hustled Joe.

"I beg pardon, but the parlor is full of company, and that fool of a Joe came roaring in with a cock-and-bull story that gave me quite a turn. What is it, Mr. Frank?" she asked eagerly, seeing that something was amiss.

He told her in a few words, and she was much relieved to find that no harm had been done.

"Ah, the danger is to come," said Frank, darkly, as he went away to wash his hands and prepare to relate his misdeeds.

It was a very bad quarter of an hour for the poor fellow, who so seldom had any grave faults to confess; but he did it manfully, and his mother was so grateful for the safety of her boy that she found it difficult to be severe enough, and contented herself with forbidding any more visits to the too charming No. 11.

"What do you suppose will be done to me?" asked Frank, on whom the idea of imprisonment had made a deep impression.

"I don't know, dear, but I shall go over to see Mr. Burton right after tea. He will tell us what to do and what to expect. Gus must not suffer for your fault."

"He'll come off clear enough, but Joe must take his share, for if he hadn't opened that confounded switch, no harm would have been done. But when I saw the way clear, I actually couldn't resist going ahead," said Frank, getting excited again at the memory of that blissful moment when he started the engine.

Here Jack came hurrying in, having heard the news, and refused to believe it from any lips but Frank's. When he could no longer doubt, he was so much impressed with the daring of the deed that he had nothing but admiration for his brother, till a sudden thought made him clap his hands and exclaim exultingly, -- 

"His runaway beats mine all hollow, and now he can't crow over me! Won't that be a comfort? The good boy has got into a scrape. Hooray!"

This was such a droll way of taking it, that they had to laugh; and Frank took his humiliation so meekly that Jack soon fell to comforting him, instead of crowing over him.

Jill thought it a most interesting event; and, when Frank and his mother went over to consult Mr. Burton, she and Jack planned out for the dear culprit a dramatic trial which would have convulsed the soberest of judges. His sentence was ten years' imprisonment, and such heavy fines that the family would have been reduced to beggary but for the sums made by Jill's fancy work and Jack's success as a champion pedestrian.

They found such comfort and amusement in this sensational programme that they were rather disappointed when Frank returned, reporting that a fine would probably be all the penalty exacted, as no harm had been done, and he and Gus were such respectable boys. What would happen to Joe, he could not tell, but he thought a good whipping ought to be added to his share.

Of course, the affair made a stir in the little world of children; and when Frank went to school, feeling that his character for good behavior was forever damaged, he found himself a lion, and was in danger of being spoiled by the admiration of his comrades, who pointed him out with pride as "the fellow who ran off with a steam-engine."

But an interview with Judge Kemble, a fine of twenty-five dollars, and lectures from all the grown people of his acquaintance, prevented him from regarding his escapade as a feat to boast of. He discovered, also, how fickle a thing is public favor, for very soon those who had praised began to tease, and it took all his courage, patience, and pride to carry him through the next week or two. The lads were never tired of alluding to No. 11, giving shrill whistles in his ear, asking if his watch was right, and drawing locomotives on the blackboard whenever they got a chance.

The girls, too, had sly nods and smiles, hints and jokes of a milder sort, which made him color and fume, and once lose his dignity entirely. Molly Loo, who dearly loved to torment the big boys, and dared attack even solemn Frank, left one of Boo's old tin trains on the door-step, directed to "Conductor Minot," who, I regret to say, could not refrain from kicking it into the street, and slamming the door with a bang that shook the house. Shrieks of laughter from wicked Molly and her coadjutor, Grif, greeted this explosion of wrath, which did no good, however, for half an hour later the same cars, all in a heap, were on the steps again, with two headless dolls tumbling out of the cab, and the dilapidated engine labelled, "No. 11 after the collision."

No one ever saw that ruin again, and for days Frank was utterly unconscious of Molly's existence, as propriety forbade his having it out with her as he had with Grif. Then Annette made peace between them, and the approach of the Twenty-second gave the wags something else to think of.

But it was long before Frank forgot that costly prank; for he was a thoughtful boy, who honestly wanted to be good; so he remembered this episode humbly, and whenever he felt the approach of temptation he made the strong will master it, saying to himself "Down brakes!" thus saving the precious freight he carried from many of the accidents which befall us when we try to run our trains without orders, and so often wreck ourselves as well as others.



Chapter XII. The Twenty-Second of February


Of course, the young ladies and gentlemen had a ball on the evening of that day, but the boys and girls were full of excitement about their "Scenes from the Life of Washington and other brilliant tableaux," as the programme announced. The Bird Room was the theatre, being very large, with four doors conveniently placed. Ralph was in his element, putting up a little stage, drilling boys, arranging groups, and uniting in himself carpenter, scene-painter, manager, and gas man. Mrs. Minot permitted the house to be turned topsy-turvy, and Mrs. Pecq flew about, lending a hand everywhere. Jill was costumer, with help from Miss Delano, who did not care for balls, and kindly took charge of the girls. Jack printed tickets, programmes, and placards of the most imposing sort, and the work went gayly on till all was ready.

When the evening came, the Bird Room presented a fine appearance. One end was curtained off with red drapery; and real footlights, with tin shades, gave a truly theatrical air to the little stage. Rows of chairs, filled with mammas and little people, occupied the rest of the space. The hall and Frank's room were full of amused papas, uncles, and old gentlemen whose patriotism brought them out in spite of rheumatism. There was a great rustling of skirts, fluttering of fans, and much lively chat, till a bell rang and the orchestra struck up.

Yes, there really was an orchestra, for Ed declared that the national airs must be played, or the whole thing would be a failure. So he had exerted himself to collect all the musical talent he could find, a horn, a fiddle, and a flute, with drum and fife for the martial scenes. Ed looked more beaming than ever, as he waved his baton and led off with Yankee Doodle as a safe beginning, for every one knew that. It was fun to see little Johnny Cooper bang away on a big drum, and old Mr. Munson, who had been a fifer all his days, blow till he was as red as a lobster, while every one kept time to the music which put them all in good spirits for the opening scene.

Up went the curtain and several trees in tubs appeared, then a stately gentleman in small clothes, cocked hat, gray wig, and an imposing cane, came slowly walking in. It was Gus, who had been unanimously chosen not only for Washington but for the father of the hero also, that the family traits of long legs and a somewhat massive nose might be preserved.

"Ahem! My trees are doing finely," observed Mr. W., senior, strolling along with his hands behind him, casting satisfied glances at the dwarf orange, oleander, abutilon, and little pine that represented his orchard.

Suddenly he starts, pauses, frowns, and, after examining the latter shrub, which displayed several hacks in its stem and a broken limb with six red-velvet cherries hanging on it, he gave a thump with his cane that made the little ones jump, and cried out, -- 

"Can it have been my son?"

He evidently thought it was, for he called, in tones of thunder, -- 

"George! George Washington, come hither this moment!"

Great suspense on the part of the audience, then a general burst of laughter as Boo trotted in, a perfect miniature of his honored parent, knee breeches, cocked hat, shoe buckles and all. He was so fat that the little tails of his coat stuck out in the drollest way, his chubby legs could hardly carry the big buckles, and the rosy face displayed, when he took his hat off with a dutiful bow, was so solemn, the real George could not have looked more anxious when he gave the immortal answer.

"Sirrah, did you cut that tree?" demanded the papa, with another rap of the cane, and such a frown that poor Boo looked dismayed, till Molly whispered, "Put your hand up, dear." Then he remembered his part, and, putting one finger in his mouth, looked down at his square-toed shoes, the image of a shame-stricken boy.

"My son, do not deceive me. If you have done this deed I shall chastise you, for it is my duty not to spare the rod, lest I spoil the child. But if you lie about it you disgrace the name of Washington forever."

This appeal seemed to convulse George with inward agony, for he squirmed most effectively as he drew from his pocket a toy hatchet, which would not have cut a straw, then looking straight up into the awe-inspiring countenance of his parent, he bravely lisped, -- 

"Papa, I tannot tell a lie. I did tut it with my little hanchet."

"Noble boy -- come to my arms! I had rather you spoilt all my cherry trees than tell one lie!" cried the delighted gentleman, catching his son in an embrace so close that the fat legs kicked convulsively, and the little coat-tails waved in the breeze, while cane and hatchet fell with a dramatic bang.

The curtain descended on this affecting tableau; but the audience called out both Washingtons, and they came, hand in hand, bowing with the cocked hats pressed to their breasts, the elder smiling blandly, while the younger, still flushed by his exertions, nodded to his friends, asking, with engaging frankness, "Wasn't it nice?"

The next was a marine piece, for a boat was seen, surrounded by tumultuous waves of blue cambric, and rowed by a party of stalwart men in regimentals, who with difficulty kept their seats, for the boat was only a painted board, and they sat on boxes or stools behind it. But few marked the rowers, for in their midst, tall, straight, and steadfast as a mast, stood one figure in a cloak, with folded arms, high boots, and, under the turned-up hat, a noble countenance, stern with indomitable courage. A sword glittered at his side, and a banner waved over him, but his eye was fixed on the distant shore, and he was evidently unconscious of the roaring billows, the blocks of ice, the discouragement of his men, or the danger and death that might await him. Napoleon crossing the Alps was not half so sublime, and with one voice the audience cried, "Washington crossing the Delaware!" while the band burst forth with, "See, the conquering hero comes!" all out of tune, but bound to play it or die in the attempt.

It would have been very successful if, all of a sudden, one of the rowers had not "caught a crab" with disastrous consequences. The oars were not moving, but a veteran, who looked very much like Joe, dropped the one he held, and in trying to turn and pummel the black-eyed warrior behind him, he tumbled off his seat, upsetting two other men, and pulling the painted boat upon them as they lay kicking in the cambric deep. Shouts of laughter greeted this mishap, but George Washington never stirred. Grasping the banner, he stood firm when all else went down in the general wreck, and the icy waves engulfed his gallant crew, leaving him erect amid a chaos of wildly tossing boots, entangled oars, and red-faced victims. Such god-like dignity could not fail to impress the frivolous crowd of laughers, and the curtain fell amid a round of applause for him alone.

"Quite exciting, wasn't it? Didn't know Gus had so much presence of mind," said Mr. Burton, well pleased with his boy.

"If we did not know that Washington died in his bed, December 14, 1799, I should fear that we'd seen the last of him in that shipwreck," laughed an old gentleman, proud of his memory for dates.

Much confusion reigned behind the scenes; Ralph was heard scolding, and Joe set every one off again by explaining, audibly, that Grif tickled him, and he couldn't stand it. A pretty, old-fashioned picture of the "Daughters of Liberty" followed, for the girls were determined to do honor to the brave and patient women who so nobly bore their part in the struggle, yet are usually forgotten when those days are celebrated. The damsels were charming in the big caps, flowered gowns, and high-heeled shoes of their great-grandmothers, as they sat about a spider-legged table talking over the tax, and pledging themselves to drink no more tea till it was taken off. Molly was on her feet proposing, "Liberty forever, and down with all tyrants," to judge from her flashing eyes as she held her egg-shell cup aloft, while the others lifted theirs to drink the toast, and Merry, as hostess, sat with her hand on an antique teapot, labelled "Sage," ready to fill again when the patriotic ladies were ready for a second "dish."

This was much applauded, and the curtain went up again, for the proud parents enjoyed seeing their pretty girls in the faded finery of a hundred years ago. The band played "Auld Lang Syne," as a gentle hint that our fore-mothers should be remembered as well as the fore-fathers.

It was evident that something very martial was to follow, for a great tramping, clashing, and flying about took place behind the scenes while the tea-party was going on. After some delay, "The Surrender of Cornwallis" was presented in the most superb manner, as you can believe when I tell you that the stage was actually lined with a glittering array of Washington and his generals, Lafayette, Kosciusko, Rochambeau and the rest, all in astonishing uniforms, with swords which were evidently the pride of their lives. Fife and drum struck up a march, and in came Cornwallis, much cast down but full of manly resignation, as he surrendered his sword, and stood aside with averted eyes while his army marched past, piling their arms at the hero's feet.

This scene was the delight of the boys, for the rifles of Company F had been secured, and at least a dozen soldiers kept filing in and out in British uniform till Washington's august legs were hidden by the heaps of arms rattled down before him. The martial music, the steady tramp, and the patriotic memories awakened, caused this scene to be enthusiastically encored, and the boys would have gone on marching till midnight if Ralph had not peremptorily ordered down the curtain and cleared the stage for the next tableau.

This had been artfully slipped in between two brilliant ones, to show that the Father of his Country had to pay a high price for his glory. The darkened stage represented what seemed to be a camp in a snow-storm, and a very forlorn camp, too; for on "the cold, cold ground" (a reckless display of cotton batting) lay ragged soldiers, sleeping without blankets, their worn-out boots turned up pathetically, and no sign of food or fire to be seen. A very shabby sentinel, with feet bound in bloody cloths, and his face as pale as chalk could make it, gnawed a dry crust as he kept his watch in the wintry night.

A tent at the back of the stage showed a solitary figure sitting on a log of wood, poring over the map spread upon his knee, by the light of one candle stuck in a bottle. There could be no doubt who this was, for the buff-and-blue coat, the legs, the nose, the attitude, all betrayed the great George laboring to save his country, in spite of privations, discouragements, and dangers which would have daunted any other man.

"Valley Forge," said someone, and the room was very still as old and young looked silently at this little picture of a great and noble struggle in one of its dark hours. The crust, the wounded feet, the rags, the snow, the loneliness, the indomitable courage and endurance of these men touched the hearts of all, for the mimic scene grew real for a moment; and, when a child's voice broke the silence, asking pitifully, "Oh, mamma, was it truly as dreadful as that?" a general outburst answered, as if every one wanted to cheer up the brave fellows and bid them fight on, for victory was surely coming.

In the next scene it did come, and "Washington at Trenton" was prettily done. An arch of flowers crossed the stage, with the motto, "The Defender of the Mothers will be the Preserver of the Daughters;" and, as the hero with his generals advanced on one side, a troop of girls, in old-fashioned muslin frocks, came to scatter flowers before him, singing the song of long ago: -- 

"Welcome, mighty chief, once more Welcome to this grateful shore; Now no mercenary foe Aims again the fatal blow, --  Aims at thee the fatal blow.

"Virgins fair and matrons grave, Those thy conquering arm did save, Build for thee triumphal bowers; Strew, ye fair, his way with flowers, --  Strew your hero's way with flowers."

And they did, singing with all their hearts as they flung artificial roses and lilies at the feet of the great men, who bowed with benign grace. Jack, who did Lafayette with a limp, covered himself with glory by picking up one of the bouquets and pressing it to his heart with all the gallantry of a Frenchman; and when Washington lifted the smallest of the maids and kissed her, the audience cheered. Couldn't help it, you know, it was so pretty and inspiring.

The Washington Family, after the famous picture, came next, with Annette as the serene and sensible Martha, in a very becoming cap. The General was in uniform, there being no time to change, but his attitude was quite correct, and the Custis boy and girl displayed the wide sash and ruffled collar with historic fidelity. The band played "Home," and every one agreed that it was "Sweet!"

"Now I don't see what more they can have except the death-bed, and that would be rather out of place in this gay company," said the old gentleman to Mr. Burton, as he mopped his heated face after pounding so heartily he nearly knocked the ferule off his cane.

"No; they gave that up, for my boy wouldn't wear a night-gown in public. I can't tell secrets, but I think they have got a very clever little finale for the first part -- a pretty compliment to one person and a pleasant surprise to all," answered Mr. Burton, who was in great spirits, being fond of theatricals and very justly proud of his children, for the little girls had been among the Trenton maids, and the mimic General had kissed his own small sister, Nelly, very tenderly.

A great deal of interest was felt as to what this surprise was to be, and a general "Oh!" greeted the "Minute Man," standing motionless upon his pedestal. It was Frank, and Ralph had done his best to have the figure as perfect as possible, for the maker of the original had been a good friend to him; and, while the young sculptor was dancing gayly at the ball, this copy of his work was doing him honor among the children. Frank looked it very well, for his firm-set mouth was full of resolution, his eyes shone keen and courageous under the three-cornered hat, and the muscles stood out upon the bare arm that clutched the old gun. Even the buttons on the gaiters seemed to flash defiance, as the sturdy legs took the first step from the furrow toward the bridge where the young farmer became a hero when he "fired the shot heard 'round the world."

"That is splendid!" "As like to the original as flesh can be to bronze." "How still he stands!" "He'll fight when the time comes, and die hard, won't he?" "Hush! You make the statue blush!" These very audible remarks certainly did, for the color rose visibly as the modest lad heard himself praised, though he saw but one face in all the crowd, his mother's, far back, but full of love and pride, as she looked up at her young minute man waiting for the battle which often calls us when we least expect it, and for which she had done her best to make him ready.

If there had been any danger of Frank being puffed up by the success of his statue, it was counteracted by irrepressible Grif, who, just at the most interesting moment, when all were gazing silently, gave a whistle, followed by a "Choo, choo, choo!" and "All aboard!" so naturally that no one could mistake the joke, especially as another laughing voice added, "Now, then, No. 11!" which brought down the house and the curtain too.

Frank was so angry, it was very difficult to keep him on his perch for the last scene of all. He submitted, however, rather than spoil the grand finale, hoping that its beauty would efface that ill-timed pleasantry from the public mind. So, when the agreeable clamor of hands and voices called for a repetition, the Minute Man reappeared, grimmer than before. But not alone, for grouped all about his pedestal were Washington and his generals, the matrons and maids, with a background of troops shouldering arms, Grif and Joe doing such rash things with their muskets, that more than one hero received a poke in his august back. Before the full richness of this picture had been taken in, Ed gave a rap, and all burst out with "Hail Columbia," in such an inspiring style that it was impossible for the audience to refrain from joining, which they did, all standing and all singing with a heartiness that made the walls ring. The fife shrilled, the horn blew sweet and clear, the fiddle was nearly drowned by the energetic boom of the drum, and out into the starry night, through open windows, rolled the song that stirs the coldest heart with patriotic warmth and tunes every voice to music.

"'America!' We must have 'America!' Pipe up, Ed, this is too good to end without one song more," cried Mr. Burton, who had been singing like a trumpet; and, hardly waiting to get their breath, off they all went again with the national hymn, singing as they never had sung it before, for somehow the little scenes they had just acted or beheld seemed to show how much this dear America of ours had cost in more than one revolution, how full of courage, energy, and virtue it was in spite of all its faults, and what a privilege, as well as duty, it was for each to do his part toward its safety and its honor in the present, as did those brave men and women in the past.

So the "Scenes from the Life of Washington" were a great success, and, when the songs were over, people were glad of a brief recess while they had raptures, and refreshed themselves with lemonade.

The girls had kept the secret of who the "Princess" was to be, and, when the curtain rose, a hum of surprise and pleasure greeted the pretty group. Jill lay asleep in all her splendor, the bonny "Prince" just lifting the veil to wake her with a kiss, and all about them the court in its nap of a hundred years. The "King" and "Queen" dozing comfortably on the throne; the maids of honor, like a garland of nodding flowers, about the couch; the little page, unconscious of the blow about to fall, and the fool dreaming, with his mouth wide open.

It was so pretty, people did not tire of looking, till Jack's lame leg began to tremble, and he whispered: "Drop her or I shall pitch." Down went the curtain; but it rose in a moment, and there was the court after the awakening: the "King" and "Queen" looking about them with sleepy dignity, the maids in various attitudes of surprise, the fool grinning from ear to ear, and the "Princess" holding out her hand to the "Prince," as if glad to welcome the right lover when he came at last.

Molly got the laugh this time, for she could not resist giving poor Boo the cuff which had been hanging over him so long. She gave it with unconscious energy, and Boo cried "Ow!" so naturally that all the children were delighted and wanted it repeated. But Boo declined, and the scenes which followed were found quite as much to their taste, having been expressly prepared for the little people.

Mother Goose's Reception was really very funny, for Ralph was the old lady, and had hired a representation of the immortal bird from a real theatre for this occasion. There they stood, the dame in her pointed hat, red petticoat, cap, and cane, with the noble fowl, a good deal larger than life, beside her, and Grif inside, enjoying himself immensely as he flapped the wings, moved the yellow legs, and waved the long neck about, while unearthly quacks issued from the bill. That was a great surprise for the children, and they got up in their seats to gaze their fill, many of them firmly believing that they actually beheld the blessed old woman who wrote the nursery songs they loved so well.

Then in came, one after another, the best of the characters she has made famous, while a voice behind the scenes sang the proper rhyme as each made their manners to the interesting pair. "Mistress Mary," and her "pretty maids all in a row," passed by to their places in the background; "King Cole" and his "fiddlers three" made a goodly show; so did the royal couple, who followed the great pie borne before them, with the "four-and-twenty blackbirds" popping their heads out in the most delightful way. Little "Bo-Peep" led a woolly lamb and wept over its lost tail, for not a sign of one appeared on the poor thing. "Simple Simon" followed the pie-man, gloating over his wares with the drollest antics. The little wife came trundling by in a wheelbarrow and was not upset; neither was the lady with "rings on her fingers and bells on her toes," as she cantered along on a rocking-horse. "Bobby Shafto's" yellow hair shone finely as he led in the maid whom he came back from sea to marry. "Miss Muffet," bowl in hand, ran away from an immense black spider, which waggled its long legs in a way so life-like that some of the children shook in their little shoes. The beggars who came to town were out in full force, "rags, tags, and velvet gowns," quite true to life. "Boy Blue" rubbed his eyes, with hay sticking in his hair, and tooted on a tin horn as if bound to get the cows out of the corn. Molly, with a long-handled frying-pan, made a capital "Queen," in a tucked-up gown, checked apron, and high crown, to good "King Arthur," who, very properly, did not appear after stealing the barley-meal, which might be seen in the pan tied up in a pudding, like a cannon-ball, ready to fry.

But Tobias, Molly's black cat, covered himself with glory by the spirit with which he acted his part in,

"Sing, sing, what shall I sing? The cat's run away with the pudding-bag string."

First he was led across the stage on his hind legs, looking very fierce and indignant, with a long tape trailing behind him; and, being set free at the proper moment, he gave one bound over the four-and-twenty blackbirds who happened to be in the way, and dashed off as if an enraged cook had actually been after him, straight downstairs to the coal-bin, where he sat glaring in the dark, till the fun was over.

When all the characters had filed in and stood in two long rows, music struck up and they danced, "All the way to Boston," a simple but lively affair, which gave each a chance to show his or her costume as they pranced down the middle and up outside.

Such a funny medley as it was, for there went fat "King Cole" with the most ragged of the beggar-maids. "Mistress Mary," in her pretty blue dress, tripped along with "Simple Simon" staring about him like a blockhead. The fine lady left her horse to dance with "Bobby Shafto" till every bell on her slippers tinkled its tongue out. "Bo-Peep" and a jolly fiddler skipped gayly up and down. "Miss Muffet" took the big spider for her partner, and made his many legs fly about in the wildest way. The little wife got out of the wheelbarrow to help "Boy Blue" along, and Molly, with the frying-pan over her shoulder, led off splendidly when it was "Grand right and left."

But the old lady and her goose were the best of all, for the dame's shoe-buckles cut the most astonishing pigeon-wings, and to see that mammoth bird waddle down the middle with its wings half open, its long neck bridling, and its yellow legs in the first position as it curtsied to its partner, was a sight to remember, it was so intensely funny.

The merry old gentleman laughed till he cried; Mr. Burton split his gloves, he applauded so enthusiastically; while the children beat the dust out of the carpet hopping up and down, as they cried: "Do it again!" "We want it all over!" when the curtain went down at last on the flushed and panting party, Mother G --  --  bowing, with her hat all awry, and the goose doing a double shuffle as if it did not know how to leave off.

But they could not "do it all over again," for it was growing late, and the people felt that they certainly had received their money's worth that evening.

So it all ended merrily, and when the guests departed the boys cleared the room like magic, and the promised supper to the actors was served in handsome style. Jack and Jill were at one end, Mrs. Goose and her bird at the other, and all between was a comical collection of military heroes, fairy characters, and nursery celebrities. All felt the need of refreshment after their labors, and swept over the table like a flight of locusts, leaving devastation behind. But they had earned their fun: and much innocent jollity prevailed, while a few lingering papas and mammas watched the revel from afar, and had not the heart to order these noble beings home till even the Father of his Country declared "that he'd had a perfectly splendid time, but couldn't keep his eyes open another minute," and very wisely retired to replace the immortal cocked hat with a night-cap.



Chapter XIII. Jack Has a Mystery


"What is the matter? Does your head ache?" asked Jill, one evening in March, observing that Jack sat with his head in his hands, an attitude which, with him, meant either pain or perplexity.

"No; but I'm bothered. I want some money, and I don't see how I can earn it," he answered, tumbling his hair about, and frowning darkly at the fire.

"How much?" and Jill's ready hand went to the pocket where her little purse lay, for she felt rich with several presents lately made her.

"Two seventy-five. No, thank you, I won't borrow."

"What is it for?"

"Can't tell."

"Why, I thought you told me everything."

"Sorry, but I can't this time. Don't you worry; I shall think of something."

"Couldn't your mother help?"

"Don't wish to ask her."

"Why! can't she know?"

"Nobody can."

"How queer! Is it a scrape, Jack?" asked Jill, looking as curious as a magpie.

"It is likely to be, if I can't get out of it this week, somehow."

"Well, I don't see how I can help if I'm not to know anything;" and Jill seemed rather hurt.

"You can just stop asking questions, and tell me how a fellow can earn some money. That would help. I've got one dollar, but I must have some more;" and Jack looked worried as he fingered the little gold dollar on his watch-guard.

"Oh, do you mean to use that?"

"Yes, I do; a man must pay his debts if he sells all he has to do it," said Jack sternly.

"Dear me; it must be something very serious." And Jill lay quite still for five minutes, thinking over all the ways in which Jack ever did earn money, for Mrs. Minot liked to have her boys work, and paid them in some way for all they did.

"Is there any wood to saw?" she asked presently, being very anxious to help.

"All done."

"Paths to shovel?"

"No snow."

"Lawn to rake, then?"

"Not time for that yet."

"Catalogue of books?"

"Frank got that job."

"Copy those letters for your mother?"

"Take me too long. Must have my money Friday, if possible."

"I don't see what we can do, then. It is too early or too late for everything, and you won't borrow."

"Not of you. No, nor of any one else, if I can possibly help it. I've promised to do this myself, and I will;" and Jack wagged his head resolutely.

"Couldn't you do something with the printing-press? Do me some cards, and then, perhaps, the other girls will want some," said Jill, as a forlorn hope.

"Just the thing! What a goose I was not to think of it. I'll rig the old machine up at once." And, starting from his seat, Jack dived into the big closet, dragged out the little press, and fell to oiling, dusting, and putting it in order, like one relieved of a great anxiety.

"Give me the types; I'll sort them and set up my name, so you can begin as soon as you are ready. You know what a help I was when we did the programmes. I'm almost sure the girls will want cards, and I know your mother would like some more tags," said Jill, briskly rattling the letters into the different compartments, while Jack inked the rollers and hunted up his big apron, whistling the while with recovered spirits.

A dozen neat cards were soon printed, and Jill insisted on paying six cents for them, as earning was not borrowing. A few odd tags were found and done for Mamma, who immediately ordered four dozen at six cents a dozen, though she was not told why there was such a pressing call for money.

Jack's monthly half-dollar had been spent the first week, -- twenty-five cents for a concert, ten paid a fine for keeping a book too long from the library, ten more to have his knife ground, and five in candy, for he dearly loved sweeties, and was under bonds to Mamma not to spend more than five cents a month on these unwholesome temptations. She never asked the boys what they did with their money, but expected them to keep account in the little books she gave them; and, now and then, they showed the neat pages with pardonable pride, though she often laughed at the queer items.

All that evening Jack & Co. worked busily, for when Frank came in he good-naturedly ordered some pale-pink cards for Annette, and ran to the store to choose the right shade, and buy some packages for the young printer also.

"What do you suppose he is in such a pucker for?" whispered Jill, as she set up the new name, to Frank, who sat close by, with one eye on his book and one on her.

"Oh, some notion. He's a queer chap; but I guess it isn't much of a scrape, or I should know it. He's so good-natured he's always promising to do things for people, and has too much pluck to give up when he finds he can't. Let him alone, and it will all come out soon enough," answered Frank, who laughed at his brother, but loved him none the less for the tender heart that often got the better of his young head.

But for once Frank was mistaken; the mystery did not come out, and Jack worked like a beaver all that week, as orders poured in when Jill and Annette showed their elegant cards; for, as everybody knows, if one girl has a new thing all the rest must, whether it is a bow on the top of her head, a peculiar sort of pencil, or the latest kind of chewing-gum. Little play did the poor fellow get, for every spare minute was spent at the press, and no invitation could tempt him away, so much in earnest was our honest little Franklin about paying his debt. Jill helped all she could, and cheered his labors with her encouragement, remembering how he stayed at home for her.

"It is real good of you to lend a hand, and I'm ever so much obliged," said Jack, as the last order was struck off, and the drawer of the type-box held a pile of shining five and ten cent pieces, with two or three quarters.

"I love to; only it would be nicer if I knew what we were working for," she said demurely, as she scattered type for the last time; and seeing that Jack was both tired and grateful, hoped to get a hint of the secret.

"I want to tell you, dreadfully; but I can't, because I've promised."

"What, never?"

"Never!" and Jack looked as firm as a rock.

"Then I shall find out, for I haven't promised."

"You can't."

"See if I don't!"

"You are sharp, but you won't guess this. It's a tremendous secret, and nobody will tell it."

"You'll tell it yourself. You always do."

"I won't tell this. It would be mean."

"Wait and see; I can get anything out of you if I try;" and Jill laughed, knowing her power well, for Jack found it very hard to keep a secret from her.

"Don't try; please don't! It wouldn't be right, and you don't want to make me do a dishonorable thing for your sake, I know."

Jack looked so distressed that Jill promised not to make him tell, though she held herself free to find out in other ways, if she could.

Thus relieved, Jack trudged off to school on Friday with the two dollars and seventy-five cents jingling in his pocket, though the dear gold coin had to be sacrificed to make up the sum. He did his lessons badly that day, was late at recess in the afternoon, and, as soon as school was over, departed in his rubber boots "to take a walk," he said, though the roads were in a bad state with a spring thaw. Nothing was seen of him till after tea-time, when he came limping in, very dirty and tired, but with a reposeful expression, which betrayed that a load was off his mind. Frank was busy about his own affairs and paid little attention to him, but Jill was on tenter-hooks to know where he had been, yet dared not ask the question.

"Merry's brother wants some cards. He liked hers so much he wishes to make his lady-love a present. Here's the name;" and Jill held up the order from Harry Grant, who was to be married in the autumn.

"Must wait till next week. I'm too tired to do a thing to-night, and I hate the sight of that old press," answered Jack, laying himself down upon the rug as if every joint ached.

"What made you take such a long walk? You look as tired as if you'd been ten miles," said Jill, hoping to discover the length of the trip.

"Had to. Four or five miles isn't much, only my leg bothered me;" and Jack gave the ailing member a slap, as if he had found it much in his way that day; for, though he had given up the crutches long ago, he rather missed their support sometimes. Then, with a great yawn, he stretched himself out to bask in the blaze, pillowing his head on his arms.

"Dear old thing, he looks all used up; I won't plague him with talking;" and Jill began to sing, as she often did in the twilight.

By the time the first song ended a gentle snore was heard, and Jack lay fast asleep, worn out with the busy week and the walk, which had been longer and harder than any one guessed. Jill took up her knitting and worked quietly by firelight, still wondering and guessing what the secret could be; for she had not much to amuse her, and little things were very interesting if connected with her friends. Presently Jack rolled over and began to mutter in his sleep, as he often did when too weary for sound slumber. Jill paid no attention till he uttered a name which made her prick up her ears and listen to the broken sentences which followed. Only a few words, but she dropped her work, saying to herself, -- 

"I do believe he is talking about the secret. Now I shall find out, and he will tell me himself, as I said he would."

Much pleased, she leaned and listened, but could make no sense of the confused babble about "heavy boots;" "All right, old fellow;" "Jerry's off;" and "The ink is too thick."

The slam of the front door woke Jack, and he pulled himself up, declaring that he believed he had been having a nap.

"I wish you'd have another," said Jill, greatly disappointed at the loss of the intelligence she seemed to be so near getting.

"Floor is too hard for tired bones. Guess I'll go to bed and get rested up for Monday. I've worked like fury this week, so next I'm going in for fun;" and, little dreaming what hard times were in store for him, Jack went off to enjoy his warm bath and welcome bed, where he was soon sleeping with the serene look of one whose dreams were happy, whose conscience was at rest.

*    *    *    *    *

"I have a few words to say to you before you go," said Mr. Acton, pausing with his hand on the bell, Monday afternoon, when the hour came for dismissing school.

The bustle of putting away books and preparing for as rapid a departure as propriety allowed, subsided suddenly, and the boys and girls sat as still as mice, while the hearts of such as had been guilty of any small sins began to beat fast.

"You remember that we had some trouble last winter about keeping the boys away from the saloon, and that a rule was made forbidding any pupil to go to town during recess?" began Mr. Acton, who, being a conscientious man as well as an excellent teacher, felt that he was responsible for the children in school hours, and did his best to aid parents in guarding them from the few temptations which beset them in a country town. A certain attractive little shop, where confectionery, baseballs, stationery, and picture papers were sold, was a favorite loafing place for some of the boys till the rule forbidding it was made, because in the rear of the shop was a beer and billiard saloon. A wise rule, for the picture papers were not always of the best sort; cigars were to be had; idle fellows hung about there, and some of the lads, who wanted to be thought manly, ventured to pass the green baize door "just to look on."

A murmur answered the teacher's question, and he continued, "You all know that the rule was broken several times, and I told you the next offender would be publicly reprimanded, as private punishments had no effect. I am sorry to say that the time has come, and the offender is a boy whom I trusted entirely. It grieves me to do this, but I must keep my promise, and hope the example will have a good effect."

Mr. Acton paused, as if he found it hard to go on, and the boys looked at one another with inquiring eyes, for their teacher seldom punished, and when he did, it was a very solemn thing. Several of these anxious glances fell upon Joe, who was very red and sat whittling a pencil as if he dared not lift his eyes.

"He's the chap. Won't he catch it?" whispered Gus to Frank, for both owed him a grudge.

"The boy who broke the rule last Friday, at afternoon recess, will come to the desk," said Mr. Acton in his most impressive manner.

If a thunderbolt had fallen through the roof it would hardly have caused a greater surprise than the sight of Jack Minot walking slowly down the aisle, with a wrathful flash in the eyes he turned on Joe as he passed him.

"Now, Minot, let us have this over as soon as possible, for I do not like it any better than you do, and I am sure there is some mistake. I'm told you went to the shop on Friday. Is it true?" asked Mr. Acton very gently, for he liked Jack and seldom had to correct him in any way.

"Yes, sir;" and Jack looked up as if proud to show that he was not afraid to tell the truth as far as he could.

"To buy something?"

"No, sir."

"To meet someone?"

"Yes, sir."

"Was it Jerry Shannon?"

No answer, but Jack's fists doubled up of themselves as he shot another fiery glance at Joe, whose face burned as if it scorched him.

"I am told it was; also that you were seen to go into the saloon with him. Did you?" and Mr. Acton looked so sure that it was a mistake that it cost Jack a great effort to say, slowly, -- 

"Yes, sir."

Quite a thrill pervaded the school at this confession, for Jerry was one of the wild fellows the boys all shunned, and to have any dealings with him was considered a very disgraceful thing.

"Did you play?"

"No, sir. I can't."

"Drink beer?"

"I belong to the Lodge;" and Jack stood as erect as any little soldier who ever marched under a temperance banner, and fought for the cause none are too young nor too old to help along.

"I was sure of that. Then what took you there, my boy?"

The question was so kindly put that Jack forgot himself an instant, and blurted out, -- 

"I only went to pay him some money, sir."

"Ah, how much?"

"Two seventy-five," muttered Jack, as red as a cherry at not being able to keep a secret better.

"Too much for a lad like you to owe such a fellow as Jerry. How came it?" And Mr. Acton looked disturbed.

Jack opened his lips to speak, but shut them again, and stood looking down with a little quiver about the mouth that showed how much it cost him to be silent.

"Does any one beside Jerry know of this?"

"One other fellow," after a pause.

"Yes, I understand;" and Mr. Acton's eye glanced at Joe with a look that seemed to say, "I wish he'd held his tongue."

A queer smile flitted over Jack's face, for Joe was not the "other fellow," and knew very little about it, excepting what he had seen when he was sent on an errand by Mr. Acton on Friday.

"I wish you would explain the matter, John, for I am sure it is better than it seems, and it would be very hard to punish you when you don't deserve it."

"But I do deserve it; I've broken the rule, and I ought to be punished," said Jack, as if a good whipping would be easier to bear than this public cross-examination.

"And you can't explain, or even say you are sorry or ashamed?" asked Mr. Acton, hoping to surprise another fact out of the boy.

"No, sir; I can't; I'm not ashamed; I'm not sorry, and I'd do it again to-morrow if I had to," cried Jack, losing patience, and looking as if he would not bear much more.

A groan from the boys greeted this bare-faced declaration, and Susy quite shivered at the idea of having taken two bites out of the apple of such a hardened desperado.

"Think it over till to-morrow, and perhaps you will change your mind. Remember that this is the last week of the month, and reports are given out next Friday," said Mr. Acton, knowing how much the boy prided himself on always having good ones to show his mother.

Poor Jack turned scarlet and bit his lips to keep them still, for he had forgotten this when he plunged into the affair which was likely to cost him dear. Then the color faded away, the boyish face grew steady, and the honest eyes looked up at his teacher as he said very low, but all heard him, the room was so still, -- 

"It isn't as bad as it looks, sir, but I can't say any more. No one is to blame but me; and I couldn't help breaking the rule, for Jerry was going away, I had only that time, and I'd promised to pay up, so I did."

Mr. Acton believed every word he said, and regretted that they had not been able to have it out privately, but he, too, must keep his promise and punish the offender, whoever he was.

"Very well, you will lose your recess for a week, and this month's report will be the first one in which behavior does not get the highest mark. You may go; and I wish it understood that Master Minot is not to be troubled with questions till he chooses to set this matter right."

Then the bell rang, the children trooped out, Mr. Acton went off without another word, and Jack was left alone to put up his books and hide a few tears that would come because Frank turned his eyes away from the imploring look cast upon him as the culprit came down from the platform, a disgraced boy.

Elder brothers are apt to be a little hard on younger ones, so it is not surprising that Frank, who was an eminently proper boy, was much cut up when Jack publicly confessed to dealings with Jerry, leaving it to be supposed that the worst half of the story remained untold. He felt it his duty, therefore, to collar poor Jack when he came out, and talk to him all the way home, like a judge bent on getting at the truth by main force. A kind word would have been very comforting, but the scolding was too much for Jack's temper, so he turned dogged and would not say a word, though Frank threatened not to speak to him for a week.

At tea-time both boys were very silent, one looking grim, the other excited. Frank stared sternly at his brother across the table, and no amount of marmalade sweetened or softened that reproachful look. Jack defiantly crunched his toast, with occasional slashes at the butter, as if he must vent the pent-up emotions which half distracted him. Of course, their mother saw that something was amiss, but did not allude to it, hoping that the cloud would blow over as so many did if left alone. But this one did not, and when both refused cake, this sure sign of unusual perturbation made her anxious to know the cause. As soon as tea was over, Jack retired with gloomy dignity to his own room, and Frank, casting away the paper he had been pretending to read, burst out with the whole story. Mrs. Minot was as much surprised as he, but not angry, because, like most mothers, she was sure that her sons could not do anything very bad.

"I will speak to him; my boy won't refuse to give me some explanation," she said, when Frank had freed his mind with as much warmth as if Jack had broken all the ten commandments.

"He will. You often call me obstinate, but he is as pig-headed as a mule; Joe only knows what he saw, old tell-tale! and Jerry has left town, or I'd have it out of him. Make Jack own up, whether he can or not. Little donkey!" stormed Frank, who hated rowdies and could not forgive his brother for being seen with one.

"My dear, all boys do foolish things sometimes, even the wisest and best behaved, so don't be hard on the poor child. He has got into trouble, I've no doubt, but it cannot be very bad, and he earned the money to pay for his prank, whatever it was."

Mrs. Minot left the room as she spoke, and Frank cooled down as if her words had been a shower-bath, for he remembered his own costly escapade, and how kindly both his mother and Jack had stood by him on that trying occasion. So, feeling rather remorseful, he went off to talk it over with Gus, leaving Jill in a fever of curiosity, for Merry and Molly had dropped in on their way home to break the blow to her, and Frank declined to discuss it with her, after mildly stating that Jack was "a ninny," in his opinion.

"Well, I know one thing," said Jill confidentially to Snow-ball, when they were left alone together, "if every one else is scolding him I won't say a word. It's so mean to crow over people when they are down, and I'm sure he hasn't done anything to be ashamed of, though he won't tell."

Snow-ball seemed to agree to this, for he went and sat down by Jack's slippers waiting for him on the hearth, and Jill thought that a very touching proof of affectionate fidelity to the little master who ruled them both.

When he came, it was evident that he had found it harder to refuse his mother than all the rest. But she trusted him in spite of appearances, and that was such a comfort! For poor Jack's heart was very full, and he longed to tell the whole story, but he would not break his promise, and so kept silence bravely. Jill asked no questions, affecting to be anxious for the games they always played together in the evening, but while they played, though the lips were sealed, the bright eyes said as plainly as words, "I trust you," and Jack was very grateful.

It was well he had something to cheer him up at home, for he got little peace at school. He bore the grave looks of Mr. Acton meekly, took the boys' jokes good-naturedly, and withstood the artful teasing of the girls with patient silence. But it was very hard for the social, affectionate fellow to bear the general distrust, for he had been such a favorite he felt the change keenly.

But the thing that tried him most was the knowledge that his report would not be what it usually was. It was always a happy moment when he showed it to his mother, and saw her eye brighten as it fell on the 99 or 100, for she cared more for good behavior than for perfect lessons. Mr. Acton once said that Frank Minot's moral influence in the school was unusual, and Jack never forgot her pride and delight as she told them what Frank himself had not known till then. It was Jack's ambition to have the same said of him, for he was not much of a scholar, and he had tried hard since he went back to school to get good records in that respect at least. Now here was a dreadful downfall, tardy marks, bad company, broken rules, and something too wrong to tell, apparently.

"Well, I deserve a good report, and that's a comfort, though nobody believes it," he said to himself, trying to keep up his spirits, as the slow week went by, and no word from him had cleared up the mystery.



Chapter XIV. And Jill Finds It Out


Jill worried about it more than he did, for she was a faithful little friend, and it was a great trial to have Jack even suspected of doing anything wrong. School is a child's world while he is there, and its small affairs are very important to him, so Jill felt that the one thing to be done was to clear away the cloud about her dear boy, and restore him to public favor.

"Ed will be here Saturday night and may be he will find out, for Jack tells him everything. I do hate to have him hectored so, for I know he is, though he's too proud to complain," she said, on Thursday evening, when Frank told her some joke played upon his brother that day.

"I let him alone, but I see that he isn't badgered too much. That's all I can do. If Ed had only come home last Saturday it might have done some good, but now it will be too late; for the reports are given out to-morrow, you know," answered Frank, feeling a little jealous of Ed's influence over Jack, though his own would have been as great if he had been as gentle.

"Has Jerry come back?" asked Jill, who kept all her questions for Frank, because she seldom alluded to the tender subject when with Jack.

"No, he's off for the summer. Got a place somewhere. Hope he'll stay there and let Bob alone."

"Where is Bob now? I don't hear much about him lately," said Jill, who was constantly on the lookout for "the other fellow," since it was not Joe.

"Oh, he went to Captain Skinner's the first of March, chores round, and goes to school up there. Captain is strict, and won't let Bob come to town, except Sundays; but he don't mind it much, for he likes horses, has nice grub, and the Hill fellows are good chaps for him to be with. So he's all right, if he only behaves."

"How far is it to Captain Skinner's?" asked Jill suddenly, having listened, with her sharp eyes on Frank, as he tinkered away at his model, since he was forbidden all other indulgence in his beloved pastime.

"It's four miles to Hill District, but the Captain lives this side of the school-house. About three from here, I should say."

"How long would it take a boy to walk up there?" went on the questioner, with a new idea in her head.

"Depends on how much of a walkist he is."

"Suppose he was lame and it was sloshy, and he made a call and came back. How long would that take?" asked Jill impatiently.

"Well, in that case, I should say two or three hours. But it's impossible to tell exactly, unless you know how lame the fellow was, and how long a call he made," said Frank, who liked to be accurate.

"Jack couldn't do it in less, could he?"

"He used to run up that hilly road for a breather, and think nothing of it. It would be a long job for him now, poor little chap, for his leg often troubles him, though he hates to own it."

Jill lay back and laughed, a happy little laugh, as if she was pleased about something, and Frank looked over his shoulder to ask questions in his turn.

"What are you laughing at?"

"Can't tell."

"Why do you want to know about Hill District? Are you going there?"

"Wish I could! I'd soon have it out of him."

"Who?"

"Never mind. Please push up my table. I must write a letter, and I want you to post it for me to-night, and never say a word till I give you leave."

"Oh, now you are going to have secrets and be mysterious, and get into a mess, are you?" and Frank looked down at her with a suspicious air, though he was intensely curious to know what she was about.

"Go away till I'm done. You will have to see the outside, but you can't know the inside till the answer comes;" and propping herself up, Jill wrote the following note, with some hesitation at the beginning and end, for she did not know the gentleman she was addressing, except by sight, and it was rather awkward: -- 

"Robert Walker.

"Dear Sir, I want to ask if Jack Minot came to see you last Friday afternoon. He got into trouble being seen with Jerry Shannon. He paid him some money. Jack won't tell, and Mr. Acton talked to him about it before all the school. We feel bad, because we think Jack did not do wrong. I don't know as you have anything to do with it, but I thought I'd ask. Please answer quick. Respectfully yours,

"Jane Pecq"

To make sure that her despatch was not tampered with, Jill put a great splash of red sealing-wax on it, which gave it a very official look, and much impressed Bob when he received it.

"There! Go and post it, and don't let any one see or know about it," she said, handing it over to Frank, who left his work with unusual alacrity to do her errand. When his eye fell on the address, he laughed, and said in a teasing way, -- 

"Are you and Bob such good friends that you correspond? What will Jack say?"

"Don't know, and don't care! Be good, now, and let's have a little secret as well as other folks. I'll tell you all about it when he answers," said Jill in her most coaxing tone.

"Suppose he doesn't?"

"Then I shall send you up to see him. I must know something, and I want to do it myself, if I can."

"Look here; what are you after? I do believe you think --  -- " Frank got no farther, for Jill gave a little scream, and stopped him by crying eagerly, "Don't say it out loud! I really do believe it may be, and I'm going to find out."

"What made you think of him?" and Frank looked thoughtfully at the letter, as if turning carefully over in his mind the idea that Jill's quick wits had jumped at.

"Come here and I'll tell you."

Holding him by one button, she whispered something in his ear that made him exclaim, with a look at the rug, -- 

"No! did he? I declare I shouldn't wonder! It would be just like the dear old blunder-head."

"I never thought of it till you told me where Bob was, and then it all sort of burst upon me in one minute!" cried Jill, waving her arms about to express the intellectual explosion which had thrown light upon the mystery, like sky-rockets in a dark night.

"You are as bright as a button. No time to lose; I'm off;" and off he was, splashing through the mud to post the letter, on the back of which he added, to make the thing sure, "Hurry up. F.M."

Both felt rather guilty next day, but enjoyed themselves very much nevertheless, and kept chuckling over the mine they were making under Jack's unconscious feet. They hardly expected an answer at noon, as the Hill people were not very eager for their mail, but at night Jill was sure of a letter, and to her great delight it came. Jack brought it himself, which added to the fun, and while she eagerly read it he sat calmly poring over the latest number of his own private and particular "Youth's Companion."

Bob was not a "complete letter-writer" by any means, and with great labor and much ink had produced the following brief but highly satisfactory epistle. Not knowing how to address his fair correspondent he let it alone, and went at once to the point in the frankest possible way: -- 

"Jack did come up Friday. Sorry he got into a mess. It was real kind of him, and I shall pay him back soon. Jack paid Jerry for me and I made him promise not to tell. Jerry said he'd come here and make a row if I didn't cash up. I was afraid I'd lose the place if he did, for the Capt. is awful strict. If Jack don't tell now, I will. I ain't mean. Glad you wrote.

"R.O.W."

"Hurrah!" cried Jill, waving the letter over her head in great triumph. "Call everybody and read it out," she added, as Frank snatched it, and ran for his mother, seeing at a glance that the news was good. Jill was so afraid she should tell before the others came that she burst out singing "Pretty Bobby Shafto" at the top of her voice, to Jack's great disgust, for he considered the song very personal, as he was rather fond of "combing down his yellow hair," and Jill often plagued him by singing it when he came in with the golden quirls very smooth and nice to hide the scar on his forehead.

In about five minutes the door flew open and in came Mamma, making straight for bewildered Jack, who thought the family had gone crazy when his parent caught him in her arms, saying tenderly, -- 

"My good, generous boy! I knew he was right all the time!" while Frank worked his hand up and down like a pump-handle, exclaiming heartily, -- 

"You're a trump, sir, and I'm proud of you!" Jill meantime calling out, in wild delight, -- 

"I told you so! I told you so! I did find out; ha, ha, I did!"

"Come, I say! What's the matter? I'm all right. Don't squeeze the breath out of me, please," expostulated Jack, looking so startled and innocent, as he struggled feebly, that they all laughed, and this plaintive protest caused him to be released. But the next proceeding did not enlighten him much, for Frank kept waving a very inky paper before him and ordering him to read it, while Mamma made a charge at Jill, as if it was absolutely necessary to hug somebody.

"Hullo!" said Jack, when he got the letter into his own hand and read it. "Now who put Bob up to this? Nobody had any business to interfere -- but it's mighty good of him, anyway," he added, as the anxious lines in his round face smoothed themselves away, while a smile of relief told how hard it had been for him to keep his word.

"I did!" cried Jill, clapping her hands, and looking so happy that he could not have scolded her if he had wanted to.

"Who told you he was in the scrape?" demanded Jack, in a hurry to know all about it now the seal was taken off his own lips.

"You did;" and Jill's face twinkled with naughty satisfaction, for this was the best fun of all.

"I didn't! When? Where? It's a joke!"

"You did," cried Jill, pointing to the rug. "You went to sleep there after the long walk, and talked in your sleep about 'Bob' and 'All right, old boy,' and ever so much gibberish. I didn't think about it then, but when I heard that Bob was up there I thought may be he knew something about it, and last night I wrote and asked him, and that's the answer, and now it is all right, and you are the best boy that ever was, and I'm so glad!"

Here Jill paused, all out of breath, and Frank said, with an approving pat on the head, -- 

"It won't do to have such a sharp young person round if we are going to have secrets. You'd make a good detective, miss."

"Catch me taking naps before people again;" and Jack looked rather crestfallen that his own words had set "Fine Ear" on the track. "Never mind, I didn't mean to tell, though I just ached to do it all the time, so I haven't broken my word. I'm glad you all know, but you needn't let it get out, for Bob is a good fellow, and it might make trouble for him," added Jack, anxious lest his gain should be the other's loss.

"I shall tell Mr. Acton myself, and the Captain, also, for I'm not going to have my son suspected of wrong-doing when he has only tried to help a friend, and borne enough for his sake," said Mamma, much excited by this discovery of generous fidelity in her boy; though when one came to look at it calmly, one saw that it might have been done in a wiser way.

"Now, please, don't make a fuss about it; that would be most as bad as having every one down on me. I can stand your praising me, but I won't be patted on the head by anybody else;" and Jack assumed a manly air, though his face was full of genuine boyish pleasure at being set right in the eyes of those he loved.

"I'll be discreet, dear, but you owe it to yourself, as well as Bob, to have the truth known. Both have behaved well, and no harm will come to him, I am sure. I'll see to that myself," said Mrs. Minot, in a tone that set Jack's mind at rest on that point.

"Now do tell all about it," cried Jill, who was pining to know the whole story, and felt as if she had earned the right to hear it.

"Oh, it wasn't much. We promised Ed to stand by Bob, so I did as well as I knew how;" and Jack seemed to think that was about all there was to say.

"I never saw such a fellow for keeping a promise! You stick to it through thick and thin, no matter how silly or hard it is. You remember, mother, last summer, how you told him not to go in a boat and he promised, the day we went on the picnic. We rode up, but the horse ran off home, so we had to come back by way of the river, all but Jack, and he walked every step of five miles because he wouldn't go near a boat, though Mr. Burton was there to take care of him. I call that rather overdoing the matter;" and Frank looked as if he thought moderation even in virtue a good thing.

"And I call it a fine sample of entire obedience. He obeyed orders, and that is what we all must do, without always seeing why, or daring to use our own judgment. It is a great safeguard to Jack, and a very great comfort to me; for I know that if he promises he will keep his word, no matter what it costs him," said Mamma warmly, as she tumbled up the quirls with an irrepressible caress, remembering how the boy came wearily in after all the others, without seeming for a moment to think that he could have done anything else.

"Like Casabianca!" cried Jill, much impressed, for obedience was her hardest trial.

"I think he was a fool to burn up," said Frank, bound not to give in.

"I don't. It's a splendid piece, and every one likes to speak it, and it was true, and it wouldn't be in all the books if he was a fool. Grown people know what is good," declared Jill, who liked heroic actions, and was always hoping for a chance to distinguish herself in that way.

"You admire 'The Charge of the Light Brigade,' and glow all over as you thunder it out. Yet they went gallantly to their death rather than disobey orders. A mistake, perhaps, but it makes us thrill to hear of it; and the same spirit keeps my Jack true as steel when once his word is passed, or he thinks it is his duty. Don't be laughed out of it, my son, for faithfulness in little things fits one for heroism when the great trials come. One's conscience can hardly be too tender when honor and honesty are concerned."

"You are right, mother, and I am wrong. I beg your pardon, Jack, and you sha'n't get ahead of me next time."

Frank made his mother a little bow, gave his brother a shake of the hand, and nodded to Jill, as if anxious to show that he was not too proud to own up when he made a mistake.

"Please tell on, Jack. This is very nice, but I do want to know all about the other," said Jill, after a short pause.

"Let me see. Oh, I saw Bob at church, and he looked rather blue; so, after Sunday School, I asked what the matter was. He said Jerry bothered him for some money he lent him at different times when they were loafing round together, before we took him up. He wouldn't get any wages for some time. The Captain keeps him short on purpose, I guess, and won't let him come down town except on Sundays. He didn't want any one to know about it, for fear he'd lose his place. So I promised I wouldn't tell. Then I was afraid Jerry would go and make a fuss, and Bob would run off, or do something desperate, being worried, and I said I'd pay it for him, if I could. So he went home pretty jolly, and I scratched 'round for the money. Got it, too, and wasn't I glad?"

Jack paused to rub his hands, and Frank said, with more than usual respect,

"Couldn't you get hold of Jerry in any other place, and out of school time? That did the mischief, thanks to Joe. I thrashed him, Jill -- did I mention it?"

"I couldn't get all my money till Friday morning, and I knew Jerry was off at night. I looked for him before school, and at noon, but couldn't find him, so afternoon recess was my last chance. I was bound to do it and I didn't mean to break the rule, but Jerry was just going into the shop, so I pelted after him, and as it was private business we went to the billiard-room. I declare I never was so relieved as when I handed over that money, and made him say it was all right, and he wouldn't go near Bob. He's off, so my mind is easy, and Bob will be so grateful I can keep him steady, perhaps. That will be worth two seventy-five, I think," said Jack heartily.

"You should have come to me," began Frank.

"And got laughed at -- no, thank you," interrupted Jack, recollecting several philanthropic little enterprises which were nipped in the bud for want of co-operation.

"To me, then," said his mother. "It would have saved so much trouble."

"I thought of it, but Bob didn't want the big fellows to know for fear they'd be down on him, so I thought he might not like me to tell grown people. I don't mind the fuss now, and Bob is as kind as he can be. Wanted to give me his big knife, but I wouldn't take it. I'd rather have this," and Jack put the letter in his pocket with a slap outside, as if it warmed the cockles of his heart to have it there.

"Well, it seems rather like a tempest in a teapot, now it is all over, but I do admire your pluck, little boy, in holding out so well when every one was scolding at you, and you in the right all the time," said Frank, glad to praise, now that he honestly could, after his wholesale condemnation.

"That is what pulled me through, I suppose. I used to think if I had done anything wrong, that I couldn't stand the snubbing a day. I should have told right off, and had it over. Now, I guess I'll have a good report if you do tell Mr. Acton," said Jack, looking at his mother so wistfully, that she resolved to slip away that very evening, and make sure that the thing was done.

"That will make you happier than anything else, won't it?" asked Jill, eager to have him rewarded after his trials.

"There's one thing I like better, though I'd be very sorry to lose my report. It's the fun of telling Ed I tried to do as he wanted us to, and seeing how pleased he'll be," added Jack, rather bashfully, for the boys laughed at him sometimes for his love of this friend.

"I know he won't be any happier about it than someone else, who stood by you all through, and set her bright wits to work till the trouble was all cleared away," said Mrs. Minot, looking at Jill's contented face, as she lay smiling on them all.

Jack understood, and, hopping across the room, gave both the thin hands a hearty shake; then, not finding any words quite cordial enough in which to thank this faithful little sister, he stooped down and kissed her gratefully.



Chapter XV. Saint Lucy


Saturday was a busy and a happy time to Jack, for in the morning Mr. Acton came to see him, having heard the story overnight, and promised to keep Bob's secret while giving Jack an acquittal as public as the reprimand had been. Then he asked for the report which Jack had bravely received the day before and put away without showing to anybody.

"There is one mistake here which we must rectify," said Mr. Acton, as he crossed out the low figures under the word "Behavior," and put the much-desired 100 there.

"But I did break the rule, sir," said Jack, though his face glowed with pleasure, for Mamma was looking on.

"I overlook that as I should your breaking into my house if you saw it was on fire. You ran to save a friend, and I wish I could tell those fellows why you were there. It would do them good. I am not going to praise you, John, but I did believe you in spite of appearances, and I am glad to have for a pupil a boy who loves his neighbor better than himself."

Then, having shaken hands heartily, Mr. Acton went away, and Jack flew off to have rejoicings with Jill, who sat up on her sofa, without knowing it, so eager was she to hear all about the call.

In the afternoon Jack drove his mother to the Captain's, confiding to her on the way what a hard time he had when he went before, and how nothing but the thought of cheering Bob kept him up when he slipped and hurt his knee, and his boot sprung a leak, and the wind came up very cold, and the hill seemed an endless mountain of mud and snow.

Mrs. Minot had such a gentle way of putting things that she would have won over a much harder man than the strict old Captain, who heard the story with interest, and was much pleased with the boys' efforts to keep Bob straight. That young person dodged away into the barn with Jack, and only appeared at the last minute to shove a bag of chestnuts into the chaise. But he got a few kind words that did him good, from Mrs. Minot and the Captain, and from that day felt himself under bonds to behave well if he would keep their confidence.

"I shall give Jill the nuts; and I wish I had something she wanted very, very much, for I do think she ought to be rewarded for getting me out of the mess," said Jack, as they drove happily home again.

"I hope to have something in a day or two that will delight her very much. I will say no more now, but keep my little secret and let it be a surprise to all by and by," answered his mother, looking as if she had not much doubt about the matter.

"That will be jolly. You are welcome to your secret, Mamma. I've had enough of them for one while;" and Jack shrugged his broad shoulders as if a burden had been taken off.

In the evening Ed came, and Jack was quite satisfied when he saw how pleased his friend was at what he had done.

"I never meant you should take so much trouble, only be kind to Bob," said Ed, who did not know how strong his influence was, nor what a sweet example of quiet well-doing his own life was to all his mates.

"I wished to be really useful; not just to talk about it and do nothing. That isn't your way, and I want to be like you," answered Jack, with such affectionate sincerity that Ed could not help believing him, though he modestly declined the compliment by saying, as he began to play softly, "Better than I am, I hope. I don't amount to much."

"Yes, you do! and if any one says you don't I'll shake him. I can't tell what it is, only you always look so happy and contented -- sort of sweet and shiny," said Jack, as he stroked the smooth brown head, rather at a loss to describe the unusually fresh and sunny expression of Ed's face, which was always cheerful, yet had a certain thoughtfulness that made it very attractive to both young and old.

"Soap makes him shiny; I never saw such a fellow to wash and brush," put in Frank, as he came up with one of the pieces of music he and Ed were fond of practising together.

"I don't mean that!" said Jack indignantly. "I wash and brush till you call me a dandy, but I don't have the same look -- it seems to come from the inside, somehow, as if he was always jolly and clean and good in his mind, you know."

"Born so," said Frank, rumbling away in the bass with a pair of hands that would have been the better for some of the above-mentioned soap, for he did not love to do much in the washing and brushing line.

"I suppose that's it. Well, I like it, and I shall keep on trying, for being loved by every one is about the nicest thing in the world. Isn't it, Ed?" asked Jack, with a gentle tweak of the ear as he put a question which he knew would get no answer, for Ed was so modest he could not see wherein he differed from other boys, nor believe that the sunshine he saw in other faces was only the reflection from his own.

Sunday evening Mrs. Minot sat by the fire, planning how she should tell some good news she had been saving up all day. Mrs. Pecq knew it, and seemed so delighted that she went about smiling as if she did not know what trouble meant, and could not do enough for the family. She was downstairs now, seeing that the clothes were properly prepared for the wash, so there was no one in the Bird Room but Mamma and the children. Frank was reading up all he could find about some Biblical hero mentioned in the day's sermon; Jill lay where she had lain for nearly four long months, and though her face was pale and thin with the confinement, there was an expression on it now sweeter even than health. Jack sat on the rug beside her, looking at a white carnation through the magnifying glass, while she was enjoying the perfume of a red one as she talked to him.

"If you look at the white petals you'll see that they sparkle like marble, and go winding a long way down to the middle of the flower where it grows sort of rosy; and in among the small, curly leaves, like fringed curtains, you can see the little green fairy sitting all alone. Your mother showed me that, and I think it is very pretty. I call it a 'fairy,' but it is really where the seeds are hidden and the sweet smell comes from."

Jill spoke softly lest she should disturb the others, and, as she turned to push up her pillow, she saw Mrs. Minot looking at her with a smile she did not understand.

"Did you speak, 'm?" she asked, smiling back again, without in the least knowing why.

"No, dear. I was listening and thinking what a pretty little story one could make out of your fairy living alone down there, and only known by her perfume."

"Tell it, Mamma. It is time for our story, and that would be a nice one, I guess," said Jack, who was as fond of stories as when he sat in his mother's lap and chuckled over the hero of the beanstalk.

"We don't have fairy tales on Sunday, you know," began Jill regretfully.

"Call it a parable, and have a moral to it, then it will be all right," put in Frank, as he shut his big book, having found what he wanted.

"I like stories about saints, and the good and wonderful things they did," said Jill, who enjoyed the wise and interesting bits Mrs. Minot often found for her in grown-up books, for Jill had thoughtful times, and asked questions which showed that she was growing fast in mind if not in body.

"This is a true story; but I will disguise it a little, and call it 'The Miracle of Saint Lucy,'" began Mrs. Minot, seeing a way to tell her good news and amuse the children likewise.

Frank retired to the easy-chair, that he might sleep if the tale should prove too childish for him. Jill settled herself among her cushions, and Jack lay flat upon the rug, with his feet up, so that he could admire his red slippers and rest his knee, which ached.

"Once upon a time there was a queen who had two princes."

"Wasn't there a princess?" asked Jack, interested at once.

"No; and it was a great sorrow to the queen that she had no little daughter, for the sons were growing up, and she was often very lonely.

"Like Snowdrop's mother," whispered Jill.

"Now, don't keep interrupting, children, or we never shall get on," said Frank, more anxious to hear about the boys that were than the girl that was not.

"One day, when the princes were out -- ahem! we'll say hunting -- they found a little damsel lying on the snow, half dead with cold, they thought. She was the child of a poor woman who lived in the forest -- a wild little thing, always dancing and singing about; as hard to catch as a squirrel, and so fearless she would climb the highest trees, leap broad brooks, or jump off the steep rocks to show her courage. The boys carried her home to the palace, and the queen was glad to have her. She had fallen and hurt herself, so she lay in bed week after week, with her mother to take care of her -- "

"That's you," whispered Jack, throwing the white carnation at Jill, and she threw back the red one, with her finger on her lips, for the tale was very interesting now.

"She did not suffer much after a time, but she scolded and cried, and could not be resigned, because she was a prisoner. The queen tried to help her, but she could not do much; the princes were kind, but they had their books and plays, and were away a good deal. Some friends she had came often to see her, but still she beat her wings against the bars, like a wild bird in a cage, and soon her spirits were all gone, and it was sad to see her."

"Where was your Saint Lucy? I thought it was about her," asked Jack, who did not like to have Jill's past troubles dwelt upon, since his were not.

"She is coming. Saints are not born -- they are made after many trials and tribulations," answered his mother, looking at the fire as if it helped her to spin her little story. "Well, the poor child used to sing sometimes to while away the long hours -- sad songs mostly, and one among them which the queen taught her was 'Sweet Patience, Come.'

"This she used to sing a great deal after a while, never dreaming that Patience was an angel who could hear and obey. But it was so; and one night, when the girl had lulled herself to sleep with that song, the angel came. Nobody saw the lovely spirit with tender eyes, and a voice that was like balm. No one heard the rustle of wings as she hovered over the little bed and touched the lips, the eyes, the hands of the sleeper, and then flew away, leaving three gifts behind. The girl did not know why, but after that night the songs grew gayer, there seemed to be more sunshine everywhere her eyes looked, and her hands were never tired of helping others in various pretty, useful, or pleasant ways. Slowly the wild bird ceased to beat against the bars, but sat in its cage and made music for all in the palace, till the queen could not do without it, the poor mother cheered up, and the princes called the girl their nightingale."

"Was that the miracle?" asked Jack, forgetting all about his slippers, as he watched Jill's eyes brighten and the color come up in her white cheeks.

"That was the miracle, and Patience can work far greater ones if you will let her."

"And the girl's name was Lucy?"

"Yes; they did not call her a saint then, but she was trying to be as cheerful as a certain good woman she had heard of, and so the queen had that name for her, though she did not let her know it for a long time."

"That's not bad for a Sunday story, but there might have been more about the princes, seems to me," was Frank's criticism, as Jill lay very still, trying to hide her face behind the carnation, for she had no words to tell how touched and pleased she was to find that her little efforts to be good had been seen, remembered, and now rewarded in this way.

"There is more."

"Then the story isn't done?" cried Jack.

"Oh dear, no; the most interesting things are to come, if you can wait for them."

"Yes, I see, this is the moral part. Now keep still, and let us have the rest," commanded Frank, while the others composed themselves for the sequel, suspecting that it was rather nice, because Mamma's sober face changed, and her eyes laughed as they looked at the fire.

"The elder prince was very fond of driving dragons, for the people of that country used these fiery monsters as horses."

"And got run away with, didn't he?" laughed Jack, adding, with great interest, "What did the other fellow do?"

"He went about fighting other people's battles, helping the poor, and trying to do good. But he lacked judgment, so he often got into trouble, and was in such a hurry that he did not always stop to find out the wisest way. As when he gave away his best coat to a beggar boy, instead of the old one which he intended to give."

"I say, that isn't fair, mother! Neither of them was new, and the boy needed the best more than I did, and I wore the old one all winter, didn't I?" asked Jack, who had rather exulted over Frank, and was now taken down himself.

"Yes, you did, my dear; and it was not an easy thing for my dandiprat to do. Now listen, and I'll tell you how they both learned to be wiser. The elder prince soon found that the big dragons were too much for him, and set about training his own little one, who now and then ran away with him. Its name was Will, a good servant, but a bad master; so he learned to control it, and in time this gave him great power over himself, and fitted him to be a king over others."

"Thank you, mother; I'll remember my part of the moral. Now give Jack his," said Frank, who liked the dragon episode, as he had been wrestling with his own of late, and found it hard to manage.

"He had a fine example before him in a friend, and he followed it more reasonably till he grew able to use wisely one of the best and noblest gifts of God -- benevolence."

"Now tell about the girl. Was there more to that part of the story?" asked Jack, well pleased with his moral, as it took Ed in likewise.

"That is the best of all, but it seems as if I never should get to it. After Patience made Lucy sweet and cheerful, she began to have a curious power over those about her, and to work little miracles herself, though she did not know it. The queen learned to love her so dearly she could not let her go; she cheered up all her friends when they came with their small troubles; the princes found bright eyes, willing hands, and a kind heart always at their service, and felt, without quite knowing why, that it was good for them to have a gentle little creature to care for; so they softened their rough manners, loud voices, and careless ways, for her sake, and when it was proposed to take her away to her own home they could not give her up, but said she must stay longer, didn't they?"

"I'd like to see them saying anything else," said Frank, while Jack sat up to demand fiercely, -- 

"Who talks about taking Jill away?"

"Lucy's mother thought she ought to go, and said so, but the queen told her how much good it did them all to have her there, and begged the dear woman to let her little cottage and come and be housekeeper in the palace, for the queen was getting lazy, and liked to sit and read, and talk and sew with Lucy, better than to look after things."

"And she said she would?" cried Jill, clasping her hands in her anxiety, for she had learned to love her cage now.

"Yes." Mrs. Minot had no time to say more, for one of the red slippers flew up in the air, and Jack had to clap both hands over his mouth to suppress the "hurrah!" that nearly escaped. Frank said, "That's good!" and nodded with his most cordial smile at Jill who pulled herself up with cheeks now as rosy as the red carnation, and a little catch in her breath as she said to herself, -- 

"It's too lovely to be true."

"That's a first-rate end to a very good story," began Jack, with grave decision, as he put on his slipper and sat up to pat Jill's hand, wishing it was not quite so like a little claw.

"That's not the end;" and Mamma's eyes laughed more than ever as three astonished faces turned to her, and three voices cried out, -- 

"Still more?"

"The very best of all. You must know that, while Lucy was busy for others, she was not forgotten, and when she was expecting to lie on her bed through the summer, plans were being made for all sorts of pleasant changes. First of all, she was to have a nice little brace to support the back which was growing better every day; then, as the warm weather came on, she was to go out, or lie on the piazza; and by and by, when school was done, she was to go with the queen and the princes for a month or two down to the sea-side, where fresh air and salt water were to build her up in the most delightful way. There, now! isn't that the best ending of all?" and Mamma paused to read her answer in the bright faces of two of the listeners, for Jill hid hers in the pillow, and lay quite still, as if it was too much for her.

"That will be regularly splendid! I'll row you all about -- boating is so much easier than riding, and I like it on salt water," said Frank, going to sit on the arm of the sofa, quite excited by the charms of the new plan.

"And I'll teach you to swim, and roll you over the beach, and get sea-weed and shells, and no end of nice things, and we'll all come home as strong as lions," added Jack, scrambling up as if about to set off at once.

"The doctor says you have been doing finely of late, and the brace will come to-morrow, and the first really mild day you are to have a breath of fresh air. Won't that be good?" asked Mrs. Minot, hoping her story had not been too interesting.

"Is she crying?" said Jack, much concerned as he patted the pillow in his most soothing way, while Frank lifted one curl after another to see what was hidden underneath.

Not tears, for two eyes sparkled behind the fingers, then the hands came down like clouds from before the sun, and Jill's face shone out so bright and happy it did one's heart good to see it.

"I'm not crying," she said with a laugh which was fuller of blithe music than any song she sung. "But it was so splendid, it sort of took my breath away for a minute. I thought I wasn't any better, and never should be, and I made up my mind I wouldn't ask, it would be so hard for any one to tell me so. Now I see why the doctor made me stand up, and told me to get my baskets ready to go a-Maying. I thought he was in fun; did he really mean I could go?" asked Jill, expecting too much, for a word of encouragement made her as hopeful as she had been despondent before.

"No, dear, not so soon as that. It will be months, probably, before you can walk and run, as you used to; but they will soon pass. You needn't mind about May-day; it is always too cold for flowers, and you will find more here among your own plants, than on the hills, to fill your baskets," answered Mrs. Minot, hastening to suggest something pleasant to beguile the time of probation.

"I can wait. Months are not years, and if I'm truly getting well, everything will seem beautiful and easy to me," said Jill, laying herself down again, with the patient look she had learned to wear, and gathering up the scattered carnations to enjoy their spicy breath, as if the fairies hidden there had taught her some of their sweet secrets.

"Dear little girl, it has been a long, hard trial for you, but it is coming to an end, and I think you will find that it has not been time wasted, I don't want you to be a saint quite yet, but I am sure a gentler Jill will rise up from that sofa than the one who lay down there in December."

"How could I help growing better, when you were so good to me?" cried Jill, putting up both arms, as Mrs. Minot went to take Frank's place, and he retired to the fire, there to stand surveying the scene with calm approval.

"You have done quite as much for us; so we are even. I proved that to your mother, and she is going to let the little house and take care of the big one for me, while I borrow you to keep me happy and make the boys gentle and kind. That is the bargain, and we get the best of it," said Mrs. Minot, looking well pleased, while Jack added, "That's so!" and Frank observed with an air of conviction, "We couldn't get on without Jill, possibly."

"Can I do all that? I didn't know I was of any use. I only tried to be good and grateful, for there didn't seem to be anything else I could do," said Jill, wondering why they were all so fond of her.

"No real trying is ever in vain. It is like the spring rain, and flowers are sure to follow in good time. The three gifts Patience gave Saint Lucy were courage, cheerfulness, and love, and with these one can work the sweetest miracles in the world, as you see," and Mrs. Minot pointed to the pretty room and its happy inmates.

"Am I really the least bit like that good Lucinda? I tried to be, but I didn't think I was," asked Jill softly.

"You are very like her in all ways but one. She did not get well, and you will."

A short answer, but it satisfied Jill to her heart's core, and that night, when she lay in bed, she thought to herself: "How curious it is that I've been a sort of missionary without knowing it! They all love and thank me, and won't let me go, so I suppose I must have done something, but I don't know what, except trying to be good and pleasant."

That was the secret, and Jill found it out just when it was most grateful as a reward for past efforts, most helpful as an encouragement toward the constant well-doing which can make even a little girl a joy and comfort to all who know and love her.



Chapter XVI. Up at Merry's


"Now fly round, child, and get your sweeping done up smart and early."

"Yes, mother."

"I shall want you to help me about the baking, by and by."

"Yes, mother."

"Roxy is cleaning the cellar-closets, so you'll have to get the vegetables ready for dinner. Father wants a boiled dish, and I shall be so busy I can't see to it."

"Yes, mother."

A cheerful voice gave the three answers, but it cost Merry an effort to keep it so, for she had certain little plans of her own which made the work before her unusually distasteful. Saturday always was a trying day, for, though she liked to see rooms in order, she hated to sweep, as no speck escaped Mrs. Grant's eye, and only the good old-fashioned broom, wielded by a pair of strong arms, was allowed. Baking was another trial: she loved good bread and delicate pastry, but did not enjoy burning her face over a hot stove, daubing her hands with dough, or spending hours rolling out cookies for the boys; while a "boiled dinner" was her especial horror, as it was not elegant, and the washing of vegetables was a job she always shirked when she could.

However, having made up her mind to do her work without complaint, she ran upstairs to put on her dust-cap, trying to look as if sweeping was the joy of her life.

"It is such a lovely day, I did want to rake my garden, and have a walk with Molly, and finish my book so I can get another," she said with a sigh, as she leaned out of the open window for a breath of the unusually mild air.

Down in the ten-acre lot the boys were carting and spreading loam; out in the barn her father was getting his plows ready; over the hill rose the smoke of the distant factory, and the river that turned the wheels was gliding through the meadows, where soon the blackbirds would be singing. Old Bess pawed the ground, eager to be off; the gray hens were scratching busily all about the yard; even the green things in the garden were pushing through the brown earth, softened by April rains, and there was a shimmer of sunshine over the wide landscape that made every familiar object beautiful with hints of spring, and the activity it brings.

Something made the old nursery hymn come into Merry's head, and humming to herself,

"In works of labor or of skill I would be busy too,"

she tied on her cap, shouldered her broom, and fell to work so energetically that she soon swept her way through the chambers, down the front stairs to the parlor door, leaving freshness and order behind her as she went.

She always groaned when she entered that apartment, and got out of it again as soon as possible, for it was, like most country parlors, a prim and chilly place, with little beauty and no comfort. Black horse-hair furniture, very slippery and hard, stood against the wall; the table had its gift books, albums, worsted mat and ugly lamp; the mantel-piece its china vases, pink shells, and clock that never went; the gay carpet was kept distressingly bright by closed shutters six days out of the seven, and a general air of go-to-meeting solemnity pervaded the room. Merry longed to make it pretty and pleasant, but her mother would allow of no change there, so the girl gave up her dreams of rugs and hangings, fine pictures and tasteful ornaments, and dutifully aired, dusted, and shut up this awful apartment once a week, privately resolving that, if she ever had a parlor of her own, it should not be as dismal as a tomb.

The dining-room was a very different place, for here Merry had been allowed to do as she liked, yet so gradual had been the change, that she would have found it difficult to tell how it came about. It seemed to begin with the flowers, for her father kept his word about the "posy pots," and got enough to make quite a little conservatory in the bay-window, which was sufficiently large for three rows all round, and hanging-baskets overhead. Being discouraged by her first failure, Merry gave up trying to have things nice everywhere, and contented herself with making that one nook so pretty that the boys called it her "bower." Even busy Mrs. Grant owned that plants were not so messy as she expected, and the farmer was never tired of watching "little daughter" as she sat at work there, with her low chair and table full of books.

The lamp helped, also, for Merry set up her own, and kept it so well trimmed that it burned clear and bright, shining on the green arch of ivy overhead, and on the nasturtium vines framing the old glass, and peeping at their gay little faces, and at the pretty young girl, so pleasantly that first her father came to read his paper by it, then her mother slipped in to rest on the lounge in the corner, and finally the boys hovered about the door as if the "settin'-room" had grown more attractive than the kitchen.

But the open fire did more than anything else to win and hold them all, as it seldom fails to do when the black demon of an airtight stove is banished from the hearth. After the room was cleaned till it shone, Merry begged to have the brass andirons put in, and offered to keep them as bright as gold if her mother would consent. So the great logs were kindled, and the flames went dancing up the chimney as if glad to be set free from their prison. It changed the whole room like magic, and no one could resist the desire to enjoy its cheery comfort. The farmer's three-cornered leathern chair soon stood on one side, and mother's rocker on the other, as they toasted their feet and dozed or chatted in the pleasant warmth.

The boys' slippers were always ready on the hearth; and when the big boots were once off, they naturally settled down about the table, where the tall lamp, with its pretty shade of pressed autumn leaves, burned brightly, and the books and papers lay ready to their hands instead of being tucked out of sight in the closet. They were beginning to see that "Merry's notions" had some sense in them, since they were made comfortable, and good-naturedly took some pains to please her in various ways. Tom brushed his hair and washed his hands nicely before he came to table. Dick tried to lower his boisterous laughter, and Harry never smoked in the sitting-room. Even Roxy expressed her pleasure in seeing "things kind of spruced up," and Merry's gentle treatment of the hard-working drudge won her heart entirely.

The girl was thinking of these changes as she watered her flowers, dusted the furniture, and laid the fire ready for kindling; and, when all was done, she stood a minute to enjoy the pleasant room, full of spring sunshine, fresh air, and exquisite order. It seemed to give her heart for more distasteful labors, and she fell to work at the pies as cheerfully as if she liked it.

Mrs. Grant was flying about the kitchen, getting the loaves of brown and white bread ready for the big oven. Roxy's voice came up from the cellar singing "Bounding Billows," with a swashing and scrubbing accompaniment which suggested that she was actually enjoying a "life on the ocean wave." Merry, in her neat cap and apron, stood smiling over her work as she deftly rolled and clipped, filled and covered, finding a certain sort of pleasure in doing it well, and adding interest to it by crimping the crust, making pretty devices with strips of paste and star-shaped prickings of the fork.

"Good-will giveth skill," says the proverb, and even particular Mrs. Grant was satisfied when she paused to examine the pastry with her experienced eye.

"You are a handy child and a credit to your bringing up, though I do say it. Those are as pretty pies as I'd wish to eat, if they bake well, and there's no reason why they shouldn't."

"May I make some tarts or rabbits of these bits? The boys like them, and I enjoy modelling this sort of thing," said Merry, who was trying to mould a bird, as she had seen Ralph do with clay to amuse Jill while the bust was going on.

"No, dear; there's no time for knick-knacks to-day. The beets ought to be on this minute. Run and get 'em, and be sure you scrape the carrots well."

Poor Merry put away the delicate task she was just beginning to like, and taking a pan went down cellar, wishing vegetables could be grown without earth, for she hated to put her hands in dirty water. A word of praise to Roxy made that grateful scrubber leave her work to poke about in the root-cellar, choosing "sech as was pretty much of a muchness, else they wouldn't bile even;" so Merry was spared that part of the job, and went up to scrape and wash without complaint, since it was for father. She was repaid at noon by the relish with which he enjoyed his dinner, for Merry tried to make even a boiled dish pretty by arranging the beets, carrots, turnips, and potatoes in contrasting colors, with the beef hidden under the cabbage leaves.

"Now, I'll rest and read for an hour, then I'll rake my garden, or run down town to see Molly and get some seeds," she thought to herself, as she put away the spoons and glasses, which she liked to wash, that they might always be clear and bright.

"If you've done all your own mending, there's a heap of socks to be looked over. Then I'll show you about darning the tablecloths. I do hate to have a stitch of work left over till Monday," said Mrs. Grant, who never took naps, and prided herself on sitting down to her needle at 3 P.M. every day.

"Yes, mother;" and Merry went slowly upstairs, feeling that a part of Saturday ought to be a holiday after books and work all the week. As she braided up her hair, her eye fell upon the reflection of her own face in the glass. Not a happy nor a pretty one just then, and Merry was so unaccustomed to seeing any other, that involuntarily the frown smoothed itself out, the eyes lost their weary look, the drooping lips curved into a smile, and, leaning her elbows on the bureau, she shook her head at herself, saying, half aloud, as she glanced at Ivanhoe lying near, -- 

"You needn't look so cross and ugly just because you can't have what you want. Sweeping, baking, and darning are not so bad as being plagued with lovers and carried off and burnt at the stake, so I won't envy poor Rebecca her jewels and curls and romantic times, but make the best of my own."

Then she laughed, and the bright face came back into the mirror, looking like an old friend, and Merry went on dressing with care, for she took pleasure in her own little charms, and felt a sense of comfort in knowing that she could always have one pretty thing to look at if she kept her own face serene and sweet. It certainly looked so as it bent over the pile of big socks half an hour later, and brightened with each that was laid aside. Her mother saw it, and, guessing why such wistful glances went from clock to window, kindly shortened the task of table-cloth darning by doing a good bit herself, before putting it into Merry's hands.

She was a good and loving mother in spite of her strict ways, and knew that it was better for her romantic daughter to be learning all the housewifery lessons she could teach her, than to be reading novels, writing verses, or philandering about with her head full of girlish fancies, quite innocent in themselves, but not the stuff to live on. So she wisely taught the hands that preferred to pick flowers, trim up rooms and mould birds, to work well with needle, broom, and rolling-pin; put a receipt-book before the eyes that loved to laugh and weep over tender tales, and kept the young head and heart safe and happy with wholesome duties, useful studies, and such harmless pleasures as girls should love, instead of letting them waste their freshness in vague longings, idle dreams, and frivolous pastimes.

But it was often hard to thwart the docile child, and lately she had seemed to be growing up so fast that her mother began to feel a new sort of tenderness for this sweet daughter, who was almost ready to take upon herself the cares, as well as triumphs and delights, of maidenhood. Something in the droop of the brown head, and the quick motion of the busy hand with a little burn on it, made it difficult for Mrs. Grant to keep Merry at work that day, and her eye watched the clock almost as impatiently as the girl's, for she liked to see the young face brighten when the hour of release came.

"What next?" asked Merry, as the last stitch was set, and she stifled a sigh on hearing the clock strike four, for the sun was getting low, and the lovely afternoon going fast.

"One more job, if you are not too tired for it. I want the receipt for diet drink Miss Dawes promised me; would you like to run down and get it for me, dear?"

"Yes, mother!" and that answer was as blithe as a robin's chirp, for that was just where Merry wanted to go.

Away went thimble and scissors, and in five minutes away went Merry, skipping down the hill without a care in the world, for a happy heart sat singing within, and everything seemed full of beauty.

She had a capital time with Molly, called on Jill, did her shopping in the village, and had just turned to walk up the hill, when Ralph Evans came tramping along behind her, looking so pleased and proud about something that she could not help asking what it was, for they were great friends, and Merry thought that to be an artist was the most glorious career a man could choose.

"I know you've got some good news," she said, looking up at him as he touched his hat and fell into step with her, seeming more contented than before.

"I have, and was just coming up to tell you, for I was sure you would be glad. It is only a hope, a chance, but it is so splendid I feel as if I must shout and dance, or fly over a fence or two, to let off steam."

"Do tell me, quick; have you got an order?" asked Merry, full of interest at once, for artistic vicissitudes were very romantic, and she liked to hear about them.

"I may go abroad in the autumn."

"Oh, how lovely!"

"Isn't it? David German is going to spend a year in Rome, to finish a statue, and wants me to go along. Grandma is willing, as cousin Maria wants her for a long visit, so everything looks promising and I really think I may go."

"Won't it cost a great deal?" asked Merry, who, in spite of her little elegancies, had a good deal of her thrifty mother's common sense.

"Yes; and I've got to earn it. But I can -- I know I can, for I've saved some, and I shall work like ten beavers all summer. I won't borrow if I can help it, but I know someone who would lend me five hundred if I wanted it;" and Ralph looked as eager and secure as if the earning of twice that sum was a mere trifle when all the longing of his life was put into his daily tasks.

"I wish I had it to give you. It must be so splendid to feel that you can do great things if you only have the chance. And to travel, and see all the lovely pictures and statues, and people and places in Italy. How happy you must be!" and Merry's eyes had the wistful look they always wore when she dreamed dreams of the world she loved to live in.

"I am -- so happy that I'm afraid it never will happen. If I do go, I'll write and tell you all about the fine sights, and how I get on. Would you like me to?" asked Ralph, beginning enthusiastically and ending rather bashfully, for he admired Merry very much, and was not quite sure how this proposal would be received.

"Indeed I should! I'd feel so grand to have letters from Paris and Rome, and you'd have so much to tell it would be almost as good as going myself," she said, looking off into the daffodil sky, as they paused a minute on the hill-top to get breath, for both had walked as fast as they talked.

"And will you answer the letters?" asked Ralph, watching the innocent face, which looked unusually kind and beautiful to him in that soft light.

"Why, yes; I'd love to, only I shall not have anything interesting to say. What can I write about?" and Merry smiled as she thought how dull her letters would sound after the exciting details his would doubtless give.

"Write about yourself, and all the rest of the people I know. Grandma will be gone, and I shall want to hear how you get on." Ralph looked very anxious indeed to hear, and Merry promised she would tell all about the other people, adding, as she turned from the evening peace and loveliness to the house, whence came the clatter of milk-pans and the smell of cooking, -- 

"I never should have anything very nice to tell about myself, for I don't do interesting things as you do, and you wouldn't care to hear about school, and sewing, and messing round at home."

Merry gave a disdainful little sniff at the savory perfume of ham which saluted them, and paused with her hand on the gate, as if she found it pleasanter out there than in the house. Ralph seemed to agree with her, for, leaning on the gate, he lingered to say, with real sympathy in his tone and something else in his face, "Yes, I should; so you write and tell me all about it. I didn't know you had any worries, for you always seemed like one of the happiest people in the world, with so many to pet and care for you, and plenty of money, and nothing very hard or hateful to do. You'd think you were well off if you knew as much about poverty and work and never getting what you want, as I do."

"You bear your worries so well that nobody knows you have them. I ought not to complain, and I won't, for I do have all I need. I'm so glad you are going to get what you want at last;" and Merry held out her hand to say good-night, with so much pleasure in her face that Ralph could not make up his mind to go just yet.

"I shall have to scratch round in a lively way before I do get it, for David says a fellow can't live on less than four or five hundred a year, even living as poor artists have to, in garrets and on crusts. I don't mind as long as Grandma is all right. She is away to-night, or I should not be here," he added, as if some excuse was necessary. Merry needed no hint, for her tender heart was touched by the vision of her friend in a garret, and she suddenly rejoiced that there was ham and eggs for supper, so that he might be well fed once, at least, before he went away to feed on artistic crusts.

"Being here, come in and spend the evening. The boys will like to hear the news, and so will father. Do, now."

It was impossible to refuse the invitation he had been longing for, and in they went to the great delight of Roxy, who instantly retired to the pantry, smiling significantly, and brought out the most elaborate pie in honor of the occasion. Merry touched up the table, and put a little vase of flowers in the middle to redeem the vulgarity of doughnuts. Of course the boys upset it, but as there was company nothing was said, and Ralph devoured his supper with the appetite of a hungry boy, while watching Merry eat bread and cream out of an old-fashioned silver porringer, and thinking it the sweetest sight he ever beheld.

Then the young people gathered about the table, full of the new plans, and the elders listened as they rested after the week's work. A pleasant evening, for they all liked Ralph, but as the parents watched Merry sitting among the great lads like a little queen among her subjects, half unconscious as yet of the power in her hands, they nodded to one another, and then shook their heads as if they said, -- 

"I'm afraid the time is coming, mother."

"No danger as long as she don't know it, father."

At nine the boys went off to the barn, the farmer to wind up the eight-day clock, and the housewife to see how the baked beans and Indian pudding for to-morrow were getting on in the oven. Ralph took up his hat to go, saying as he looked at the shade on the tall student lamp, -- 

"What a good light that gives! I can see it as I go home every night, and it burns up here like a beacon. I always look for it, and it hardly ever fails to be burning. Sort of cheers up the way, you know, when I'm tired or low in my mind."

"Then I'm very glad I got it. I liked the shape, but the boys laughed at it as they did at my bulrushes in a ginger-jar over there. I'd been reading about 'household art,' and I thought I'd try a little," answered Merry, laughing at her own whims.

"You've got a better sort of household art, I think, for you make people happy and places pretty, without fussing over it. This room is ever so much improved every time I come, though I hardly see what it is except the flowers," said Ralph, looking from the girl to the tall calla that bent its white cup above her as if to pour its dew upon her head.

"Isn't that lovely? I tried to draw it -- the shape was so graceful I wanted to keep it. But I couldn't. Isn't it a pity such beautiful things won't last forever?" and Merry looked regretfully at the half-faded one that grew beside the fresh blossom.

"I can keep it for you. It would look well in plaster. May I?" asked Ralph.

"Thank you, I should like that very much. Take the real one as a model -- please do; there are more coming, and this will brighten up your room for a day or two."

As she spoke, Merry cut the stem, and, adding two or three of the great green leaves, put the handsome flower in his hand with so much good-will that he felt as if he had received a very precious gift. Then he said good-night so gratefully that Merry's hand quite tingled with the grasp of his, and went away, often looking backward through the darkness to where the light burned brightly on the hill-top -- the beacon kindled by an unconscious Hero for a young Leander swimming gallantly against wind and tide toward the goal of his ambition.



Chapter XVII. Down at Molly's


"Now, my dears, I've something very curious to tell you, so listen quietly and then I'll give you your dinners," said Molly, addressing the nine cats who came trooping after her as she went into the shed-chamber with a bowl of milk and a plate of scraps in her hands. She had taught them to behave well at meals, so, though their eyes glared and their tails quivered with impatience, they obeyed; and when she put the food on a high shelf and retired to the big basket, the four old cats sat demurely down before her, while the five kits scrambled after her and tumbled into her lap, as if hoping to hasten the desired feast by their innocent gambols.

Granny, Tobias, Mortification, and Molasses were the elders. Granny, a gray old puss, was the mother and grandmother of all the rest. Tobias was her eldest son, and Mortification his brother, so named because he had lost his tail, which affliction depressed his spirits and cast a blight over his young life. Molasses was a yellow cat, the mamma of four of the kits, the fifth being Granny's latest darling. Toddlekins, the little aunt, was the image of her mother, and very sedate even at that early age; Miss Muffet, so called from her dread of spiders, was a timid black and white kit; Beauty, a pretty Maltese, with a serene little face and pink nose; Ragbag, a funny thing, every color that a cat could be; and Scamp, who well deserved his name, for he was the plague of Miss Bat's life, and Molly's especial pet.

He was now perched on her shoulder, and, as she talked, kept peeping into her face or biting her ear in the most impertinent way, while the others sprawled in her lap or promenaded round the basket rim.

"My friends, something very remarkable has happened: Miss Bat is cleaning house!" and, having made this announcement, Molly leaned back to see how the cats received it, for she insisted that they understood all she said to them.

Tobias stared, Mortification lay down as if it was too much for him, Molasses beat her tail on the floor as if whipping a dusty carpet, and Granny began to purr approvingly. The giddy kits paid no attention, as they did not know what house-cleaning meant, happy little dears!

"I thought you'd like it, Granny, for you are a decent cat, and know what is proper," continued Molly, leaning down to stroke the old puss, who blinked affectionately at her. "I can't imagine what put it into Miss Bat's head. I never said a word, and gave up groaning over the clutter, as I couldn't mend it. I just took care of Boo and myself, and left her to be as untidy as she pleased, and she is a regular old --  -- "

Here Scamp put his paw on her lips because he saw them moving, but it seemed as if it was to check the disrespectful word just coming out.

"Well, I won't call names; but what shall I do when I see everything in confusion, and she won't let me clear up?" asked Molly, looking round at Scamp, who promptly put the little paw on her eyelid, as if the roll of the blue ball underneath amused him.

"Shut my eyes to it, you mean? I do all I can, but it is hard, when I wish to be nice, and do try; don't I?" asked Molly. But Scamp was ready for her, and began to comb her hair with both paws as he stood on his hind legs to work so busily that Molly laughed and pulled him down, saying, as she cuddled the sly kit.

"You sharp little thing! I know my hair is not neat now, for I've been chasing Boo round the garden to wash him for school. Then Miss Bat threw the parlor carpet out of the window, and I was so surprised I had to run and tell you. Now, what had we better do about it?"

The cats all winked at her, but no one had any advice to offer, except Tobias, who walked to the shelf, and, looking up, uttered a deep, suggestive yowl, which said as plainly as words, "Dinner first and discussion afterward."

"Very well, don't scramble," said Molly, getting up to feed her pets. First the kits, who rushed at the bowl and thrust their heads in, lapping as if for a wager; then the cats, who each went to one of the four piles of scraps laid round at intervals and placidly ate their meat; while Molly retired to the basket, to ponder over the phenomena taking place in the house.

She could not imagine what had started the old lady. It was not the example of her neighbors, who had beaten carpets and scrubbed paint every spring for years without exciting her to any greater exertion than cleaning a few windows and having a man to clear away the rubbish displayed when the snow melted. Molly never guessed that her own efforts were at the bottom of the change, or knew that a few words not meant for her ear had shamed Miss Bat into action. Coming home from prayer-meeting one dark night, she trotted along behind two old ladies who were gossiping in loud voices, as one was rather deaf, and Miss Bat was both pleased and troubled to hear herself unduly praised.

"I always said Sister Dawes meant well; but she's getting into years, and the care of two children is a good deal for her, with her cooking and her rheumatiz. I don't deny she did neglect 'em for a spell, but she does well by 'em now, and I wouldn't wish to see better-appearing children."

"You've no idee how improved Molly is. She came in to see my girls, and brought her sewing-work, shirts for the boy, and done it as neat and capable as you'd wish to see. She always was a smart child, but dreadful careless," said the other old lady, evidently much impressed by the change in harum-scarum Molly Loo.

"Being over to Mis Minot's so much has been good for her, and up to Mis Grant's. Girls catch neat ways as quick as they do untidy ones, and them wild little tykes often turn out smart women."

"Sister Dawes has done well by them children, and I hope Mr. Bemis sees it. He ought to give her something comfortable to live on when she can't do for him any longer. He can well afford it."

"I haven't a doubt he will. He's a lavish man when he starts to do a thing, but dreadful unobserving, else he'd have seen to matters long ago. Them children was town-talk last fall, and I used to feel as if it was my bounden duty to speak to Miss Dawes. But I never did, fearing I might speak too plain, and hurt her feelings."

"You've spoken plain enough now, and I'm beholden to you, though you'll never know it," said Miss Bat to herself, as she slipped into her own gate, while the gossips trudged on quite unconscious of the listener behind them.

Miss Bat was a worthy old soul in the main, only, like so many of us, she needed rousing up to her duty. She had got the rousing now, and it did her good, for she could not bear to be praised when she had not deserved it. She had watched Molly's efforts with lazy interest, and when the girl gave up meddling with her affairs, as she called the housekeeping, Miss Bat ceased to oppose her, and let her scrub Boo, mend clothes, and brush her hair as much as she liked. So Molly had worked along without any help from her, running in to Mrs. Pecq for advice, to Merry for comfort, or Mrs. Minot for the higher kind of help one often needs so much. Now Miss Bat found that she was getting the credit and the praise belonging to other people, and it stirred her up to try and deserve a part at least.

"Molly don't want any help about her work or the boy: it's too late for that; but if this house don't get a spring cleaning that will make it shine, my name ain't Bathsheba Dawes," said the old lady, as she put away her bonnet that night, and laid energetic plans for a grand revolution, inspired thereto not only by shame, but by the hint that "Mr. Bemis was a lavish man," as no one knew better than she.

Molly's amazement next day at seeing carpets fly out of window, ancient cobwebs come down, and long-undisturbed closets routed out to the great dismay of moths and mice, has been already confided to the cats, and as she sat there watching them lap and gnaw, she said to herself, -- 

"I don't understand it, but as she never says much to me about my affairs, I won't take any notice till she gets through, then I'll admire everything all I can. It is so pleasant to be praised after you've been trying hard."

She might well say that, for she got very little herself, and her trials had been many, her efforts not always successful, and her reward seemed a long way off. Poor Boo could have sympathized with her, for he had suffered much persecution from his small schoolmates when he appeared with large gray patches on the little brown trousers, where he had worn them out coasting down those too fascinating steps. As he could not see the patches himself, he fancied them invisible, and came home much afflicted by the jeers of his friends. Then Molly tried to make him a new pair out of a sack of her own; but she cut both sides for the same leg, so one was wrong side out. Fondly hoping no one would observe it, she sewed bright buttons wherever they could be put, and sent confiding Boo away in a pair of blue trousers, which were absurdly hunchy behind and buttony before. He came home heart-broken and muddy, having been accidentally tipped into a mud-puddle by two bad boys who felt that such tailoring was an insult to mankind. That roused Molly's spirit, and she begged her father to take the boy and have him properly fitted out, as he was old enough now to be well-dressed, and she wouldn't have him tormented. His attention being called to the trousers, Mr. Bemis had a good laugh over them, and then got Boo a suit which caused him to be the admired of all observers, and to feel as proud as a little peacock.

Cheered by this success, Molly undertook a set of small shirts, and stitched away bravely, though her own summer clothes were in a sad state, and for the first time in her life she cared about what she should wear.

"I must ask Merry, and may be father will let me go with her and her mother when they do their shopping, instead of leaving it to Miss Bat, who dresses me like an old woman. Merry knows what is pretty and becoming: I don't," thought Molly, meditating in the bushel basket, with her eyes on her snuff-colored gown and the dark purple bow at the end of the long braid Muffet had been playing with.

Molly was beginning to see that even so small a matter as the choice of colors made a difference in one's appearance, and to wonder why Merry always took such pains to have a blue tie for the gray dress, a rosy one for the brown, and gloves that matched her bonnet ribbons. Merry never wore a locket outside her sack, a gay bow in her hair and soiled cuffs, a smart hat and the braid worn off her skirts. She was exquisitely neat and simple, yet always looked well-dressed and pretty; for her love of beauty taught her what all girls should learn as soon as they begin to care for appearances -- that neatness and simplicity are their best ornaments, that good habits are better than fine clothes, and the most elegant manners are the kindest.

All these thoughts were dancing through Molly's head, and when she left her cats, after a general romp in which even decorous Granny allowed her family to play leap-frog over her respectable back, she had made up her mind not to have yellow ribbons on her summer hat if she got a pink muslin as she had planned, but to finish off Boo's last shirt before she went shopping with Merry.

It rained that evening, and Mr. Bemis had a headache, so he threw himself down upon the lounge after tea for a nap, with his silk handkerchief spread over his face. He did get a nap, and when he waked he lay for a time drowsily listening to the patter of the rain, and another sound which was even more soothing. Putting back a corner of the handkerchief to learn what it was, he saw Molly sitting by the fire with Boo in her lap, rocking and humming as she warmed his little bare feet, having learned to guard against croup by attending to the damp shoes and socks before going to bed. Boo lay with his round face turned up to hers, stroking her cheek while the sleepy blue eyes blinked lovingly at her as she sang her lullaby with a motherly patience sweet to see. They made a pretty little picture, and Mr. Bemis looked at it with pleasure, having a leisure moment in which to discover, as all parents do sooner or later, that his children were growing up.

"Molly is getting to be quite a woman, and very like her mother," thought papa, wiping the eye that peeped, for he had been fond of the pretty wife who died when Boo was born. "Sad loss to them, poor things! But Miss Bat seems to have done well by them. Molly is much improved, and the boy looks finely. She's a good soul, after all;" and Mr. Bemis began to think he had been hasty when he half made up his mind to get a new housekeeper, feeling that burnt steak, weak coffee, and ragged wristbands were sure signs that Miss Bat's days of usefulness were over.

Molly was singing the lullaby her mother used to sing to her, and her father listened to it silently till Boo was carried away too sleepy for anything but bed. When she came back she sat down to her work, fancying her father still asleep. She had a crimson bow at her throat and one on the newly braided hair, her cuffs were clean, and a white apron hid the shabbiness of the old dress. She looked like a thrifty little housewife as she sat with her basket beside her full of neat white rolls, her spools set forth, and a new pair of scissors shining on the table. There was a sort of charm in watching the busy needle flash to and fro, the anxious pucker of the forehead as she looked to see if the stitches were even, and the expression of intense relief upon her face as she surveyed the finished button-hole with girlish satisfaction. Her father was wide awake and looking at her, thinking, as he did so, -- 

"Really the old lady has worked well to change my tomboy into that nice little girl: I wonder how she did it." Then he gave a yawn, pulled off the handkerchief, and said aloud, "What are you making, Molly?" for it struck him that sewing was a new amusement.

"Shirts for Boo, sir. Four, and this is the last," she answered, with pardonable pride, as she held it up and nodded toward the pile in her basket.

"Isn't that a new notion? I thought Miss Bat did the sewing," said Mr. Bemis, as he smiled at the funny little garment, it looked so like Boo himself.

"No, sir; only yours. I do mine and Boo's. At least, I'm learning how, and Mrs. Pecq says I get on nicely," answered Molly, threading her needle and making a knot in her most capable way.

"I suppose it is time you did learn, for you are getting to be a great girl, and all women should know how to make and mend. You must take a stitch for me now and then: Miss Bat's eyes are not what they were, I find;" and Mr. Bemis looked at his frayed wristband, as if he particularly felt the need of a stitch just then.

"I'd love to, and I guess I could. I can mend gloves; Merry taught me, so I'd better begin on them, if you have any," said Molly, much pleased at being able to do anything for her father, and still more so at being asked.

"There's something to start with;" and he threw her a pair, with nearly every finger ripped.

Molly shook her head over them, but got out her gray silk and fell to work, glad to show how well she could sew.

"What are you smiling about?" asked her father, after a little pause, for his head felt better, and it amused him to question Molly.

"I was thinking about my summer clothes. I must get them before long, and I'd like to go with Mrs. Grant and learn how to shop, if you are willing."

"I thought Miss Bat did that for you."

"She always has, but she gets ugly, cheap things that I don't like. I think I am old enough to choose myself, if there is someone to tell me about prices and the goodness of the stuff. Merry does; and she is only a few months older than I am."

"How old are you, child?" asked her father, feeling as if he had lost his reckoning.

"Fifteen in August;" and Molly looked very proud of the fact.

"So you are! Bless my heart, how the time goes! Well, get what you please; if I'm to have a young lady here, I'd like to have her prettily dressed. It won't offend Miss Bat, will it?"

Molly's eyes sparkled, but she gave a little shrug as she answered, "She won't care. She never troubles herself about me if I let her alone.

"Hey? what? Not trouble herself? If she doesn't, who does?" and Mr. Bemis sat up as if this discovery was more surprising than the other.

"I take care of myself and Boo, and she looks after you. The house goes any way."

"I should think so! I nearly broke my neck over the parlor sofa in the hall to-night. What is it there for?"

Molly laughed. "That's the joke, sir, Miss Bat is cleaning house, and I'm sure it needs cleaning, for it is years since it was properly done. I thought you might have told her to."

"I've said nothing. Don't like house-cleaning well enough to suggest it. I did think the hall was rather dirty when I dropped my coat and took it up covered with lint. Is she going to upset the whole place?" asked Mr. Bemis, looking alarmed at the prospect.

"I hope so, for I really am ashamed when people come, to have them see the dust and cobwebs, and old carpets and dirty windows," said Molly, with a sigh, though she never had cared a bit till lately.

"Why don't you dust round a little, then? No time to spare from the books and play?"

"I tried, father, but Miss Bat didn't like it, and it was too hard for me alone. If things were once in nice order, I think I could keep them so; for I do want to be neat, and I'm learning as fast as I can."

"It is high time someone took hold, if matters are left as you say. I've just been thinking what a clever woman Miss Bat was, to make such a tidy little girl out of what I used to hear called the greatest tomboy in town, and wondering what I could give the old lady. Now I find you are the one to be thanked, and it is a very pleasant surprise to me."

"Give her the present, please; I'm satisfied, if you like what I've done. It isn't much, and I didn't know as you would ever observe any difference. But I did try, and now I guess I'm really getting on," said Molly, sewing away with a bright color in her cheeks, for she, too, found it a pleasant surprise to be praised after many failures and few successes.

"You certainly are, my dear. I'll wait till the house-cleaning is over, and then, if we are all alive, I'll see about Miss Bat's reward. Meantime, you go with Mrs. Grant and get whatever you and the boy need, and send the bills to me;" and Mr. Bemis lighted a cigar, as if that matter was settled.

"Oh, thank you, sir! That will be splendid. Merry always has pretty things, and I know you will like me when I get fixed," said Molly, smoothing down her apron, with a little air.

"Seems to me you look very well as you are. Isn't that a pretty enough frock?" asked Mr. Bemis, quite unconscious that his own unusual interest in his daughter's affairs made her look so bright and winsome.

"This? Why, father, I've worn it all winter, and it's frightfully ugly, and almost in rags. I asked you for a new one a month ago, and you said you'd 'see about it'; but you didn't, so I patched this up as well as I could;" and Molly showed her elbows, feeling that such masculine blindness as this deserved a mild reproof.

"Too bad! Well, go and get half a dozen pretty muslin and gingham things, and be as gay as a butterfly, to make up for it," laughed her father, really touched by the patches and Molly's resignation to the unreliable "I'll see about it," which he recognized as a household word.

Molly clapped her hands, old gloves and all, exclaiming, with girlish delight, "How nice it will seem to have a plenty of new, neat dresses all at once, and be like other girls! Miss Bat always talks about economy, and has no more taste than a -- caterpillar." Molly meant to say "cat," but remembering her pets, spared them the insult.

"I think I can afford to dress my girl as well as Grant does his. Get a new hat and coat, child, and any little notions you fancy. Miss Bat's economy isn't the sort I like;" and Mr. Bemis looked at his wristbands again, as if he could sympathize with Molly's elbows.

"At this rate, I shall have more clothes than I know what to do with, after being a rag-bag," thought the girl, in great glee, as she bravely stitched away at the worst glove, while her father smoked silently for a while, feeling that several little matters had escaped his eye which he really ought to "see about."

Presently he went to his desk, but not to bury himself in business papers, as usual, for, after rummaging in several drawers, he took out a small bunch of keys, and sat looking at them with an expression only seen on his face when he looked up at the portrait of a dark-eyed woman hanging in his room. He was a very busy man, but he had a tender place in his heart for his children; and when a look, a few words, a moment's reflection, called his attention to the fact that his little girl was growing up, he found both pride and pleasure in the thought that this young daughter was trying to fill her mother's place, and be a comfort to him, if he would let her.

"Molly, my dear, here is something for you," he said; and when she stood beside him, added, as he put the keys into her hand, keeping both in his own for a minute, -- 

"Those are the keys to your mother's things. I always meant you to have them, when you were old enough to use or care for them. I think you'll fancy this better than any other present, for you are a good child, and very like her."

Something seemed to get into his throat there, and Molly put her arm round his neck, saying, with a little choke in her own voice, "Thank you, father, I'd rather have this than anything else in the world, and I'll try to be more like her every day, for your sake."

He kissed her, then said, as he began to stir his papers about, "I must write some letters. Run off to bed, child. Good-night, my dear, good-night."

Seeing that he wanted to be alone, Molly slipped away, feeling that she had received a very precious gift; for she remembered the dear, dead mother, and had often longed to possess the relics laid away in the one room where order reigned and Miss Bat had no power to meddle. As she slowly undressed, she was not thinking of the pretty new gowns in which she was to be "as gay as a butterfly," but of the half-worn garments waiting for her hands to unfold with a tender touch; and when she fell asleep, with the keys under her pillow and her arms round Boo, a few happy tears on her cheeks seemed to show that, in trying to do the duty which lay nearest her, she had earned a very sweet reward.

So the little missionaries succeeded better in their second attempt than in their first; for, though still very far from being perfect girls, each was slowly learning, in her own way, one of the three lessons all are the better for knowing -- that cheerfulness can change misfortune into love and friends; that in ordering one's self aright one helps others to do the same; and that the power of finding beauty in the humblest things makes home happy and life lovely.



Chapter XVIII. May Baskets


Spring was late that year, but to Jill it seemed the loveliest she had ever known, for hope was growing green and strong in her own little heart, and all the world looked beautiful. With the help of the brace she could sit up for a short time every day, and when the air was mild enough she was warmly wrapped and allowed to look out at the open window into the garden, where the gold and purple crocuses were coming bravely up, and the snowdrops nodded their delicate heads as if calling to her, -- 

"Good day, little sister, come out and play with us, for winter is over and spring is here."

"I wish I could!" thought Jill, as the soft wind kissed a tinge of color into her pale cheeks. "Never mind, they have been shut up in a darker place than I for months, and had no fun at all; I won't fret, but think about July and the seashore while I work."

The job now in hand was May baskets, for it was the custom of the children to hang them on the doors of their friends the night before May-day; and the girls had agreed to supply baskets if the boys would hunt for flowers, much the harder task of the two. Jill had more leisure as well as taste and skill than the other girls, so she amused herself with making a goodly store of pretty baskets of all shapes, sizes, and colors, quite confident that they would be filled, though not a flower had shown its head except a few hardy dandelions, and here and there a small cluster of saxifrage.

The violets would not open their blue eyes till the sunshine was warmer, the columbines refused to dance with the boisterous east wind, the ferns kept themselves rolled up in their brown flannel jackets, and little Hepatica, with many another spring beauty, hid away in the woods, afraid to venture out, in spite of the eager welcome awaiting them. But the birds had come, punctual as ever, and the bluejays were screaming in the orchard, robins were perking up their heads and tails as they went house-hunting, purple finches in their little red hoods were feasting on the spruce buds, and the faithful chip birds chirped gayly on the grapevine trellis where they had lived all winter, warming their little gray breasts against the southern side of the house when the sun shone, and hiding under the evergreen boughs when the snow fell.

"That tree is a sort of bird's hotel," said Jill, looking out at the tall spruce before her window, every spray now tipped with a soft green. "They all go there to sleep and eat, and it has room for every one. It is green when other trees die, the wind can't break it, and the snow only makes it look prettier. It sings to me, and nods as if it knew I loved it."

"We might call it 'The Holly Tree Inn,' as some of the cheap eating-houses for poor people are called in the city, as my holly bush grows at its foot for a sign. You can be the landlady, and feed your feathery customers every day, till the hard times are over," said Mrs. Minot, glad to see the child's enjoyment of the outer world from which she had been shut so long.

Jill liked the fancy, and gladly strewed crumbs on the window ledge for the chippies, who came confidingly to eat almost from her hand. She threw out grain for the handsome jays, the jaunty robins, and the neighbors' doves, who came with soft flight to trip about on their pink feet, arching their shining necks as they cooed and pecked. Carrots and cabbage-leaves also flew out of the window for the marauding gray rabbit, last of all Jack's half-dozen, who led him a weary life of it because they would not stay in the Bunny-house, but undermined the garden with their burrows, ate the neighbors' plants, and refused to be caught till all but one ran away, to Jack's great relief. This old fellow camped out for the winter, and seemed to get on very well among the cats and the hens, who shared their stores with him, and he might be seen at all hours of the day and night scampering about the place, or kicking up his heels by moonlight, for he was a desperate poacher.

Jill took great delight in her pretty pensioners, who soon learned to love "The Holly Tree Inn," and to feel that the Bird Room held a caged comrade; for, when it was too cold or wet to open the windows, the doves came and tapped at the pane, the chippies sat on the ledge in plump little bunches as if she were their sunshine, the jays called her in their shrill voices to ring the dinner-bell, and the robins tilted on the spruce boughs where lunch was always to be had.

The first of May came on Sunday, so all the celebrating must be done on Saturday, which happily proved fair, though too chilly for muslin gowns, paper garlands, and picnics on damp grass. Being a holiday, the boys decided to devote the morning to ball and the afternoon to the flower hunt, while the girls finished the baskets; and in the evening our particular seven were to meet at the Minots to fill them, ready for the closing frolic of hanging on door-handles, ringing bells, and running away.

"Now I must do my Maying, for there will be no more sunshine, and I want to pick my flowers before it is dark. Come, Mammy, you go too," said Jill, as the last sunbeams shone in at the western window where her hyacinths stood that no fostering ray might be lost.

It was rather pathetic to see the once merry girl who used to be the life of the wood-parties now carefully lifting herself from the couch, and, leaning on her mother's strong arm, slowly take the half-dozen steps that made up her little expedition. But she was happy, and stood smiling out at old Bun skipping down the walk, the gold-edged clouds that drew apart so that a sunbeam might give her a good-night kiss as she gathered her long-cherished daisies, primroses, and hyacinths to fill the pretty basket in her hand.

"Who is it for, my dearie?" asked her mother, standing behind her as a prop, while the thin fingers did their work so willingly that not a flower was left.

"For My Lady, of course. Who else would I give my posies to, when I love them so well?" answered Jill, who thought no name too fine for their best friend.

"I fancied it would be for Master Jack," said her mother, wishing the excursion to be a cheerful one.

"I've another for him, but she must have the prettiest. He is going to hang it for me, and ring and run away, and she won't know who it's from till she sees this. She will remember it, for I've been turning and tending it ever so long, to make it bloom to-day. Isn't it a beauty?" and Jill held up her finest hyacinth, which seemed to ring its pale pink bells as if glad to carry its sweet message from a grateful little heart.

"Indeed it is; and you are right to give your best to her. Come away now, you must not stand any longer. Come and rest while I fetch a dish to put the flowers in till you want them;" and Mrs. Pecq turned her round with her small Maying safely done.

"I didn't think I'd ever be able to do even so much, and here I am walking and sitting up, and going to drive some day. Isn't it nice that I'm not to be a poor Lucinda after all?" and Jill drew a long sigh of relief that six months instead of twenty years would probably be the end of her captivity.

"Yes, thank Heaven! I don't think I could have borne that;" and the mother took Jill in her arms as if she were a baby, holding her close for a minute, and laying her down with a tender kiss that made the arms cling about her neck as her little girl returned it heartily, for all sorts of new, sweet feelings seemed to be budding in both, born of great joy and thankfulness.

Then Mrs. Pecq hurried away to see about tea for the hungry boys, and Jill watched the pleasant twilight deepen as she lay singing to herself one of the songs her friend taught her because it fitted her so well.

"A little bird I am, Shut from the fields of air, And in my cage I sit and sing To Him who placed me there: Well pleased a prisoner to be, Because, my God, it pleases Thee!

"Naught have I else to do; I sing the whole day long; And He whom most I love to please Doth listen to my song, He caught and bound my wandering wing, But still He bends to hear me sing."

"Now we are ready for you, so bring on your flowers," said Molly to the boys, as she and Merry added their store of baskets to the gay show Jill had set forth on the long table ready for the evening's work.

"They wouldn't let me see one, but I guess they have had good luck, they look so jolly," answered Jill, looking at Gus, Frank, and Jack, who stood laughing, each with a large basket in his hands.

"Fair to middling. Just look in and see;" with which cheerful remark Gus tipped up his basket and displayed a few bits of green at the bottom.

"I did better. Now, don't all scream at once over these beauties;" and Frank shook out some evergreen sprigs, half a dozen saxifrages, and two or three forlorn violets with hardly any stems.

"I don't brag, but here's the best of all the three," chuckled Jack, producing a bunch of feathery carrot-tops, with a few half-shut dandelions trying to look brave and gay.

"Oh, boys, is that all?"

"What shall we do?"

"We've only a few house-flowers, and all those baskets to fill," cried the girls, in despair; for Merry's contribution had been small, and Molly had only a handful of artificial flowers "to fill up," she said.

"It isn't our fault: it is the late spring. We can't make flowers, can we?" asked Frank, in a tone of calm resignation.

"Couldn't you buy some, then?" said Molly, smoothing her crumpled morning-glories, with a sigh.

"Who ever heard of a fellow having any money left the last day of the month?" demanded Gus, severely.

"Or girls either. I spent all mine in ribbon and paper for my baskets, and now they are of no use. It's a shame!" lamented Jill, while Merry began to thin out her full baskets to fill the empty ones.

"Hold on!" cried Frank, relenting. "Now, Jack, make their minds easy before they begin to weep and wail."

"Left the box outside. You tell while I go for it;" and Jack bolted, as if afraid the young ladies might be too demonstrative when the tale was told.

"Tell away," said Frank, modestly passing the story along to Gus, who made short work of it.

"We rampaged all over the country, and got only that small mess of greens. Knew you'd be disgusted, and sat down to see what we could do. Then Jack piped up, and said he'd show us a place where we could get a plenty. 'Come on,' said we, and after leading us a nice tramp, he brought us out at Morse's greenhouse. So we got a few on tick, as we had but four cents among us, and there you are. Pretty clever of the little chap, wasn't it?"

A chorus of delight greeted Jack as he popped his head in, was promptly seized by his elders and walked up to the table, where the box was opened, displaying gay posies enough to fill most of the baskets if distributed with great economy and much green.

"You are the dearest boy that ever was!" began Jill, with her nose luxuriously buried in the box, though the flowers were more remarkable for color than perfume.

"No, I'm not; there's a much dearer one coming upstairs now, and he's got something that will make you howl for joy," said Jack, ignoring his own prowess as Ed came in with a bigger box, looking as if he had done nothing but go a Maying all his days.

"Don't believe it!" cried Jill, hugging her own treasure jealously. "It's only another joke. I won't look," said Molly, still struggling to make her cambric roses bloom again.

"I know what it is! Oh, how sweet!" added Merry, sniffing, as Ed set the box before her, saying pleasantly, -- 

"You shall see first, because you had faith."

Up went the cover, and a whiff of the freshest fragrance regaled the seven eager noses bent to inhale it, as a general murmur of pleasure greeted the nest of great, rosy mayflowers that lay before them.

"The dear things, how lovely they are!" and Merry looked as if greeting her cousins, so blooming and sweet was her own face.

Molly pushed her dingy garlands away, ashamed of such poor attempts beside these perfect works of nature, and Jill stretched out her hand involuntarily, as she said, forgetting her exotics, "Give me just one to smell of, it is so woodsy and delicious."

"Here you are, plenty for all. Real Pilgrim Fathers, right from Plymouth. One of our fellows lives there, and I told him to bring me a good lot; so he did, and you can do what you like with them," explained Ed, passing round bunches and shaking the rest in a mossy pile upon the table.

"Ed always gets ahead of us in doing the right thing at the right time. Hope you've got some first-class baskets ready for him," said Gus, refreshing the Washingtonian nose with a pink blossom or two.

"Not much danger of his being forgotten," answered Molly; and every one laughed, for Ed was much beloved by all the girls, and his door-steps always bloomed like a flower-bed on May eve.

"Now we must fly round and fill up. Come, boys, sort out the green and hand us the flowers as we want them. Then we must direct them, and, by the time that is done, you can go and leave them," said Jill, setting all to work.

"Ed must choose his baskets first. These are ours; but any of those you can have;" and Molly pointed to a detachment of gay baskets, set apart from those already partly filled.

Ed chose a blue one, and Merry filled it with the rosiest may-flowers, knowing that it was to hang on Mabel's door-handle.

The others did the same, and the pretty work went on, with much fun, till all were filled, and ready for the names or notes.

"Let us have poetry, as we can't get wild flowers. That will be rather fine," proposed Jill, who liked jingles.

All had had some practice at the game parties, and pencils went briskly for a few minutes, while silence reigned, as the poets racked their brains for rhymes, and stared at the blooming array before them for inspiration.

"Oh, dear! I can't find a word to rhyme to 'geranium,'" sighed Molly, pulling her braid, as if to pump the well of her fancy dry.

"Cranium," said Frank, who was getting on bravely with "Annette" and "violet."

"That is elegant!" and Molly scribbled away in great glee, for her poems were always funny ones.

"How do you spell anemoly -- the wild flower, I mean?" asked Jill, who was trying to compose a very appropriate piece for her best basket, and found it easier to feel love and gratitude than to put them into verse.

"Anemone; do spell it properly, or you'll get laughed at," answered Gus, wildly struggling to make his lines express great ardor, without being "too spoony," as he expressed it.

"No, I shouldn't. This person never laughs at other persons' mistakes, as some persons do," replied Jill, with dignity.

Jack was desperately chewing his pencil, for he could not get on at all; but Ed had evidently prepared his poem, for his paper was half full already, and Merry was smiling as she wrote a friendly line or two for Ralph's basket, as she feared he would be forgotten, and knew he loved kindness even more than he did beauty.

"Now let's read them," proposed Molly, who loved to laugh even at herself.

The boys politely declined, and scrambled their notes into the chosen baskets in great haste; but the girls were less bashful. Jill was invited to begin, and gave her little piece, with the pink hyacinth basket before her, to illustrate her poem.

"To My Lady

"There are no flowers in the fields, No green leaves on the tree, No columbines, no violets, No sweet anemone. So I have gathered from my pots All that I have to fill The basket that I hang to-night, With heaps of love from Jill."

"That's perfectly sweet! Mine isn't; but I meant it to be funny," said Molly, as if there could be any doubt about the following ditty: -- 

"Dear Grif, Here is a whiff Of beautiful spring flowers; The big red rose Is for your nose, As toward the sky it towers.

"Oh, do not frown Upon this crown Of green pinks and blue geranium But think of me When this you see, And put it on your cranium."

"O Molly, you will never hear the last of that if Grif gets it," said Jill, as the applause subsided, for the boys pronounced it "tip-top."

"Don't care, he gets the worst of it any way, for there is a pin in that rose, and if he goes to smell the mayflowers underneath he will find a thorn to pay for the tack he put in my rubber boot. I know he will play me some joke to-night, and I mean to be first if I can," answered Molly, settling the artificial wreath round the orange-colored canoe which held her effusion.

"Now, Merry, read yours: you always have sweet poems;" and Jill folded her hands to listen with pleasure to something sentimental.

"I can't read the poems in some of mine, because they are for you; but this little verse you can hear, if you like: I'm going to give that basket to Ralph. He said he should hang one for his grandmother, and I thought that was so nice of him, I'd love to surprise him with one all to himself. He's always so good to us;" and Merry looked so innocently earnest that no one smiled at her kind thought or the unconscious paraphrase she had made of a famous stanza in her own "little verse."

"To one who teaches me The sweetness and the beauty Of doing faithfully And cheerfully my duty."

"He will like that, and know who sent it, for none of us have pretty pink paper but you, or write such an elegant hand," said Molly, admiring the delicate white basket shaped like a lily, with the flowers inside and the note hidden among them, all daintily tied up with the palest blush-colored ribbon.

"Well, that's no harm. He likes pretty things as much as I do, and I made my basket like a flower because I gave him one of my callas, he admired the shape so much;" and Merry smiled as she remembered how pleased Ralph looked as he went away carrying the lovely thing.

"I think it would be a good plan to hang some baskets on the doors of other people who don't expect or often have any. I'll do it if you can spare some of these, we have so many. Give me only one, and let the others go to old Mrs. Tucker, and the little Irish girl who has been sick so long, and lame Neddy, and Daddy Munson. It would please and surprise them so. Will we?" asked Ed, in that persuasive voice of his.

All agreed at once, and several people were made very happy by a bit of spring left at their doors by the May elves who haunted the town that night playing all sorts of pranks. Such a twanging of bells and rapping of knockers; such a scampering of feet in the dark; such droll collisions as boys came racing round corners, or girls ran into one another's arms as they crept up and down steps on the sly; such laughing, whistling, flying about of flowers and friendly feeling -- it was almost a pity that May-day did not come oftener.

Molly got home late, and found that Grif had been before her, after all; for she stumbled over a market-basket at her door, and on taking it in found a mammoth nosegay of purple and white cabbages, her favorite vegetable. Even Miss Bat laughed at the funny sight, and Molly resolved to get Ralph to carve her a bouquet out of carrots, beets, and turnips for next time, as Grif would never think of that.

Merry ran up the garden-walk alone, for Frank left her at the gate, and was fumbling for the latch when she felt something hanging there. Opening the door carefully, she found it gay with offerings from her mates; and among them was one long quiver-shaped basket of birch bark, with something heavy under the green leaves that lay at the top. Lifting these, a slender bas-relief of a calla lily in plaster appeared, with this couplet slipped into the blue cord by which it was to hang: -- 

"That mercy you to others show That Mercy Grant to me."

"How lovely! and this one will never fade, but always be a pleasure hanging there. Now, I really have something beautiful all my own," said Merry to herself as she ran up to hang the pretty thing on the dark wainscot of her room, where the graceful curve of its pointed leaves and the depth of its white cup would be a joy to her eyes as long as they lasted.

"I wonder what that means," and Merry read over the lines again, while a soft color came into her cheeks and a little smile of girlish pleasure began to dimple round her lips; for she was so romantic, this touch of sentiment showed her that her friendship was more valued than she dreamed. But she only said, "How glad I am I remembered him, and how surprised he will be to see mayflowers in return for the lily."

He was, and worked away more happily and bravely for the thought of the little friend whose eyes would daily fall on the white flower which always reminded him of her.



Chapter XIX. Good Templars


"Hi there! Bell's rung! Get up, lazy-bones!" called Frank from his room as the clock struck six one bright morning, and a great creaking and stamping proclaimed that he was astir.

"All right, I'm coming," responded a drowsy voice, and Jack turned over as if to obey; but there the effort ended, and he was off again, for growing lads are hard to rouse, as many a mother knows to her sorrow.

Frank made a beginning on his own toilet, and then took a look at his brother, for the stillness was suspicious.

"I thought so! He told me to wake him, and I guess this will do it;" and, filling his great sponge with water, Frank stalked into the next room and stood over the unconscious victim like a stern executioner, glad to unite business with pleasure in this agreeable manner.

A woman would have relented and tried some milder means, for when his broad shoulders and stout limbs were hidden, Jack looked very young and innocent in his sleep. Even Frank paused a moment to look at the round, rosy face, the curly eyelashes, half-open mouth, and the peaceful expression of a dreaming baby. "I must do it, or he won't be ready for breakfast," said the Spartan brother, and down came the sponge, cold, wet, and choky, as it was briskly rubbed to and fro regardless of every obstacle.

"Come, I say! That's not fair! Leave me alone!" sputtered Jack, hitting out so vigorously that the sponge flew across the room, and Frank fell back to laugh at the indignant sufferer.

"I promised to wake you, and you believe in keeping promises, so I'm doing my best to get you up."

"Well, you needn't pour a quart of water down a fellow's neck, and rub his nose off, need you? I'm awake, so take your old sponge and go along," growled Jack, with one eye open and a mighty gape.

"See that you keep so, then, or I'll come and give you another sort of a rouser," said Frank, retiring well-pleased with his success.

"I shall have one good stretch, if I like. It is strengthening to the muscles, and I'm as stiff as a board with all that football yesterday," murmured Jack, lying down for one delicious moment. He shut the open eye to enjoy it thoroughly, and forgot the stretch altogether, for the bed was warm, the pillow soft, and a half-finished dream still hung about his drowsy brain. Who does not know the fatal charm of that stolen moment -- for once yield to it, and one is lost.

Jack was miles away "in the twinkling of a bedpost," and the pleasing dream seemed about to return, when a ruthless hand tore off the clothes, swept him out of bed, and he really did awake to find himself standing in the middle of his bath-pan with both windows open, and Frank about to pour a pail of water over him.

"Hold on! Yah, how cold the water is! Why, I thought I was up;" and, hopping out, Jack rubbed his eyes and looked about with such a genuine surprise that Frank put down the pail, feeling that the deluge would not be needed this time.

"You are now, and I'll see that you keep so," he said, as he stripped the bed and carried off the pillows.

"I don't care. What a jolly day!" and Jack took a little promenade to finish the rousing process.

"You'd better hurry up, or you won't get your chores done before breakfast. No time for a 'go as you please' now," said Frank; and both boys laughed, for it was an old joke of theirs, and rather funny.

Going up to bed one night expecting to find Jack asleep, Frank discovered him tramping round and round the room airily attired in a towel, and so dizzy with his brisk revolutions that as his brother looked he tumbled over and lay panting like a fallen gladiator.

"What on earth are you about?"

"Playing Rowell. Walking for the belt, and I've got it too," laughed Jack, pointing to an old gilt chandelier chain hanging on the bedpost.

"You little noodle, you'd better revolve into bed before you lose your head entirely. I never saw such a fellow for taking himself off his legs."

"Well, if I didn't exercise, do you suppose I should be able to do that -- or that?" cried Jack, turning a somersault and striking a fine attitude as he came up, flattering himself that he was the model of a youthful athlete.

"You look more like a clothes-pin than a Hercules," was the crushing reply of this unsympathetic brother, and Jack meekly retired with a bad headache.

"I don't do such silly things now: I'm as broad across the shoulders as you are, and twice as strong on my pins, thanks to my gymnastics. Bet you a cent I'll be dressed first, though you have got the start," said Jack, knowing that Frank always had a protracted wrestle with his collar-buttons, which gave his adversary a great advantage over him.

"Done!" answered Frank, and at it they went. A wild scramble was heard in Jack's room, and a steady tramp in the other as Frank worked away at the stiff collar and the unaccommodating button till every finger ached. A clashing of boots followed, while Jack whistled "Polly Hopkins," and Frank declaimed in his deepest voice,

"Arma virumque cano, Trojae qui primus ab oris Italiam, fato profugus, Laviniaque venit litora."

Hair-brushes came next, and here Frank got ahead, for Jack's thick crop would stand straight up on the crown, and only a good wetting and a steady brush would make it lie down.

"Play away, No. 2," called out Frank as he put on his vest, while Jack was still at it with a pair of the stiffest brushes procurable for money.

"Hold hard, No. 11, and don't forget your teeth," answered Jack, who had done his.

Frank took a hasty rub and whisked on his coat, while Jack was picking up the various treasures which had flown out of his pockets as he caught up his roundabout.

"Ready! I'll trouble you for a cent, sonny;" and Frank held out his hand as he appeared equipped for the day.

"You haven't hung up your night-gown, nor aired the bed, nor opened the windows. That's part of the dressing; mother said so. I've got you there, for you did all that for me, except this," and Jack threw his gown over a chair with a triumphant flourish as Frank turned back to leave his room in the order which they had been taught was one of the signs of a good bringing-up in boys as well as girls.

"Ready! I'll trouble you for a cent, old man;" and Jack held out his hand, with a chuckle.

He got the money and a good clap beside; then they retired to the shed to black their boots, after which Frank filled the woodboxes and Jack split kindlings, till the daily allowance was ready. Both went at their lessons for half an hour, Jack scowling over his algebra in the sofa corner, while Frank, with his elbows on and his legs round the little stand which held his books, seemed to be having a wrestling-match with Herodotus.

When the bell rang they were glad to drop the lessons and fall upon their breakfast with the appetite of wolves, especially Jack, who sequestered oatmeal and milk with such rapidity that one would have thought he had a leathern bag hidden somewhere to slip it into, like his famous namesake when he breakfasted with the giant.

"I declare I don't see what he does with it! He really ought not to 'gobble' so, mother," said Frank, who was eating with great deliberation and propriety.

"Never you mind, old quiddle. I'm so hungry I could tuck away a bushel," answered Jack, emptying a glass of milk and holding out his plate for more mush, regardless of his white moustache.

"Temperance in all things is wise, in speech as well as eating and drinking -- remember that, boys," said Mamma from behind the urn.

"That reminds me! We promised to do the 'Observer' this week, and here it is Tuesday and I haven't done a thing: have you?" asked Frank.

"Never thought of it. We must look up some bits at noon instead of playing. Dare say Jill has got some: she always saves all she finds for me."

"I have one or two good items, and can do any copying there may be. But I think if you undertake the paper you should give some time and labor to make it good," said Mamma, who was used to this state of affairs, and often edited the little sheet read every week at the Lodge. The boys seldom missed going, but the busy lady was often unable to be there, so helped with the paper as her share of the labor.

"Yes, we ought, but somehow we don't seem to get up much steam about it lately. If more people belonged, and we could have a grand time now and then, it would be jolly;" and Jack sighed at the lack of interest felt by outsiders in the loyal little Lodge which went on year after year kept up by the faithful few.

"I remember when in this very town we used to have a Cold Water Army, and in the summer turn out with processions, banners, and bands of music to march about, and end with a picnic, songs, and speeches in some grove or hall. Nearly all the children belonged to it, and the parents also, and we had fine times here twenty-five or thirty years ago."

"It didn't do much good, seems to me, for people still drink, and we haven't a decent hotel in the place," said Frank, as his mother sat looking out of the window as if she saw again the pleasant sight of old and young working together against the great enemy of home peace and safety.

"Oh yes, it did, my dear; for to this day many of those children are true to their pledge. One little girl was, I am sure, and now has two big boys to fight for the reform she has upheld all her life. The town is better than it was in those days, and if we each do our part faithfully, it will improve yet more. Every boy and girl who joins is one gained, perhaps, and your example is the best temperance lecture you can give. Hold fast, and don't mind if it isn't 'jolly': it is right, and that should be enough for us."

Mamma spoke warmly, for she heartily believed in young people's guarding against this dangerous vice before it became a temptation, and hoped her boys would never break the pledge they had taken; for, young as they were, they were old enough to see its worth, feel its wisdom, and pride themselves on the promise which was fast growing into a principle. Jack's face brightened as he listened, and Frank said, with the steady look which made his face manly, -- 

"It shall be. Now I'll tell you what I was going to keep as a surprise till to-night, for I wanted to have my secret as well as other folks. Ed and I went up to see Bob, Sunday, and he said he'd join the Lodge, if they'd have him. I'm going to propose him to-night."

"Good! good!" cried Jack, joyfully, and Mrs. Minot clapped her hands, for every new member was rejoiced over by the good people, who were not discouraged by ridicule, indifference, or opposition.

"We've got him now, for no one will object, and it is just the thing for him. He wants to belong somewhere, he says, and he'll enjoy the fun, and the good things will help him, and we will look after him. The Captain was so pleased, and you ought to have seen Ed's face when Bob said, 'I'm ready, if you'll have me.'"

Frank's own face was beaming, and Jack forgot to "gobble," he was so interested in the new convert, while Mamma said, as she threw down her napkin and took up the newspaper, -- 

"We must not forget our 'Observer,' but have a good one tonight in honor of the occasion. There may be something here. Come home early at noon, and I'll help you get your paper ready."

"I'll be here, but if you want Frank, you'd better tell him not to dawdle over Annette's gate half an hour," began Jack, who could not resist teasing his dignified brother about one of the few foolish things he was fond of doing.

"Do you want your nose pulled?" demanded Frank, who never would stand joking on that tender point from his brother.

"No, I don't; and if I did, you couldn't do it;" with which taunt he was off and Frank after him, having made a futile dive at the impertinent little nose which was turned up at him and his sweetheart.

"Boys, boys, not through the parlor!" implored Mamma, resigned to skirmishes, but trembling for her piano legs as the four stout boots pranced about the table and then went thundering down the hall, through the kitchen where the fat cook cheered them on, and Mary, the maid, tried to head off Frank as Jack rushed out into the garden. But the pursuer ducked under her arm and gave chase with all speed. Then there was a glorious race all over the place; for both were good runners, and, being as full of spring vigor as frisky calves, they did astonishing things in the way of leaping fences, dodging round corners, and making good time down the wide walks.

But Jack's leg was not quite strong yet, and he felt that his round nose was in danger of a vengeful tweak as his breath began to give out and Frank's long arms drew nearer and nearer to the threatened feature. Just when he was about to give up and meet his fate like a man, old Bunny, who had been much excited by the race, came scampering across the path with such a droll skip into the air and shake of the hind legs that Frank had to dodge to avoid stepping on him, and to laugh in spite of himself. This momentary check gave Jack a chance to bolt up the back stairs and take refuge in the Bird Room, from the window of which Jill had been watching the race with great interest.

No romping was allowed there, so a truce was made by locking little fingers, and both sat down to get their breath.

"I am to go on the piazza, for an hour, by and by, Doctor said. Would you mind carrying me down before you go to school, you do it so nicely, I'm not a bit afraid," said Jill, as eager for the little change as if it had been a long and varied journey.

"Yes, indeed! Come on, Princess," answered Jack, glad to see her so well and happy.

The boys made an arm-chair, and away she went, for a pleasant day downstairs. She thanked Frank with a posy for his buttonhole, well knowing that it would soon pass into other hands, and he departed to join Annette. Having told Jill about Bob, and set her to work on the "Observer," Jack kissed his mother, and went whistling down the street, a gay little bachelor, with a nod and smile for all he met, and no turned-up hat or jaunty turban bobbing along beside him to delay his steps or trouble his peace of mind.

At noon they worked on their paper, which was a collection of items, cut from other papers, concerning temperance, a few anecdotes, a bit of poetry, a story, and, if possible, an original article by the editor. Many hands make light work, and nothing remained but a little copying, which Jill promised to do before night. So the boys had time for a game of football after school in the afternoon, which they much enjoyed. As they sat resting on the posts, Gus said, -- 

"Uncle Fred says he will give us a hay-cart ride to-night, as it is moony, and after it you are all to come to our house and have games.

"Can't do it," answered Frank, sadly.

"Lodge," groaned Jack, for both considered a drive in the cart, where they all sat in a merry bunch among the hay, one of the joys of life, and much regretted that a prior engagement would prevent their sharing in it.

"That's a pity! I forgot it was Tuesday, and can't put it off, as I've asked all the rest. Give up your old Lodge and come along," said Gus, who had not joined yet.

"We might for once, perhaps, but I don't like to" -- began Jack, hesitating.

"I won't. Who's to propose Bob if we don't? I want to go awfully; but I wouldn't disappoint Bob for a good deal, now he is willing to come." And Frank sprang off his post as if anxious to flee temptation, for it was very pleasant to go singing, up hill and down dale, in the spring moonlight, with -- well, the fellows of his set.

"Nor Ed, I forgot that. No, we can't go. We want to be Good Templars, and we mustn't shirk," added Jack, following his brother.

"Better come. Can't put it off. Lots of fun," called Gus, disappointed at losing two of his favorite mates.

But the boys did not turn back, and as they went steadily away they felt that they were doing their little part in the good work, and making their small sacrifices, like faithful members.

They got their reward, however, for at home they found Mr. Chauncey, a good and great man, from England, who had known their grandfather, and was an honored friend of the family. The boys loved to hear him talk, and all tea-time listened with interest to the conversation, for Mr. Chauncey was a reformer as well as a famous clergyman, and it was like inspiring music to hear him tell about the world's work, and the brave men and women who were carrying it on. Eager to show that they had, at least, begun, the boys told him about their Lodge, and were immensely pleased when their guest took from his pocket-book a worn paper, proving that he too was a Good Templar, and belonged to the same army as they did. Nor was that all, for when they reluctantly excused themselves, Mr. Chauncey gave each a hearty "grip," and said, holding their hands in his, as he smiled at the young faces looking up at him with so much love and honor in them, -- 

"Tell the brothers and sisters that if I can serve them in any way while here, to command me. I will give them a lecture at their Lodge or in public, whichever they like; and I wish you God-speed, dear boys."

Two prouder lads never walked the streets than Frank and Jack as they hurried away, nearly forgetting the poor little paper in their haste to tell the good news; for it was seldom that such an offer was made the Lodge, and they felt the honor done them as bearers of it.

As the secrets of the association cannot be divulged to the uninitiated, we can only say that there was great rejoicing over the new member, for Bob was unanimously welcomed, and much gratitude both felt and expressed for Mr. Chauncey's interest in this small division of the grand army; for these good folk met with little sympathy from the great people of the town, and it was very cheering to have a well-known and much-beloved man say a word for them. All agreed that the lecture should be public, that others might share the pleasure with them, and perhaps be converted by a higher eloquence than any they possessed.

So the services that night were unusually full of spirit and good cheer; for all felt the influence of a friendly word, the beauty of a fine example. The paper was much applauded, the songs were very hearty, and when Frank, whose turn it was to be chaplain, read the closing prayer, every one felt that they had much to give thanks for, since one more had joined them, and the work was slowly getting on with unexpected helpers sent to lend a hand. The lights shone out from the little hall across the street, the music reached the ears of passers-by, and the busy hum of voices up there told how faithfully some, at least, of the villagers tried to make the town a safer place for their boys to grow up in, though the tavern still had its private bar and the saloon-door stood open to invite them in.

There are many such quiet lodges, and in them many young people learning as these lads were learning something of the duty they owed their neighbors as well as themselves, and being fitted to become good men and sober citizens by practising and preaching the law and gospel of temperance.

The next night Mr. Chauncey lectured, and the town turned out to hear the distinguished man, who not only told them of the crime and misery produced by this terrible vice which afflicted both England and America, but of the great crusade against it going on everywhere, and the need of courage, patience, hard work, and much faith, that in time it might be overcome. Strong and cheerful words that all liked to hear and many heartily believed, especially the young Templars, whose boyish fancies were won by the idea of fighting as knights of old did in the famous crusades they read about in their splendid new young folks' edition of Froissart.

"We can't pitch into people as the Red Cross fellows did, but we can smash rum-jugs when we get the chance, and stand by our flag as our men did in the war," said Frank, with sparkling eyes, as they went home in the moonlight arm in arm, keeping step behind Mr. Chauncey, who led the way with their mother on his arm, a martial figure though a minister, and a good captain to follow, as the boys felt after hearing his stirring words.

"Let's try and get up a company of boys like those mother told us about, and show people that we mean what we say. I'll be color-bearer, and you may drill us as much as you like. A real Cold Water Army, with flags flying, and drums, and all sorts of larks," said Jack, much excited, and taking a dramatic view of the matter.

"We'll see about it. Something ought to be done, and perhaps we shall be the men to do it when the time comes," answered Frank, feeling ready to shoulder a musket or be a minute-man in good earnest.

Boyish talk and enthusiasm, but it was of the right sort; and when time and training had fitted them to bear arms, these young knights would be worthy to put on the red cross and ride away to help right the wrongs and slay the dragons that afflict the world.



Chapter XX. A Sweet Memory


Now the lovely June days had come, everything began to look really summer-like; school would soon be over, and the young people were joyfully preparing for the long vacation.

"We are all going up to Bethlehem. We take the seashore one year and the mountains the next. Better come along," said Gus, as the boys lay on the grass after beating the Lincolns at one of the first matches of the season.

"Can't; we are off to Pebbly Beach the second week in July. Our invalids need sea air. That one looks delicate, doesn't he?" asked Frank, giving Jack a slight rap with his bat as that young gentleman lay in his usual attitude admiring the blue hose and russet shoes which adorned his sturdy limbs.

"Stop that, Captain! You needn't talk about invalids, when you know mother says you are not to look at a book for a month because you have studied yourself thin and headachy. I'm all right;" and Jack gave himself a sounding slap on the chest, where shone the white star of the H.B.B.C.

"Hear the little cockerel crow! you just wait till you get into the college class, and see if you don't have to study like fun," said Gus, with unruffled composure, for he was going to Harvard next year, and felt himself already a Senior.

"Never shall; I don't want any of your old colleges. I'm going into business as soon as I can. Ed says I may be his book-keeper, if I am ready when he starts for himself. That is much jollier than grinding away for four years, and then having to grind ever so many more at a profession," said Jack, examining with interest the various knocks and bruises with which much ball-playing had adorned his hands.

"Much you know about it. Just as well you don't mean to try, for it would take a mighty long pull and strong pull to get you in. Business would suit you better, and you and Ed would make a capital partnership. Devlin, Minot, & Co. sounds well, hey, Gus?"

"Very, but they are such good-natured chaps, they'd never get rich. By the way, Ed came home at noon to-day sick. I met him, and he looked regularly knocked up," answered Gus, in a sober tone.

"I told him he'd better not go down Monday, for he wasn't well Saturday, and couldn't come to sing Sunday evening, you remember. I must go right round and see what the matter is;" and Jack jumped up, with an anxious face.

"Let him alone till to-morrow. He won't want any one fussing over him now. We are going for a pull; come along and steer," said Frank, for the sunset promised to be fine, and the boys liked a brisk row in their newly painted boat, the "Rhodora."

"Go ahead and get ready, I'll just cut round and ask at the door. It will seem kind, and I must know how Ed is. Won't be long;" and Jack was off at his best pace.

The others were waiting impatiently when he came back with slower steps and a more anxious face.

"How is the old fellow?" called Frank from the boat, while Gus stood leaning on an oar in a nautical attitude.

"Pretty sick. Had the doctor. May have a fever. I didn't go in, but Ed sent his love, and wanted to know who beat," answered Jack, stepping to his place, glad to rest and cool himself.

"Guess he'll be all right in a day or two;" and Gus pushed off, leaving all care behind.

"Hope he won't have typhoid -- that's no joke, I tell you," said Frank, who knew all about it, and did not care to repeat the experience.

"He's worked too hard. He's so faithful he does more than his share, and gets tired out. Mother asked him to come down and see us when he has his vacation; we are going to have high old times fishing and boating. Up or down?" asked Jack, as they glided out into the river.

Gus looked both ways, and seeing another boat with a glimpse of red in it just going round the bend, answered, with decision, "Up, of course. Don't we always pull to the bridge?"

"Not when the girls are going down," laughed Jack, who had recognized Juliet's scarlet boating-suit as he glanced over his shoulder.

"Mind what you are about, and don't gabble," commanded Captain Frank, as the crew bent to their oars and the slender boat cut through the water leaving a long furrow trembling behind.

"Oh, ah! I see! There is a blue jacket as well as a red one, so it's all right.

"Lady Queen Anne, she sits in the sun, As white as a lily, as brown as a bun,"

sung Jack, recovering his spirits, and wishing Jill was there too.

"Do you want a ducking?" sternly demanded Gus, anxious to preserve discipline.

"Shouldn't mind, its so warm."

But Jack said no more, and soon the "Rhodora" was alongside the "Water Witch," exchanging greetings in the most amiable manner.

"Pity this boat won't hold four. We'd put Jack in yours, and take you girls a nice spin up to the Hemlocks," said Frank, whose idea of bliss was floating down the river with Annette as coxswain.

"You'd better come in here, this will hold four, and we are tired of rowing," returned the "Water Witch," so invitingly that Gus could not resist.

"I don't think it is safe to put four in there. You'd better change places with Annette, Gus, and then we shall be ship-shape," said Frank, answering a telegram from the eyes that matched the blue jacket.

"Wouldn't it be more ship-shape still if you put me ashore at Grif's landing? I can take his boat, or wait till you come back. Don't care what I do," said Jack, feeling himself sadly in the way.

The good-natured offer being accepted with thanks, the changes were made, and, leaving him behind, the two boats went gayly up the river. He really did not care what he did, so sat in Grif's boat awhile watching the red sky, the shining stream, and the low green meadows, where the blackbirds were singing as if they too had met their little sweethearts and were happy.

Jack remembered that quiet half-hour long afterward, because what followed seemed to impress it on his memory. As he sat enjoying the scene, he very naturally thought about Ed; for the face of the sister whom he saw was very anxious, and the word "fever" recalled the hard times when Frank was ill, particularly the night it was thought the boy would not live till dawn, and Jack cried himself to sleep, wondering how he ever could get on without his brother. Ed was almost as dear to him, and the thought that he was suffering destroyed Jack's pleasure for a little while. But, fortunately, young people do not know how to be anxious very long, so our boy soon cheered up, thinking about the late match between the Stars and the Lincolns, and after a good rest went whistling home, with a handful of mint for Mrs. Pecq, and played games with Jill as merrily as if there was no such thing as care in the world.

Next day Ed was worse, and for a week the answer was the same, when Jack crept to the back door with his eager question.

Others came also, for the dear boy lying upstairs had friends everywhere, and older neighbors thought of him even more anxiously and tenderly than his mates. It was not fever, but some swifter trouble, for when Saturday night came, Ed had gone home to a longer and more peaceful Sabbath than any he had ever known in this world.

Jack had been there in the afternoon, and a kind message had come down to him that his friend was not suffering so much, and he had gone away, hoping, in his boyish ignorance, that all danger was over. An hour later he was reading in the parlor, having no heart for play, when Frank came in with a look upon his face which would have prepared Jack for the news if he had seen it. But he did not look up, and Frank found it so hard to speak, that he lingered a moment at the piano, as he often did when he came home. It stood open, and on the rack was the "Jolly Brothers' Galop," which he had been learning to play with Ed. Big boy as he was, the sudden thought that never again would they sit shoulder to shoulder, thundering the marches or singing the songs both liked so well, made his eyes fill as he laid away the music, and shut the instrument, feeling as if he never wanted to touch it again. Then he went and sat down beside Jack with an arm round his neck, trying to steady his voice by a natural question before he told the heavy news.

"What are you reading, Jacky?"

The unusual caress, the very gentle tone, made Jack look up, and the minute he saw Frank's face he knew the truth.

"Is Ed --  -- ?" he could not say the hard word, and Frank could only answer by a nod as he winked fast, for the tears would come. Jack said no more, but as the book dropped from his knee he hid his face in the sofa-pillow and lay quite still, not crying, but trying to make it seem true that his dear Ed had gone away for ever. He could not do it, and presently turned his head a little to say, in a despairing tone, -- 

"I don't see what I shall do without him!"

"I know it's hard for you. It is for all of us."

"You've got Gus, but now I haven't anybody. Ed was always so good to me!" and with the name so many tender recollections came, that poor Jack broke down in spite of his manful attempts to smother the sobs in the red pillow.

There was an unconscious reproach in the words, Frank thought; for he was not as gentle as Ed, and he did not wonder that Jack loved and mourned for the lost friend like a brother.

"You've got me. I'll be good to you; cry if you want to, I don't mind."

There was such a sympathetic choke in Frank's voice that Jack felt comforted at once, and when he had had his cry out, which was very soon, he let Frank pull him up with a bear-like but affectionate hug, and sat leaning on him as they talked about their loss, both feeling that there might have been a greater one, and resolving to love one another very much hereafter.

Mrs. Minot often called Frank the "father-boy," because he was now the head of the house, and a sober, reliable fellow for his years. Usually he did not show much affection except to her, for, as he once said, "I shall never be too old to kiss my mother," and she often wished that he had a little sister, to bring out the softer side of his character. He domineered over Jack and laughed at his affectionate little ways, but now when trouble came, he was as kind and patient as a girl; and when Mamma came in, having heard the news, she found her "father-boy" comforting his brother so well that she slipped away without a word, leaving them to learn one of the sweet lessons sorrow teaches -- to lean on one another, and let each trial bring them closer together.

It is often said that there should be no death or grief in children's stories. It is not wise to dwell on the dark and sad side of these things; but they have also a bright and lovely side, and since even the youngest, dearest, and most guarded child cannot escape some knowledge of the great mystery, is it not well to teach them in simple, cheerful ways that affection sweetens sorrow, and a lovely life can make death beautiful? I think so, therefore try to tell the last scene in the history of a boy who really lived and really left behind him a memory so precious that it will not be soon forgotten by those who knew and loved him. For the influence of this short life was felt by many, and even this brief record of it may do for other children what the reality did for those who still lay flowers on his grave, and try to be "as good as Eddy."

Few would have thought that the death of a quiet lad of seventeen would have been so widely felt, so sincerely mourned; but virtue, like sunshine, works its own sweet miracles, and when it was known that never again would the bright face be seen in the village streets, the cheery voice heard, the loving heart felt in any of the little acts which so endeared Ed Devlin to those about him, it seemed as if young and old grieved alike for so much promise cut off in its spring-time. This was proved at the funeral, for, though it took place at the busy hour of a busy day, men left their affairs, women their households, young people their studies and their play, and gave an hour to show their affection, respect, and sympathy for those who had lost so much.

The girls had trimmed the church with all the sweetest flowers they could find, and garlands of lilies of the valley robbed the casket of its mournful look. The boys had brought fresh boughs to make the grave a green bed for their comrade's last sleep. Now they were all gathered together, and it was a touching sight to see the rows of young faces sobered and saddened by their first look at sorrow. The girls sobbed, and the boys set their lips tightly as their glances fell upon the lilies under which the familiar face lay full of solemn peace. Tears dimmed older eyes when the hymn the dead boy loved was sung, and the pastor told with how much pride and pleasure he had watched the gracious growth of this young parishioner since he first met the lad of twelve and was attracted by the shining face, the pleasant manners. Dutiful and loving; ready to help; patient to bear and forbear; eager to excel; faithful to the smallest task, yet full of high ambitions; and, better still, possessing the childlike piety that can trust and believe, wait and hope. Good and happy -- the two things we all long for and so few of us truly are. This he was, and this single fact was the best eulogy his pastor could pronounce over the beloved youth gone to a nobler manhood whose promise left so sweet a memory behind.

As the young people looked, listened, and took in the scene, they felt as if some mysterious power had changed their playmate from a creature like themselves into a sort of saint or hero for them to look up to, and imitate if they could. "What has he done, to be so loved, praised, and mourned?" they thought, with a tender sort of wonder; and the answer seemed to come to them as never before, for never had they been brought so near the solemn truth of life and death. "It was not what he did but what he was that made him so beloved. All that was sweet and noble in him still lives; for goodness is the only thing we can take with us when we die, the only thing that can comfort those we leave behind, and help us to meet again hereafter."

This feeling was in many hearts when they went away to lay him, with prayer and music, under the budding oak that leaned over his grave, a fit emblem of the young life just beginning its new spring. As the children did their part, the beauty of the summer day soothed their sorrow, and something of the soft brightness of the June sunshine seemed to gild their thoughts, as it gilded the flower-strewn mound they left behind. The true and touching words spoken cheered as well as impressed them, and made them feel that their friend was not lost but gone on into a higher class of the great school whose Master is eternal love and wisdom. So the tears soon dried, and the young faces looked up like flowers after rain. But the heaven-sent shower sank into the earth, and they were the stronger, sweeter for it, more eager to make life brave and beautiful, because death had gently shown them what it should be.

When the boys came home they found their mother already returned, and Jill upon the parlor sofa listening to her account of the funeral with the same quiet, hopeful look which their own faces wore; for somehow the sadness seemed to have gone, and a sort of Sunday peace remained.

"I'm glad it was all so sweet and pleasant. Come and rest, you look so tired;" and Jill held out her hands to greet them -- a crumpled handkerchief in one and a little bunch of fading lilies in the other.

Jack sat down in the low chair beside her and leaned his head against the arm of the sofa, for he was tired. But Frank walked slowly up and down the long rooms with a serious yet serene look on his face, for he felt as if he had learned something that day, and would always be the better for it. Presently he said, stopping before his mother, who leaned in the easy-chair looking up at the picture of her boys' father, -- 

"I should like to have just such things said about me when I die."

"So should I, if I deserved them as Ed did!" cried Jack, earnestly.

"You may if you try. I should be proud to hear them, and if they were true, they would comfort me more than anything else. I am glad you see the lovely side of sorrow, and are learning the lesson such losses teach us," answered their mother, who believed in teaching young people to face trouble bravely, and find the silver lining in the clouds that come to all of us.

"I never thought much about it before, but now dying doesn't seem dreadful at all -- only solemn and beautiful. Somehow everybody seems to love everybody else more for it, and try to be kind and good and pious. I can't say what I mean, but you know, mother;" and Frank went pacing on again with the bright look his eyes always wore when he listened to music or read of some noble action.

"That's what Merry said when she and Molly came in on their way home. But Molly felt dreadfully, and so did Mabel. She brought me these flowers to press, for we are all going to keep some to remember dear Ed by," said Jill, carefully smoothing out the little bells as she laid the lilies in her hymn-book, for she too had had a thoughtful hour while she lay alone, imagining all that went on in the church, and shedding a few tender tears over the friend who was always so kind to her.

"I don't want anything to remember him by. I was so fond of him, I couldn't forget if I tried. I know I ought not to say it, but I don't see why God let him die," said Jack, with a quiver in his voice, for his loving heart could not help aching still.

"No, dear, we cannot see or know many things that grieve us very much, but we can trust that it is right, and try to believe that all is meant for our good. That is what faith means, and without it we are miserable. When you were little, you were afraid of the dark, but if I spoke or touched you, then you were sure all was well, and fell asleep holding my hand. God is wiser and stronger than any father or mother, so hold fast to Him, and you will have no doubt or fear, however dark it seems."

"As you do," said Jack, going to sit on the arm of Mamma's chair, with his cheek to hers, willing to trust as she bade him, but glad to hold fast the living hand that had led and comforted him all his life.

"Ed used to say to me when I fretted about getting well, and thought nobody cared for me, which was very naughty, 'Don't be troubled, God won't forget you; and if you must be lame, He will make you able to bear it,'" said Jill, softly, her quick little mind all alive with new thoughts and feelings.

"He believed it, and that's why he liked that hymn so much. I'm glad they sung it to-day," said Frank, bringing his heavy dictionary to lay on the book where the flowers were pressing.

"Oh, thank you! Could you play that tune for me? I didn't hear it, and I'd love to, if you are willing," asked Jill.

"I didn't think I ever should want to play again, but I do. Will you sing it for her, mother? I'm afraid I shall break down if I try alone."

"We will all sing, music is good for us now," said Mamma; and in rather broken voices they did sing Ed's favorite words: -- 

"Not a sparrow falleth but its God doth know, Just as when his mandate lays a monarch low; Not a leaflet moveth, but its God doth see, Think not, then, O mortal, God forgetteth thee. Far more precious surely than the birds that fly Is a Father's image to a Father's eye. E'en thy hairs are numbered; trust Him full and free, Cast thy cares before Him, He will comfort thee; For the God that planted in thy breast a soul, On his sacred tables doth thy name enroll. Cheer thine heart, then, mortal, never faithless be, He that marks the sparrows will remember thee."



Chapter XXI. Pebbly Beach


"Now, Mr. Jack, it is a moral impossibility to get all those things into one trunk, and you mustn't ask it of me," said Mrs. Pecq, in a tone of despair, as she surveyed the heap of treasures she was expected to pack for the boys.

"Never mind the clothes, we only want a boating-suit apiece. Mamma can put a few collars in her trunk for us; but these necessary things must go," answered Jack, adding his target and air-pistol to the pile of bats, fishing-tackle, games, and a choice collection of shabby balls.

"Those are the necessaries and clothes the luxuries, are they? Why don't you add a velocipede, wheelbarrow, and printing-press, my dear?" asked Mrs. Pecq, while Jill turned up her nose at "boys' rubbish."

"Wish I could. Dare say we shall want them. Women don't know what fellows need, and always must put in a lot of stiff shirts and clean handkerchiefs and clothes-brushes and pots of cold cream. We are going to rough it, and don't want any fuss and feathers," said Jack, beginning to pack the precious balls in his rubber boots, and strap them up with the umbrellas, rods, and bats, seeing that there was no hope of a place in the trunk.

Here Frank came in with two big books, saying calmly, "Just slip these in somewhere, we shall need them."

"But you are not to study at all, so you won't want those great dictionaries," cried Jill, busily packing her new travelling-basket with all sorts of little rolls, bags, and boxes.

"They are not dics, but my Encyclopedia. We shall want to know heaps of things, and this tells about everything. With those books, and a microscope and a telescope, you could travel round the world, and learn all you wanted to. Can't possibly get on without them," said Frank, fondly patting his favorite work.

"My patience! What queer cattle boys are!" exclaimed Mrs. Pecq, while they all laughed. "It can't be done, Mr. Frank; all the boxes are brim full, and you'll have to leave those fat books behind, for there's no place anywhere."

"Then I'll carry them myself;" and Frank tucked one under each arm, with a determined air, which settled the matter.

"I suppose you'll study cockleology instead of boating, and read up on polywogs while we play tennis, or go poking round with your old spy-glass instead of having a jolly good time," said Jack, hauling away on the strap till all was taut and ship-shape with the bundle.

"Tadpoles don't live in salt water, my son, and if you mean conchology, you'd better say so. I shall play as much as I wish, and when I want to know about any new or curious thing, I shall consult my Cyclo, instead of bothering other people with questions, or giving it up like a dunce;" with which crushing reply Frank departed, leaving Jill to pack and unpack her treasures a dozen times, and Jack to dance jigs on the lids of the trunks till they would shut.

A very happy party set off the next day, leaving Mrs. Pecq waving her apron on the steps. Mrs. Minot carried the lunch, Jack his precious bundle with trifles dropping out by the way, and Jill felt very elegant bearing her new basket with red worsted cherries bobbing on the outside. Frank actually did take the Encyclopedia, done up in the roll of shawls, and whenever the others wondered about anything -- tides, lighthouses, towns, or natural productions -- he brought forth one of the books and triumphantly read therefrom, to the great merriment, if not edification, of his party.

A very short trip by rail and the rest of the journey by boat, to Jill's great contentment, for she hated to be shut up; and while the lads roved here and there she sat under the awning, too happy to talk. But Mrs. Minot watched with real satisfaction how the fresh wind blew the color back into the pale cheeks, how the eyes shone and the heart filled with delight at seeing the lovely world again, and being able to take a share in its active pleasures.

The Willows was a long, low house close to the beach, and as full as a beehive of pleasant people, all intent on having a good time. A great many children were swarming about, and Jill found it impossible to sleep after her journey, there was such a lively clatter of tongues on the piazzas, and so many feet going to and fro in the halls. She lay down obediently while Mrs. Minot settled matters in the two airy rooms and gave her some dinner, but she kept popping up her head to look out of the window to see what she could see. Just opposite stood an artist's cottage and studio, with all manner of charming galleries, towers, steps, and even a sort of drawbridge to pull up when the painter wished to be left in peace. He was absent now, and the visitors took possession of this fine play-place. Children were racing up and down the galleries, ladies sitting in the tower, boys disporting themselves on the roof, and young gentlemen preparing for theatricals in the large studio.

"What fun I'll have over there," thought Jill, watching the merry scene with intense interest, and wondering if the little girls she saw were as nice as Molly and Merry.

Then there were glimpses of the sea beyond the green bank where a path wound along to the beach, whence came the cool dash of waves, and now and then the glimmer of a passing sail.

"Oh, when can I go out? It looks so lovely, I can't wait long," she said, looking as eager as a little gull shut up in a cage and pining for its home on the wide ocean.

"As soon as it is a little cooler, dear, I'm getting ready for our trip, but we must be careful and not do too much at once. 'Slow and sure' is our motto," answered Mrs. Minot, busily collecting the camp-stools, the shawls, the air-cushions, and the big parasols.

"I'll be good, only do let me have my sailor-hat to wear, and my new suit. I'm not a bit tired, and I do want to be like other folks right off," said Jill, who had been improving rapidly of late, and felt much elated at being able to drive out nearly every day, to walk a little, and sit up some hours without any pain or fatigue.

To gratify her, the blue flannel suit with its white trimming was put on, and Mamma was just buttoning the stout boots when Jack thundered at the door, and burst in with all sorts of glorious news.

"Do come out, mother, it's perfectly splendid on the beach! I've found a nice place for Jill to sit, and it's only a step. Lots of capital fellows here; one has a bicycle, and is going to teach us to ride. No end of fun up at the hotel, and every one seems glad to see us. Two ladies asked about Jill, and one of the girls has got some shells all ready for her, Gerty Somebody, and her mother is so pretty and jolly, I like her ever so much. They sit at our table, and Wally is the boy, younger than I am, but very pleasant. Bacon is the fellow in knickerbockers; just wish you could see what stout legs he's got! Cox is the chap for me, though: we are going fishing to-morrow. He's got a sweet-looking mother, and a sister for you, Jill. Now, then, do come on, I'll take the traps."

Off they went, and Jill thought that very short walk to the shore the most delightful she ever took; for people smiled at the little invalid as she went slowly by leaning on Mrs. Minot's arm, while Jack pranced in front, doing the honors, as if he owned the whole Atlantic. A new world opened to her eyes as they came out upon the pebbly beach full of people enjoying their afternoon promenade. Jill save one rapturous "Oh!" and then sat on her stool, forgetting everything but the beautiful blue ocean rolling away to meet the sky, with nothing to break the wide expanse but a sail here and there, a point of rocks on one hand, the little pier on the other, and white gulls skimming by on their wide wings.

While she sat enjoying herself, Jack showed his mother the place he had found, and a very nice one it was. Just under the green bank lay an old boat propped up with some big stones. A willow drooped over it, the tide rippled up within a few yards of it, and a fine view of the waves could be seen as they dashed over the rocks at the point.

"Isn't it a good cubby-house? Ben Cox and I fixed it for Jill, and she can have it for hers. Put her cushions and things there on the sand the children have thrown in -- that will make it soft; then these seats will do for tables; and up in the bow I'm going to have that old rusty tin boiler full of salt-water, so she can put seaweed and crabs and all sorts of chaps in it for an aquarium, you know," explained Jack, greatly interested in establishing his family comfortably before he left them.

"There couldn't be a nicer place, and it is very kind of you to get it ready. Spread the shawls and settle Jill, then you needn't think of us any more, but go and scramble with Frank. I see him over there with his spy-glass and some pleasant-looking boys," said Mamma, bustling about in great spirits.

So the red cushions were placed, the plaids laid, and the little work-basket set upon the seat, all ready for Jill, who was charmed with her nest, and cuddled down under the big parasol, declaring she would keep house there every day.

Even the old boiler pleased her, and Jack raced over the beach to begin his search for inhabitants for the new aquarium, leaving Jill to make friends with some pretty babies digging in the sand, while Mamma sat on the camp-stool and talked with a friend from Harmony Village.

It seemed as if there could not be anything more delightful than to lie there lulled by the sound of the sea, watching the sunset and listening to the pleasant babble of little voices close by. But when they went to tea in the great hall, with six tables full of merry people, and half a dozen maids flying about, Jill thought that was even better, because it was so new to her. Gerty and Wally nodded to her, and their pretty mamma was so kind and so gay, that Jill could not feel bashful after the first few minutes, and soon looked about her, sure of seeing friendly faces everywhere. Frank and Jack ate as if the salt air had already improved their appetites, and talked about Bacon and Cox as if they had been bosom friends for years. Mamma was as happy as they, for her friend, Mrs. Hammond, sat close by; and this rosy lady, who had been a physician, cheered her up by predicting that Jill would soon be running about as well as ever.

But the best of all was in the evening, when the elder people gathered in the parlors and played Twenty Questions, while the children looked on for an hour before going to bed, much amused at the sight of grown people laughing, squabbling, dodging, and joking as if they had all become young again; for, as every one knows, it is impossible to help lively skirmishes when that game is played. Jill lay in the sofa corner enjoying it all immensely; for she never saw anything so droll, and found it capital fun to help guess the thing, or try to puzzle the opposite side. Her quick wits and bright face attracted people, and in the pauses of the sport she held quite a levee, for everybody was interested in the little invalid. The girls shyly made friends in their own way, the mammas told thrilling tales of the accidents their darlings had survived, several gentlemen kindly offered their boats, and the boys, with the best intentions in life, suggested strolls of two or three miles to Rafe's Chasm and Norman's Woe, or invited her to tennis and archery, as if violent exercise was the cure for all human ills. She was very grateful, and reluctantly went away to bed, declaring, when she got upstairs, that these new friends were the dearest people she ever met, and the Willows the most delightful place in the whole world.

Next day a new life began for the young folks -- a very healthy, happy life; and all threw themselves into it so heartily, that it was impossible to help getting great good from it, for these summer weeks, if well spent, work miracles in tired bodies and souls. Frank took a fancy to the bicycle boy, and, being able to hire one of the breakneck articles, soon learned to ride it; and the two might be seen wildly working their long legs on certain smooth stretches of road, or getting up their muscle rowing about the bay till they were almost as brown and nautical in appearance and language as the fishermen who lived in nooks and corners along the shore.

Jack struck up a great friendship with the sturdy Bacon and the agreeable Cox: the latter, being about his own age, was his especial favorite; and they soon were called Box and Cox by the other fellows, which did not annoy them a bit, as both had played parts in that immortal farce. They had capital times fishing, scrambling over the rocks, playing ball and tennis, and rainy days they took possession of the studio opposite, drew up the portcullis, and gallantly defended the castle, which some of the others besieged with old umbrellas for shields, bats for battering-rams, and bunches of burrs for cannon-balls. Great larks went on over there, while the girls applauded from the piazza or chamber-windows, and made a gay flag for the victors to display from the tower when the fight was over.

But Jill had the best time of all, for each day brought increasing strength and spirits, and she improved so fast it was hard to believe that she was the same girl who lay so long almost helpless in the Bird Room at home. Such lively letters as she sent her mother, all about her new friends, her fine sails, drives, and little walks; the good times she had in the evening, the lovely things people gave her, and she was learning to make with shells and sea-weed, and what splendid fun it was to keep house in a boat.

This last amusement soon grew quite absorbing, and her "cubby," as she called it, rapidly became a pretty grotto, where she lived like a little mermaid, daily loving more and more the beauty of the wonderful sea. Finding the boat too sunny at times, the boys cut long willow boughs and arched them over the seats, laying hemlock branches across till a green roof made it cool and shady inside. There Jill sat or lay among her cushions reading, trying to sketch, sorting shells, drying gay sea-weeds, or watching her crabs, jelly-fish, and anemones in the old boiler, now buried in sand and edged about with moss from the woods.

Nobody disturbed her treasures, but kindly added to them, and often when she went to her nest she found fruit or flowers, books or bon-bons, laid ready for her. Every one pitied and liked the bright little girl who could not run and frisk with the rest, who was so patient and cheerful after her long confinement, ready to help others, and so grateful for any small favor. She found now that the weary months had not been wasted, and was very happy to discover in herself a new sort of strength and sweetness that was not only a comfort to her, but made those about her love and trust her. The songs she had learned attracted the babies, who would leave their play to peep at her and listen when she sung over her work. Passers-by paused to hear the blithe voice of the bird in the green cage, and other invalids, strolling on the beach, would take heart when they saw the child so happy in spite of her great trial.

The boys kept all their marine curiosities for her, and were always ready to take her a row or a sail, as the bay was safe and that sort of travelling suited her better than driving. But the girls had capital times together, and it did Jill good to see another sort from those she knew at home. She had been so much petted of late, that she was getting rather vain of her small accomplishments, and being with strangers richer, better bred and educated than herself, made her more humble in some things, while it showed her the worth of such virtues as she could honestly claim. Mamie Cox took her to drive in the fine carriage of her mamma, and Jill was much impressed by the fact that Mamie was not a bit proud about it, and did not put on any airs, though she had a maid to take care of her. Gerty wore pretty costumes, and came down with pink and blue ribbons in her hair that Jill envied very much; yet Gerty liked her curls, and longed to have some, while her mother, "the lady from Philadelphia," as they called her, was so kind and gay that Jill quite adored her, and always felt as if sunshine had come into the room when she entered. Two little sisters were very interesting to her, and made her long for one of her own when she saw them going about together and heard them talk of their pleasant home, where the great silk factories were. But they invited her to come and see the wonderful cocoons, and taught her to knot pretty gray fringe on a cushion, which delighted her, being so new and easy. There were several other nice little lasses, and they all gathered about Jill with the sweet sympathy children are so quick to show toward those in pain or misfortune. She thought they would not care for a poor little girl like herself, yet here she was the queen of the troupe, and this discovery touched and pleased her very much.

In the morning they camped round the boat on the stones with books, gay work, and merry chatter, till bathing-time. Then the beach was full of life and fun, for every one looked so droll in the flannel suits, it was hard to believe that the neat ladies and respectable gentlemen who went into the little houses could be the same persons as the queer, short-skirted women with old hats tied down, and bareheaded, barefooted men in old suits, who came skipping over the sand to disport themselves in the sea in the most undignified ways. The boys raced about, looking like circus-tumblers, and the babies were regular little cupids, running away from the waves that tried to kiss their flying feet.

Some of the young ladies and girls were famous swimmers, and looked very pretty in their bright red and blue costumes, with loose hair and gay stockings, as they danced into the water and floated away as fearlessly as real mermaidens. Jill had her quiet dip and good rubbing each fine day, and then lay upon the warm sand watching the pranks of the others, and longing to run and dive and shout and tumble with the rest. Now that she was among the well and active, it seemed harder to be patient than when shut up and unable to stir. She felt so much better, and had so little pain to remind her of past troubles, it was almost impossible to help forgetting the poor back and letting her recovered spirits run away with her. If Mrs. Minot had not kept good watch, she would have been off more than once, so eager was she to be "like other girls" again, so difficult was it to keep the restless feet quietly folded among the red cushions.

One day she did yield to temptation, and took a little voyage which might have been her last, owing to the carelessness of those whom she trusted. It was a good lesson, and made her as meek as a lamb during the rest of her stay. Mrs. Minot drove to Gloucester one afternoon, leaving Jill safely established after her nap in the boat, with Gerty and Mamie making lace beside her.

"Don't try to walk or run about, my dear. Sit on the piazza if you get tired of this, and amuse yourself quietly till I come back. I'll not forget the worsted and the canvas," said Mamma, peeping over the bank for a last word as she waited for the omnibus to come along.

"Oh, don't forget the Gibraltars!" cried Jill, popping her head out of the green roof.

"Nor the bananas, please!" added Gerty, looking round one end.

"Nor the pink and blue ribbon to tie our shell-baskets," called Mamie, nearly tumbling into the aquarium at the other end.

Mrs. Minot laughed, and promised, and rumbled away, leaving Jill to an experience which she never forgot.

For half an hour the little girls worked busily, then the boys came for Gerty and Mamie to go to the Chasm with a party of friends who were to leave next day. Off they went, and Jill felt very lonely as the gay voices died away. Every one had gone somewhere, and only little Harry Hammond and his maid were on the beach. Two or three sand-pipers ran about among the pebbles, and Jill envied them their nimble legs so much, that she could not resist getting up to take a few steps. She longed to run straight away over the firm, smooth sand, and feel again the delight of swift motion; but she dared not try it, and stood leaning on her tall parasol with her book in her hand, when Frank, Jack, and the bicycle boy came rowing lazily along and hailed her.

"Come for a sail, Jill? Take you anywhere you like," called Jack, touched by the lonely figure on the beach.

"I'd love to go, if you will row. Mamma made me promise not to go sailing without a man to take care of me. Would it spoil your fun to have me?" answered Jill, eagerly.

"Not a bit; come out on the big stones and we'll take you aboard," said Frank, as they steered to the place where she could embark the easiest.

"All the rest are gone to the Chasm. I wanted to go, because I've never seen it; but, of course, I had to give it up, as I do most of the fun;" and Jill sat down with an impatient sigh.

"We'll row you round there. Can't land, but you can see the place and shout to the others, if that will be any comfort to you," proposed Frank, as they pulled away round the pier.

"Oh, yes, that would be lovely!" and Jill smiled at Jack, who was steering, for she found it impossible to be dismal now with the fresh wind blowing in her face, the blue waves slapping against the boat, and three good-natured lads ready to gratify her wishes.

Away they went, laughing and talking gayly till they came to Goodwin's Rocks, where an unusual number of people were to be seen though the tide was going out, and no white spray was dashing high into the air to make a sight worth seeing.

"What do you suppose they are about? Never saw such a lot of folks at this time. Shouldn't wonder if something had happened. I say, put me ashore, and I'll cut up and see," said the bicycle boy, who was of an inquiring turn.

"I'll go with you," said Frank; "it won't take but a minute, and I'd like to discover what it is. May be something we ought to know about."

So the boys pulled round into a quiet nook, and the two elder ones scrambled up the rocks, to disappear in the crowd. Five, ten, fifteen minutes passed, and they did not return. Jack grew impatient, so did Jill, and bade him run up and bring them back. Glad to know what kept them, Jack departed, to be swallowed up in his turn, for not a sign of a boy did she see after that; and, having vainly strained her eyes to discover the attraction which held them, she gave it up, lay down on their jackets, and began to read.

Then the treacherous tide, as it ebbed lower and lower down the beach, began to lure the boat away; for it was not fastened, and when lightened of its load was an easy prize to the hungry sea, always ready to steal all it can. Jill knew nothing of this, for her story was dull, the gentle motion proved soothing, and before she knew it she was asleep. Little by little the runaway boat slid farther from the shore, and presently was floating out to sea with its drowsy freight, while the careless boys, unconscious of the time they were wasting, lingered to see group after group photographed by the enterprising man who had trundled his camera to the rocks.

In the midst of a dream about home, Jill was roused by a loud shout, and, starting up so suddenly that the sun-umbrella went overboard, she found herself sailing off alone, while the distracted lads roared and beckoned vainly from the cove. The oars lay at their feet, where they left them; and the poor child was quite helpless, for she could not manage the sail, and even the parasol, with which she might have paddled a little, had gone down with all sail set. For a minute, Jill was so frightened that she could only look about her with a scared face, and wonder if drowning was a very disagreeable thing. Then the sight of the bicycle boy struggling with Jack, who seemed inclined to swim after her, and Frank shouting wildly, "Hold on! Come back!" made her laugh in spite of her fear, it was so comical, and their distress so much greater than hers, since it was their own carelessness which caused the trouble.

"I can't come back! There's nothing to hold on to! You didn't fasten me, and now I don't know where I'm going!" cried Jill, looking from the shore to the treacherous sea that was gently carrying her away.

"Keep cool! We'll get a boat and come after you," roared Frank, before he followed Jack, who had collected his wits and was tearing up the rocks like a chamois hunter.

The bicycle boy calmly sat down to keep his eye on the runaway, calling out from time to time such cheering remarks as "All aboard for Liverpool! Give my love to Victoria! Luff and bear away when you come to Halifax! If you are hard up for provisions, you'll find an apple and some bait in my coat-pocket," and other directions for a comfortable voyage, till his voice was lost in the distance as a stronger current bore her swiftly away and the big waves began to tumble and splash.

At first Jill had laughed at his efforts to keep up her spirits, but when the boat floated round a point of rock that shut in the cove, she felt all alone, and sat quite still, wondering what would become of her. She turned her back to the sea and looked at the dear, safe land, which never had seemed so green and beautiful before. Up on the hill rustled the wood through which the happy party were wandering to the Chasm. On the rocks she still saw the crowd all busy with their own affairs, unconscious of her danger. Here and there artists were sketching in picturesque spots, and in one place an old gentleman sat fishing peacefully. Jill called and waved her handkerchief, but he never looked up, and an ugly little dog barked at her in what seemed to her a most cruel way.

"Nobody sees or hears or cares, and those horrid boys will never catch up!" she cried in despair, as the boat began to rock more and more, and the loud swash of water dashing in and out of the Chasm drew nearer and nearer. Holding on now with both hands she turned and looked straight before her, pale and shivering, while her eyes tried to see some sign of hope among the steep cliffs that rose up on the left. No one was there, though usually at this hour they were full of visitors, and it was time for the walkers to have arrived.

"I wonder if Gerty and Mamie will be sorry if I'm drowned," thought Jill, remembering the poor girl who had been lost in the Chasm not long ago. Her lively fancy pictured the grief of her friends at her loss; but that did not help or comfort her now, and as her anxious gaze wandered along the shore, she said aloud, in a pensive tone, -- 

"Perhaps I shall be wrecked on Norman's Woe, and somebody will make poetry about me. It would be pretty to read, but I don't want to die that way. Oh, why did I come! Why didn't I stay safe and comfortable in my own boat?"

At the thought a sob rose, and poor Jill laid her head down on her lap to cry with all her heart, feeling very helpless, small, and forsaken alone there on the great sea. In the midst of her tears came the thought, "When people are in danger, they ask God to save them;" and, slipping down upon her knees, she said her prayer as she had never said it before, for when human help seems gone we turn to Him as naturally as lost children cry to their father, and feel sure that he will hear and answer them.

After that she felt better, and wiped away the drops that blinded her, to look out again like a shipwrecked mariner watching for a sail. And there it was! Close by, coming swiftly on with a man behind it, a sturdy brown fisher, busy with his lobster-pots, and quite unconscious how like an angel he looked to the helpless little girl in the rudderless boat.

"Hi! hi! Oh, please do stop and get me! I'm lost, no oars, nobody to fix the sail! Oh, oh! please come!" screamed Jill, waving her hat frantically as the other boat skimmed by and the man stared at her as if she really was a mermaid with a fishy tail.

"Keep still! I'll come about and fetch you!" he called out; and Jill obeyed, sitting like a little image of faith, till with a good deal of shifting and flapping of the sail, the other boat came alongside and took her in tow.

A few words told the story, and in five minutes she was sitting snugly tucked up watching an unpleasant mass of lobsters flap about dangerously near her toes, while the boat bounded over the waves with a delightful motion, and every instant brought her nearer home. She did not say much, but felt a good deal; and when they met two boats coming to meet her, manned by very anxious crews of men and boys, she was so pale and quiet that Jack was quite bowed down with remorse, and Frank nearly pitched the bicycle boy overboard because he gayly asked Jill how she left her friends in England. There was great rejoicing over her, for the people on the rocks had heard of her loss, and ran about like ants when their hill is disturbed. Of course half a dozen amiable souls posted off to the Willows to tell the family that the little girl was drowned, so that when the rescuers appeared quite a crowd was assembled on the beach to welcome her. But Jill felt so used up with her own share of the excitement that she was glad to be carried to the house by Frank and Jack, and laid upon her bed, where Mrs. Hammond soon restored her with sugar-coated pills, and words even sweeter and more soothing.

Other people, busied with their own pleasures, forgot all about it by the next day; but Jill remembered that hour long afterward, both awake and asleep, for her dreams were troubled, and she often started up imploring someone to save her. Then she would recall the moment when, feeling most helpless, she had asked for help, and it had come as quickly as if that tearful little cry had been heard and answered, though her voice had been drowned by the dash of the waves that seemed ready to devour her. This made a deep impression on her, and a sense of childlike faith in the Father of all began to grow up within her; for in that lonely voyage, short as it was, she had found a very precious treasure to keep for ever, to lean on, and to love during the longer voyage which all must take before we reach our home.



Chapter XXII. A Happy Day


"Oh dear! Only a week more, and then we must go back. Don't you hate the thoughts of it?" said Jack, as he was giving Jill her early walk on the beach one August morning.

"Yes, it will be dreadful to leave Gerty and Mamie and all the nice people. But I'm so much better I won't have to be shut up again, even if I don't go to school. How I long to see Merry and Molly. Dear things, if it wasn't for them I should hate going home more than you do," answered Jill, stepping along quite briskly, and finding it very hard to resist breaking into a skip or a run, she felt so well and gay.

"Wish they could be here to-day to see the fun," said Jack, for it was the anniversary of the founding of the place, and the people celebrated it by all sorts of festivity.

"I did want to ask Molly, but your mother is so good to me I couldn't find courage to do it. Mammy told me not to ask for a thing, and I'm sure I don't get a chance. I feel just as if I was your truly born sister, Jack."

"That's all right, I'm glad you do," answered Jack, comfortably, though his mind seemed a little absent and his eyes twinkled when she spoke of Molly. "Now, you sit in the cubby-house, and keep quiet till the boat comes in. Then the fun will begin, and you must be fresh and ready to enjoy it. Don't run off, now, I shall want to know where to find you by and by."

"No more running off, thank you. I'll stay here till you come, and finish this box for Molly; she has a birthday this week, and I've written to ask what day, so I can send it right up and surprise her."

Jack's eyes twinkled more than ever as he helped Jill settle herself in the boat, and then with a whoop he tore over the beach, as if practising for the race which was to come off in the afternoon.

Jill was so busy with her work that time went quickly, and the early boat came in just as the last pink shell was stuck in its place. Putting the box in the sun to dry, she leaned out of her nook to watch the gay parties land, and go streaming up the pier along the road that went behind the bank that sheltered her. Flocks of children were running about on the sand, and presently strangers appeared, eager to see and enjoy all the delights of this gala-day.

"There's a fat little boy who looks ever so much like Boo," said Jill to herself, watching the people and hoping they would not come and find her, since she had promised to stay till Jack returned.

The fat little boy was staring about him in a blissful sort of maze, holding a wooden shovel in one hand and the skirts of a young girl with the other. Her back was turned to Jill, but something in the long brown braid with a fly-away blue bow hanging down her back looked very familiar to Jill. So did the gray suit and the Japanese umbrella; but the hat was strange, and while she was thinking how natural the boots looked, the girl turned round.

"Why, how much she looks like Molly! It can't be -- yes, it might, I do believe it is!" cried Jill, starting up and hardly daring to trust her own eyes.

As she came out of her nest and showed herself, there could be no doubt about the other girl, for she gave one shout and came racing over the beach with both arms out, while her hat blew off unheeded, and the gay umbrella flew away, to the great delight of all the little people except Boo, who was upset by his sister's impetuous rush, and lay upon his back howling. Molly did not do all the running, though, and Jill got her wish, for, never stopping to think of herself, she was off at once, and met her friend half-way with an answering cry. It was a pretty sight to see them run into one another's arms and hug and kiss and talk and skip in such a state of girlish joy they never cared who saw or laughed at their innocent raptures.

"You darling dear! where did you come from?" cried Jill, holding Molly by both shoulders, and shaking her a little to be sure she was real.

"Mrs. Minot sent for us to spend a week. You look so well, I can't believe my eyes!" answered Molly, patting Jill's cheeks and kissing them over and over, as if to make sure the bright color would not come off.

"A week? How splendid! Oh, I've such heaps to tell and show you; come right over to my cubby and see how lovely it is," said Jill, forgetting everybody else in her delight at getting Molly.

"I must get poor Boo, and my hat and umbrella, I left them all behind me when I saw you," laughed Molly, looking back.

But Mrs. Minot and Jack had consoled Boo and collected the scattered property, so the girls went on arm in arm, and had a fine time before any one had the heart to disturb them. Molly was charmed with the boat, and Jill very glad the box was done in season. Both had so much to tell and hear and plan, that they would have sat there for ever if bathing-time had not come, and the beach suddenly looked like a bed of red and yellow tulips, for every one took a dip, and the strangers added much to the fun.

Molly could swim like a duck, and quite covered herself with glory by diving off the pier. Jack undertook to teach Boo, who was a promising pupil, being so plump that he could not sink if he tried. Jill was soon through, and lay on the sand enjoying the antics of the bathers till she was so faint with laughter she was glad to hear the dinner-horn and do the honors of the Willows to Molly, whose room was next hers.

Boat-races came first in the afternoon, and the girls watched them, sitting luxuriously in the nest, with the ladies and children close by. The sailing-matches were very pretty to see; but Molly and Jill were more interested in the rowing, for Frank and the bicycle boy pulled one boat, and the friends felt that this one must win. It did, though the race was not very exciting nor the prize of great worth; but the boys and girls were satisfied, and Jack was much exalted, for he always told Frank he could do great things if he would only drop books and "go in on his muscle."

Foot-races followed, and, burning to distinguish himself also, Jack insisted on trying, though his mother warned him that the weak leg might be harmed, and he had his own doubts about it, as he was all out of practice. However, he took his place with a handkerchief tied round his head, red shirt and stockings, and his sleeves rolled up as if he meant business. Jill and Molly could not sit still during this race, and stood on the bank quite trembling with excitement as the half-dozen runners stood in a line at the starting-post waiting for the word "Go!"

Off they went at last over the smooth beach to the pole with the flag at the further end, and every one watched them with mingled interest and merriment, for they were a droll set, and the running not at all scientific with most of them. One young fisherman with big boots over his trousers started off at a great pace, pounding along in the most dogged way, while a little chap in a tight bathing-suit with very thin legs skimmed by him, looking so like a sand-piper it was impossible to help laughing at both. Jack's former training stood him in good stead now; for he went to work in professional style, and kept a steady trot till the flagpole had been passed, then he put on his speed and shot ahead of all the rest, several of whom broke down and gave up. But Cox and Bacon held on gallantly; and soon it was evident that the sturdy legs in the knickerbockers were gaining fast, for Jack gave his ankle an ugly wrench on a round pebble, and the weak knee began to fail. He did his best, however, and quite a breeze of enthusiasm stirred the spectators as the three boys came down the course like mettlesome horses, panting, pale, or purple, but each bound to win at any cost.

"Now, Bacon!" "Go it, Minot!" "Hit him up, Cox!" "Jack's ahead!" "No, he isn't!" "Here they come!" "Bacon's done it!" shouted the other boys, and they were right; Bacon had won, for the gray legs came in just half a yard ahead of the red ones, and Minot tumbled into his brother's arms with hardly breath enough left to gasp out, good-humoredly, "All right, I'm glad he beat!"

Then the victor was congratulated and borne off by his friends to refresh himself, while the lookers-on scattered to see a game of tennis and the shooting of the Archery Club up at the hotel. Jack was soon rested, and, making light of his defeat, insisted on taking the girls to see the fun. So they drove up in the old omnibus, and enjoyed the pretty sight very much; for the young ladies were in uniform, and the broad green ribbons over the white dresses, the gay quivers, long bows, and big targets, made a lively scene. The shooting was good; a handsome damsel got the prize of a dozen arrows, and every one clapped in the most enthusiastic manner.

Molly and Jill did not care about tennis, so they went home to rest and dress for the evening, because to their minds the dancing, the illumination, and the fireworks were the best fun of all. Jill's white bunting with cherry ribbons was very becoming, and the lively feet in the new slippers patted the floor impatiently as the sound of dance music came down to the Willows after tea, and the other girls waltzed on the wide piazza because they could not keep still.

"No dancing for me, but Molly must have a good time. You'll see that she does, won't you, boys?" said Jill, who knew that her share of the fun would be lying on a settee and watching the rest enjoy her favorite pastime.

Frank and Jack promised, and kept their word handsomely; for there was plenty of room in the great dancing-hall at the hotel, and the band in the pavilion played such inspiring music that, as the bicycle boy said, "Every one who had a leg couldn't help shaking it." Molly was twirled about to her heart's content, and flew hither and thither like a blue butterfly; for all the lads liked her, and she kept running up to tell Jill the funny things they said and did.

As night darkened from all the houses in the valley, on the cliffs and along the shore lights shone and sparkled; for every one decorated with gay lanterns, and several yachts in the bay strung colored lamps about the little vessels, making a pretty picture on the quiet sea. Jill thought she had never seen anything so like fairy-land, and felt very like one in a dream as she drove slowly up and down with Mamie, Gerty, Molly, and Mrs. Cox in the carriage, so that she might see it all without too much fatigue. It was very lovely; and when rockets began to whizz, filling the air with golden rain, a shower of colored stars, fiery dragons, or glittering wheels, the girls could only shriek with delight, and beg to stay a little longer each time the prudent lady proposed going home.

It had to be at last; but Molly and Jill comforted themselves by a long talk in bed, for it was impossible to sleep with glares of light coming every few minutes, flocks of people talking and tramping by in the road, and bursts of music floating down to them as the older but not wiser revellers kept up the merriment till a late hour. They dropped off at last; but Jill had the nightmare, and Molly was waked up by a violent jerking of her braid as Jill tried to tow her along, dreaming she was a boat.

They were too sleepy to laugh much then, but next morning they made merry over it, and went to breakfast with such happy faces that all the young folks pronounced Jill's friend a most delightful girl. What a good time Molly did have that week! Other people were going to leave also, and therefore much picnicking, boating, and driving was crowded into the last days. Clambakes on the shore, charades in the studio, sewing-parties at the boat, evening frolics in the big dining-room, farewell calls, gifts, and invitations, all sorts of plans for next summer, and vows of eternal friendship exchanged between people who would soon forget each other. It was very pleasant, till poor Boo innocently added to the excitement by poisoning a few of his neighbors with a bad lobster.

The ambitious little soul pined to catch one of these mysterious but lovely red creatures, and spent days fishing on the beach, investigating holes and corners, and tagging after the old man who supplied the house. One day after a high wind he found several "lobs" washed up on the beach, and, though disappointed at their color, he picked out a big one, and set off to show his prize to Molly. Half-way home he met the old man on his way with a basket of fish, and being tired of lugging his contribution laid it with the others, meaning to explain later. No one saw him do it, as the old man was busy with his pipe; and Boo ran back to get more dear lobs, leaving his treasure to go into the kettle and appear at supper, by which time he had forgotten all about it.

Fortunately none of the children ate any, but several older people were made ill, and quite a panic prevailed that night as one after the other called up the doctor, who was boarding close by; and good Mrs. Grey, the hostess, ran about with hot flannels, bottles of medicine, and distracted messages from room to room. All were comfortable by morning, but the friends of the sufferers lay in wait for the old fisherman, and gave him a good scolding for his carelessness. The poor man was protesting his innocence when Boo, who was passing by, looked into the basket, and asked what had become of his lob. A few questions brought the truth to light, and a general laugh put every one in good humor, when poor Boo mildly said, by way of explanation, -- 

"I fought I was helpin' Mrs. Dray, and I did want to see the dreen lob come out all red when she boiled him. But I fordot, and I don't fink I'll ever find such a nice big one any more."

"For our sakes, I hope you won't, my dear," said Mrs. Hammond, who had been nursing one of the sufferers.

"It's lucky we are going home to-morrow, or that child would be the death of himself and everybody else. He is perfectly crazy about fish, and I've pulled him out of that old lobster-pot on the beach a dozen times," groaned Molly, much afflicted by the mishaps of her young charge.

There was a great breaking up next day, and the old omnibus went off to the station with Bacon hanging on behind, the bicycle boy and his iron whirligig atop, and heads popping out of all the windows for last good-byes. Our party and the Hammonds were going by boat, and were all ready to start for the pier when Boo and little Harry were missing. Molly, the maid, and both boys ran different ways to find them; and all sorts of dreadful suggestions were being made when shouts of laughter were heard from the beach, and the truants appeared, proudly dragging in Harry's little wagon a dead devil-fish, as the natives call that ugly thing which looks like a magnified tadpole -- all head and no body.

"We've dot him!" called the innocents, tugging up their prize with such solemn satisfaction it was impossible to help laughing.

"I always wanted to tatch a whale, and this is a baby one, I fink. A boy said, when they wanted to die they comed on the sand and did it, and we saw this one go dead just now. Ain't he pretty?" asked Boo, displaying the immense mouth with fond pride, while his friend flapped the tail.

"What are you going to do with him?" said Mrs. Hammond, regarding her infant as if she often asked herself the same question about her boy.

"Wap him up in a paper and tate him home to pay wid," answered Harry, with such confidence in his big blue eyes that it was very hard to disappoint his hopes and tell him the treasure must be left behind.

Wails of despair burst from both children as the hard-hearted boys tipped out the little whale, and hustled the indignant fishermen on board the boat, which had been whistling for them impatiently. Boo recovered his spirits first, and gulping down a sob that nearly shook his hat off, consoled his companion in affliction and convulsed his friends by taking from his pocket several little crabs, the remains of a jelly-fish, and such a collection of pebbles that Frank understood why he found the fat boy such a burden when he shouldered him, kicking and howling, in the late run to the boat. These delicate toys healed the wounds of Boo and Harry, and they were soon happily walking the little "trabs" about inside a stone wall of their own building, while the others rested after their exertions, and laid plans for coming to the Willows another year, as people usually did who had once tasted the wholesome delights and cordial hospitality of this charming place.



Chapter XXIII. Cattle Show


The children were not the only ones who had learned something at Pebbly Beach. Mrs. Minot had talked a good deal with some very superior persons, and received light upon various subjects which had much interested or perplexed her. While the ladies worked or walked together, they naturally spoke oftenest and most earnestly about their children, and each contributed her experience. Mrs. Hammond, who had been a physician for many years, was wise in the care of healthy little bodies, and the cure of sick ones. Mrs. Channing, who had read, travelled, and observed much in the cause of education, had many useful hints about the training of young minds and hearts. Several teachers reported their trials, and all the mothers were eager to know how to bring up their boys and girls to be healthy, happy, useful men and women.

As young people do not care for such discussions, we will not describe them, but as the impression they made upon one of the mammas affected our hero and heroine, we must mention the changes which took place in their life when they all got home again.

"School begins to-morrow. Oh, dear!" sighed Jack, as he looked up his books in the Bird Room, a day or two after their return.

"Don't you want to go? I long to, but don't believe I shall. I saw our mothers talking to the doctor last night, but I haven't dared to ask what they decided," said Jill, affectionately eying the long-unused books in her little library.

"I've had such a jolly good time, that I hate to be shut up all day worse than ever. Don't you, Frank?" asked Jack, with a vengeful slap at the arithmetic which was the torment of his life.

"Well, I confess I don't hanker for school as much as I expected. I'd rather take a spin on the old bicycle. Our roads are so good, it is a great temptation to hire a machine, and astonish the natives. That's what comes of idleness. So brace up, my boy, and go to work, for vacation is over," answered Frank, gravely regarding the tall pile of books before him, as if trying to welcome his old friends, or tyrants, rather, for they ruled him with a rod of iron when he once gave himself up to them.

"Ah, but vacation is not over, my dears," said Mrs. Minot, hearing the last words as she came in prepared to surprise her family.

"Glad of it. How much longer is it to be?" asked Jack, hoping for a week at least.

"Two or three years for some of you."

"What?" cried all three, in utter astonishment, as they stared at Mamma, who could not help smiling, though she was very much in earnest.

"For the next two or three years I intend to cultivate my boys' bodies, and let their minds rest a good deal, from books at least. There is plenty to learn outside of school-houses, and I don't mean to shut you up just when you most need all the air and exercise you can get. Good health, good principles, and a good education are the three blessings I ask for you, and I am going to make sure of the first, as a firm foundation for the other two."

"But, mother, what becomes of college?" asked Frank, rather disturbed at this change of base.

"Put it off for a year, and see if you are not better fitted for it then than now."

"But I am already fitted: I've worked like a tiger all this year, and I'm sure I shall pass."

"Ready in one way, but not in another. That hard work is no preparation for four years of still harder study. It has cost you these round shoulders, many a headache, and consumed hours when you had far better have been on the river or in the fields. I cannot have you break down, as so many boys do, or pull through at the cost of ill-health afterward. Eighteen is young enough to begin the steady grind, if you have a strong constitution to keep pace with the eager mind. Sixteen is too young to send even my good boy out into the world, just when he most needs his mother's care to help him be the man she hopes to see him."

Mrs. Minot laid her hand on his shoulder as she spoke, looking so fond and proud that it was impossible to rebel, though some of his most cherished plans were spoilt.

"Other fellows go at my age, and I was rather pleased to be ready at sixteen," he began. But she added, quickly, -- 

"They go, but how do they come out? Many lose health of body, and many what is more precious still, moral strength, because too young and ignorant to withstand temptations of all sorts. The best part of education does not come from books, and the good principles I value more than either of the other things are to be carefully watched over till firmly fixed; then you may face the world, and come to no real harm. Trust me, dear, I do it for your sake; so bear the disappointment bravely, and in the end I think you will say I'm right."

"I'll do my best; but I don't see what is to become of us if we don't go to school. You will get tired of it first," said Frank, trying to set a good example to the others, who were looking much impressed and interested.

"No danger of that, for I never sent my children to school to get rid of them, and now that they are old enough to be companions, I want them at home more than ever. There are to be some lessons, however, for busy minds must be fed, but not crammed; so you boys will go and recite at certain hours such things as seem most important. But there is to be no studying at night, no shutting up all the best hours of the day, no hurry and fret of getting on fast, or skimming over the surface of many studies without learning any thoroughly."

"So I say!" cried Jack, pleased with the new idea, for he never did love books. "I do hate to be driven so I don't half understand, because there is no time to have things explained. School is good fun as far as play goes; but I don't see the sense of making a fellow learn eighty questions in geography one day, and forget them the next.

"What is to become of me, please?" asked Jill, meekly.

"You and Molly are to have lessons here. I was a teacher when I was young, you know, and liked it, so I shall be school-ma'am, and leave my house-keeping in better hands than mine. I always thought that mothers should teach their girls during these years, and vary their studies to suit the growing creatures as only mothers can.

"That will be splendid! Will Molly's father let her come?" cried Jill, feeling quite reconciled to staying at home, if her friend was to be with her.

"He likes the plan very much, for Molly is growing fast, and needs a sort of care that Miss Dawes cannot give her. I am not a hard mistress, and I hope you will find my school a pleasant one."

"I know I shall; and I'm not disappointed, because I was pretty sure I couldn't go to the old school again, when I heard the doctor say I must be very careful for a long time. I thought he meant months; but if it must be years, I can bear it, for I've been happy this last one though I was sick," said Jill, glad to show that it had not been wasted time by being cheerful and patient now.

"That's my good girl!" and Mrs. Minot stroked the curly black head as if it was her own little daughter's. "You have done so well, I want you to go on improving, for care now will save you pain and disappointment by and by. You all have got a capital start during these six weeks, so it is a good time to begin my experiment. If it does not work well, we will go back to school and college next spring."

"Hurrah for Mamma and the long vacation!" cried Jack, catching up two big books and whirling them round like clubs, as if to get his muscles in order at once.

"Now I shall have time to go to the Gymnasium and straighten out my back," said Frank, who was growing so tall he needed more breadth to make his height symmetrical.

"And to ride horseback. I am going to hire old Jane and get out the little phaeton, so we can all enjoy the fine weather while it lasts. Molly and I can drive Jill, and you can take turns in the saddle when you are tired of ball and boating. Exercise of all sorts is one of the lessons we are to learn," said Mrs. Minot, suggesting all the pleasant things she could to sweeten the pill for her pupils, two of whom did love their books, not being old enough to know that even an excellent thing may be overdone.

"Won't that be gay? I'll get down the saddle to-day, so we can begin right off. Lem rides, and we can go together. Hope old Jane will like it as well as I shall," said Jack, who had found a new friend in a pleasant lad lately come to town.

"You must see that she does, for you boys are to take care of her. We will put the barn in order, and you can decide which shall be hostler and which gardener, for I don't intend to hire labor on the place any more. Our estate is not a large one, and it will be excellent work for you, my men."

"All right! I'll see to Jane. I love horses," said Jack, well pleased with the prospect.

"My horse won't need much care. I prefer a bicycle to a beast, so I'll get in the squashes, pick the apples, and cover the strawberry bed when it is time," added Frank, who had enjoyed the free life at Pebbly Beach so much that he was willing to prolong it.

"You may put me in a hen-coop, and keep me there a year, if you like. I won't fret, for I'm sure you know what is best for me," said Jill, gayly, as she looked up at the good friend who had done so much for her.

"I'm not sure that I won't put you in a pretty cage and send you to Cattle Show, as a sample of what we can do in the way of taming a wild bird till it is nearly as meek as a dove," answered Mrs. Minot, much gratified at the amiability of her flock.

"I don't see why there should not be an exhibition of children, and prizes for the good and pretty ones, as well as for fat pigs, fine horses, or handsome fruit and flowers -- I don't mean a baby show, but boys and girls, so people can see what the prospect is of a good crop for the next generation," said Frank, glancing toward the tower of the building where the yearly Agricultural Fair was soon to be held.

"Years ago, there was a pretty custom here of collecting all the schools together in the spring, and having a festival at the Town Hall. Each school showed its best pupils, and the parents looked on at the blooming flower show. It was a pity it was ever given up, for the schools have never been so good as then, nor the interest in them so great;" and Mrs. Minot wondered, as many people do, why farmers seem to care more for their cattle and crops than for their children, willingly spending large sums on big barns and costly experiments, while the school-houses are shabby and inconvenient, and the cheapest teachers preferred.

"Ralph is going to send my bust. He asked if he might, and mother said Yes. Mr. German thinks it very good, and I hope other people will," said Jill, nodding toward the little plaster head that smiled down from its bracket with her own merry look.

"I could send my model; it is nearly done. Ralph told me it was a clever piece of work, and he knows," added Frank, quite taken with the idea of exhibiting his skill in mechanics.

"And I could send my star bedquilt! They always have things of that kind at Cattle Show;" and Jill began to rummage in the closet for the pride of her heart, burning to display it to an admiring world.

"I haven't got anything. Can't sew rags together; or make baby engines, and I have no live-stock -- yes, I have too! There's old Bun. I'll send him, for the fun of it; he really is a curiosity, for he is the biggest one I ever saw, and hopping into the lime has made his fur such a queer color, he looks like a new sort of rabbit. I'll catch and shut him up before he gets wild again;" and off rushed Jack to lure unsuspecting old Bun, who had grown tame during their absence, into the cage which he detested.

They all laughed at his ardor, but the fancy pleased them; and as Mamma saw no reason why their little works of art should not be sent, Frank fell to work on his model, and Jill resolved to finish her quilt at once, while Mrs. Minot went off to see Mr. Acton about the hours and studies for the boys.

In a week or two, the young people were almost resigned to the loss of school, for they found themselves delightfully fresh for the few lessons they did have, and not weary of play, since it took many useful forms. Old Jane not only carried them all to ride, but gave Jack plenty of work keeping her premises in nice order. Frank mourned privately over the delay of college, but found a solace in his whirligig and the Gymnasium, where he set himself to developing a chest to match the big head above, which head no longer ached with eight or ten hours of study. Harvesting beans and raking up leaves seemed to have a soothing effect upon his nerves, for now he fell asleep at once instead of thumping his pillow with vexation because his brain would go on working at difficult problems and passages when he wanted it to stop.

Jill and Molly drove away in the little phaeton every fair morning over the sunny hills and through the changing woods, filling their hands with asters and golden-rod, their lungs with the pure, invigorating air, and their heads with all manner of sweet and happy fancies and feelings born of the wholesome influences about them. People shook their heads, and said it was wasting time; but the rosy-faced girls were content to trust those wiser than themselves, and found their new school very pleasant. They read aloud a good deal, rapidly acquiring one of the rarest and most beautiful accomplishments; for they could stop and ask questions as they went along, so that they understood what they read, which is half the secret. A thousand things came up as they sewed together in the afternoon, and the eager minds received much general information in an easy and well-ordered way. Physiology was one of the favorite studies, and Mrs. Hammond often came in to give them a little lecture, teaching them to understand the wonders of their own systems, and how to keep them in order -- a lesson of far more importance just then than Greek or Latin, for girls are the future mothers, nurses, teachers, of the race, and should feel how much depends on them. Merry could not resist the attractions of the friendly circle, and soon persuaded her mother to let her do as they did; so she got more exercise and less study, which was just what the delicate girl needed.

The first of the new ideas seemed to prosper, and the second, though suggested in joke, was carried out in earnest, for the other young people were seized with a strong desire to send something to the Fair. In fact, all sorts of queer articles were proposed, and much fun prevailed, especially among the boys, who ransacked their gardens for mammoth vegetables, sighed for five-legged calves, blue roses, or any other natural curiosity by means of which they might distinguish themselves. Ralph was the only one who had anything really worth sending; for though Frank's model seemed quite perfect, it obstinately refused to go, and at the last moment blew up with a report like a pop-gun. So it was laid away for repairs, and its disappointed maker devoted his energies to helping Jack keep Bun in order; for that indomitable animal got out of every prison they put him in, and led Jack a dreadful life during that last week. At all hours of the day and night that distracted boy would start up, crying, "There he is again!" and dart out to give chase and capture the villain now grown too fat to run as he once did.

The very night before the Fair, Frank was wakened by a chilly draught, and, getting up to see where it came from, found Jack's door open and bed empty, while the vision of a white ghost flitting about the garden suggested a midnight rush after old Bun. Frank watched laughingly, till poor Jack came toward the house with the gentleman in gray kicking lustily in his arms, and then whispered in a sepulchral tone, -- 

"Put him in the old refrigerator, he can't get out of that."

Blessing him for the suggestion, the exhausted hunter shut up his victim in the new cell, and found it a safe one, for Bun could not burrow through a sheet of zinc, or climb up the smooth walls.

Jill's quilt was a very elaborate piece of work, being bright blue with little white stars all over it; this she finished nicely, and felt sure no patient old lady could outdo it. Merry decided to send butter, for she had been helping her mother in the dairy that summer, and rather liked the light part of the labor. She knew it would please her very much if she chose that instead of wild flowers, so she practised moulding the yellow pats into pretty shapes, that it might please both eye and taste.

Molly declared she would have a little pen, and put Boo in it, as the prize fat boy -- a threat which so alarmed the innocent that he ran away, and was found two or three miles from home, asleep under the wall, with two seed-cakes and a pair of socks done up in a bundle. Being with difficulty convinced that it was a joke, he consented to return to his family, but was evidently suspicious, till Molly decided to send her cats, and set about preparing them for exhibition. The Minots' deserted Bunny-house was rather large; but as cats cannot be packed as closely as much-enduring sheep, Molly borrowed this desirable family mansion, and put her darlings into it, where they soon settled down, and appeared to enjoy their new residence. It had been scrubbed up and painted red, cushions and plates put in, and two American flags adorned the roof. Being barred all round, a fine view of the Happy Family could be had, now twelve in number, as Molasses had lately added three white kits to the varied collection.

The girls thought this would be the most interesting spectacle of all, and Grif proposed to give some of the cats extra tails, to increase their charms, especially poor Mortification, who would appreciate the honor of two, after having none for so long. But Molly declined, and Grif looked about him for some attractive animal to exhibit, so that he too might go in free and come to honor, perhaps.

A young lady in the town owned a donkey, a small, gray beast, who insisted on tripping along the sidewalks and bumping her rider against the walls as she paused to browse at her own sweet will, regardless of blows or cries, till ready to move on. Expressing great admiration for this rare animal, Grif obtained leave to display the charms of Graciosa at the Fair. Little did she guess the dark designs entertained against her dignity, and happily she was not as sensitive to ridicule as a less humble-minded animal, so she went willingly with her new friend, and enjoyed the combing and trimming up which she received at his hands, while he prepared for the great occasion.

When the morning of September 28th arrived, the town was all astir, and the Fair ground a lively scene. The air was full of the lowing of cattle, the tramp of horses, squealing of indignant pigs, and clatter of tongues, as people and animals streamed in at the great gate and found their proper places. Our young folks were in a high state of excitement, as they rumbled away with their treasures in a hay-cart. The Bunny-house might have been a cage of tigers, so rampant were the cats at this new move. Old Bun, in a small box, brooded over the insult of the refrigerator, and looked as fierce as a rabbit could. Gus had a coop of rare fowls, who clucked wildly all the way, while Ralph, with the bust in his arms, stood up in front, and Jill and Molly bore the precious bedquilt, as they sat behind.

These objects of interest were soon arranged, and the girls went to admire Merry's golden butter cups among the green leaves, under which lay the ice that kept the pretty flowers fresh. The boys were down below, where the cackling was very loud, but not loud enough to drown the sonorous bray which suddenly startled them as much as it did the horses outside. A shout of laughter followed, and away went the lads, to see what the fun was, while the girls ran out on the balcony, as someone said, "It's that rogue of a Grif with some new joke."

It certainly was, and, to judge from the peals of merriment, the joke was a good one. In at the gate came a two-headed donkey, ridden by Grif, in great spirits at his success, for the gate-keeper laughed so he never thought to ask for toll. A train of boys followed him across the ground, lost in admiration of the animal and the cleverness of her rider. Among the stage properties of the Dramatic Club was the old ass's head once used in some tableaux from "Midsummer Night's Dream." This Grif had mended up, and fastened by means of straps and a collar to poor Graciosa's neck, hiding his work with a red cloth over her back. One eye was gone, but the other still opened and shut, and the long ears wagged by means of strings, which he slyly managed with the bridle, so the artificial head looked almost as natural as the real one. The funniest thing of all was the innocent air of Graciosa, and the mildly inquiring expression with which she now and then turned to look at or to smell of the new ornament as if she recognized a friend's face, yet was perplexed by its want of animation. She vented her feelings in a bray, which Grif imitated, convulsing all hearers by the sound as well as by the wink the one eye gave, and the droll waggle of one erect ear, while the other pointed straight forward.

The girls laughed so at the ridiculous sight that they nearly fell over the railing, and the boys were in ecstasies, especially when Grif, emboldened by his success, trotted briskly round the race-course, followed by the cheers of the crowd. Excited by the noise, Graciosa did her best, till the false head, loosened by the rapid motion, slipped round under her nose, causing her to stop so suddenly that Grif flew off, alighting on his own head with a violence which would have killed any other boy. Sobered by his downfall, he declined to mount again, but led his steed to repose in a shed, while he rejoined his friends, who were waiting impatiently to congratulate him on his latest and best prank.

The Committee went their rounds soon after, and, when the doors were again opened, every one hurried to see if their articles had received a premium. A card lay on the butter cups, and Mrs. Grant was full of pride because her butter always took a prize, and this proved that Merry was walking in her mother's steps, in this direction at least. Another card swung from the blue quilt, for the kindly judges knew who made it, and were glad to please the little girl, though several others as curious but not so pretty hung near by. The cats were admired, but, as they were not among the animals usually exhibited, there was no prize awarded. Gus hoped his hens would get one; but somebody else outdid him, to the great indignation of Laura and Lotty, who had fed the white biddies faithfully for months. Jack was sure his rabbit was the biggest there, and went eagerly to look for his premium. But neither card nor Bun were to be seen, for the old rascal had escaped for the last time, and was never seen again; which was a great comfort to Jack, who was heartily tired of him.

Ralph's bust was the best of all, for not only did it get a prize, and was much admired, but a lady, who found Jill and Merry rejoicing over it, was so pleased with the truth and grace of the little head, that she asked about the artist, and whether he would do one of her own child, who was so delicate she feared he might not live long.

Merry gladly told the story of her ambitious friend, and went to find him, that he might secure the order. While she was gone, Jill took up the tale, gratefully telling how kind he had been to her, how patiently he worked and waited, and how much he longed to go abroad. Fortunately the lady was rich and generous, as well as fond of art, and being pleased with the bust, and interested in the young sculptor, gave him the order when he came, and filled his soul with joy by adding, that, if it suited her when done, it should be put into marble. She lived in the city, and Ralph soon arranged his work so that he could give up his noon hour, and go to model the child; for every penny he could earn or save now was very precious, as he still hoped to go abroad.

The girls were so delighted with this good fortune, that they did not stay for the races, but went home to tell the happy news, leaving the boys to care for the cats, and enjoy the various matches to come off that day.

"I'm so glad I tried to look pleasant when I was lying on the board while Ralph did my head, for the pleasantness got into the clay face, and that made the lady like it," said Jill, as she lay resting on the sofa.

"I always thought it was a dear, bright little face, but now I love and admire it more than ever," cried Merry, kissing it gratefully, as she remembered the help and pleasure it had given Ralph.



Chapter XXIV. Down the River


A fortnight later, the boys were picking apples one golden October afternoon, and the girls were hurrying to finish their work, that they might go and help the harvesters. It was six weeks now since the new school began, and they had learned to like it very much, though they found that it was not all play, by any means. But lessons, exercise, and various sorts of housework made an agreeable change, and they felt that they were learning things which would be useful to them all their lives. They had been making underclothes for themselves, and each had several neatly finished garments cut, fitted, and sewed by herself, and trimmed with the pretty tatting Jill made in such quantities while she lay on her sofa.

Now they were completing new dressing sacks, and had enjoyed this job very much, as each chose her own material, and suited her own taste in the making. Jill's was white, with tiny scarlet leaves all over it, trimmed with red braid and buttons so like checkerberries she was tempted to eat them. Molly's was gay, with bouquets of every sort of flower, scalloped all round, and adorned with six buttons, each of a different color, which she thought the last touch of elegance. Merry's, though the simplest, was the daintiest of the three, being pale blue, trimmed with delicate edging, and beautifully made.

Mrs. Minot had been reading from Miss Strickland's "Queens of England" while the girls worked, and an illustrated Shakspeare lay open on the table, as well as several fine photographs of historical places for them to look at as they went along. The hour was over now, the teacher gone, and the pupils setting the last stitches as they talked over the lesson, which had interested them exceedingly.

"I really believe I have got Henry's six wives into my head right at last. Two Annes, three Katherines, and one Jane. Now I've seen where they lived and heard their stories, I quite feel as if I knew them," said Merry, shaking the threads off her work before she folded it up to carry home.

"'King Henry the Eighth to six spouses was wedded, One died, one survived, two divorced, two beheaded,'

was all I knew about them before. Poor things, what a bad time they did have," added Jill, patting down the red braid, which would pucker a bit at the corners.

"Katherine Parr had the best of it, because she outlived the old tyrant and so kept her head on," said Molly, winding the thread round her last button, as if bound to fasten it on so firmly that nothing should decapitate that.

"I used to think I'd like to be a queen or a great lady, and wear velvet and jewels, and live in a palace, but now I don't care much for that sort of splendor. I like to make things pretty at home, and know that they all depend on me, and love me very much. Queens are not happy, and I am," said Merry, pausing to look at Anne Hathaway's cottage as she put up the picture, and to wonder if it was very pleasant to have a famous man for one's husband.

"I guess your missionarying has done you good; mine has, and I'm getting to have things my own way more and more every day. Miss Bat is so amiable, I hardly know her, and father tells her to ask Miss Molly when she goes to him for orders. Isn't that fun?" laughed Molly, in high glee, at the agreeable change. "I like it ever so much, but I don't want to stay so all my days. I mean to travel, and just as soon as I can I shall take Boo and go all round the world, and see everything," she added, waving her gay sack, as if it were the flag she was about to nail to the masthead of her ship.

"Well, I should like to be famous in some way, and have people admire me very much. I'd like to act, or dance, or sing, or be what I heard the ladies at Pebbly Beach call a 'queen of society.' But I don't expect to be anything, and I'm not going to worry I shall not be a Lucinda, so I ought to be contented and happy all my life," said Jill, who was very ambitious in spite of the newly acquired meekness, which was all the more becoming because her natural liveliness often broke out like sunshine through a veil of light clouds.

If the three girls could have looked forward ten years they would have been surprised to see how different a fate was theirs from the one each had chosen, and how happy each was in the place she was called to fill. Merry was not making the old farmhouse pretty, but living in Italy, with a young sculptor for her husband, and beauty such as she never dreamed of all about her. Molly was not travelling round the world, but contentedly keeping house for her father and still watching over Boo, who was becoming her pride and joy as well as care. Neither was Jill a famous woman, but a very happy and useful one, with the two mothers leaning on her as they grew old, the young men better for her influence over them, many friends to love and honor her, and a charming home, where she was queen by right of her cheery spirit, grateful heart, and unfailing devotion to those who had made her what she was.

If any curious reader, not content with this peep into futurity, asks, "Did Molly and Jill ever marry?" we must reply, for the sake of peace -- Molly remained a merry spinster all her days, one of the independent, brave, and busy creatures of whom there is such need in the world to help take care of other peoples' wives and children, and do the many useful jobs that the married folk have no time for. Jill certainly did wear a white veil on the day she was twenty-five and called her husband Jack. Further than that we cannot go, except to say that this leap did not end in a catastrophe, like the first one they took together.

That day, however, they never dreamed of what was in store for them, but chattered away as they cleared up the room, and then ran off ready for play, feeling that they had earned it by work well done. They found the lads just finishing, with Boo to help by picking up the windfalls for the cider-heap, after he had amused himself by putting about a bushel down the various holes old Bun had left behind him. Jack was risking his neck climbing in the most dangerous places, while Frank, with a long-handled apple-picker, nipped off the finest fruit with care, both enjoying the pleasant task and feeling proud of the handsome red and yellow piles all about the little orchard. Merry and Molly caught up baskets and fell to work with all their might, leaving Jill to sit upon a stool and sort the early apples ready to use at once, looking up now and then to nod and smile at her mother who watched her from the window, rejoicing to see her lass so well and happy.

It was such a lovely day, they all felt its cheerful influence; for the sun shone bright and warm, the air was full of an invigorating freshness which soon made the girls' faces look like rosy apples, and their spirits as gay as if they had been stealing sips of new cider through a straw. Jack whistled like a blackbird as he swung and bumped about, Frank orated and joked, Merry and Molly ran races to see who would fill and empty fastest, and Jill sung to Boo, who reposed in a barrel, exhausted with his labors.

"These are the last of the pleasant days, and we ought to make the most of them. Let's have one more picnic before the frost spoils the leaves," said Merry, resting a minute at the gate to look down the street, which was a glorified sort of avenue, with brilliant maples lining the way and carpeting the ground with crimson and gold.

"Oh, yes! Go down the river once more and have supper on the Island. I couldn't go to some of your picnics, and I do long for a last good time before winter shuts me up again," cried Jill, eager to harvest all the sunshine she could, for she was not yet quite her old self again.

"I'm your man, if the other fellows agree. We can't barrel these up for a while, so to-morrow will be a holiday for us. Better make sure of the day while you can, this weather can't last long;" and Frank shook his head like one on intimate terms with Old Prob.

"Don't worry about those high ones, Jack. Give a shake and come down and plan about the party," called Molly, throwing up a big Baldwin with what seemed a remarkably good aim, for a shower of apples followed, and a boy came tumbling earthward to catch on the lowest bough and swing down like a caterpillar, exclaiming, as he landed, -- 

"I'm glad that job is done! I've rasped every knuckle I've got and worn out the knees of my pants. Nice little crop though, isn't it?"

"It will be nicer if this young man does not bite every apple he touches. Hi there! Stop it, Boo," commanded Frank, as he caught his young assistant putting his small teeth into the best ones, to see if they were sweet or sour.

Molly set the barrel up on end, and that took the boy out of the reach of mischief, so he retired from view and peeped through a crack as he ate his fifth pearmain, regardless of consequences.

"Gus will be at home to-morrow. He always comes up early on Saturday, you know. We can't get on without him," said Frank, who missed his mate very much, for Gus had entered college, and so far did not like it as much as he had expected.

"Or Ralph; he is very busy every spare minute on the little boy's bust, which is getting on nicely, he says; but he will be able to come home in time for supper, I think," added Merry, remembering the absent, as usual.

"I'll ask the girls on my way home, and all meet at two o'clock for a good row while it's warm. What shall I bring?" asked Molly, wondering if Miss Bat's amiability would extend to making goodies in the midst of her usual Saturday's baking.

"You bring coffee and the big pot and some buttered crackers. I'll see to the pie and cake, and the other girls can have anything else they like," answered Merry, glad and proud that she could provide the party with her own inviting handiwork.

"I'll take my zither, so we can have music as we sail, and Grif will bring his violin, and Ralph can imitate a banjo so that you'd be sure he had one. I do hope it will be fine, it is so splendid to go round like other folks and enjoy myself," cried Jill, with a little bounce of satisfaction at the prospect of a row and ramble.

"Come along, then, and make sure of the girls," said Merry, catching up her roll of work, for the harvesting was done.

Molly put her sack on as the easiest way of carrying it, and, extricating Boo, they went off, accompanied by the boys, "to make sure of the fellows" also, leaving Jill to sit among the apples, singing and sorting like a thrifty little housewife.

Next day eleven young people met at the appointed place, basket in hand. Ralph could not come till later, for he was working now as he never worked before. They were a merry flock, for the mellow autumn day was even brighter and clearer than yesterday, and the river looked its loveliest, winding away under the sombre hemlocks, or through the fairyland the gay woods made on either side. Two large boats and two small ones held them all, and away they went, first up through the three bridges and round the bend, then, turning, they floated down to the green island, where a grove of oaks rustled their sere leaves and the squirrels were still gathering acorns. Here they often met to keep their summer revels, and here they now spread their feast on the flat rock which needed no cloth beside its own gray lichens. The girls trimmed each dish with bright leaves, and made the supper look like a banquet for the elves, while the boys built a fire in the nook where ashes and blackened stones told of many a rustic meal. The big tin coffee-pot was not so romantic, but more successful than a kettle slung on three sticks, gypsy fashion; so they did not risk a downfall, but set the water boiling, and soon filled the air with the agreeable perfume associated in their minds with picnics, as most of them never tasted the fascinating stuff at any other time, being the worst children can drink.

Frank was cook, Gus helped cut bread and cake, Jack and Grif brought wood, while Bob Walker took Joe's place and made himself generally useful, as the other gentleman never did, and so was quite out of favor lately.

All was ready at last, and they were just deciding to sit down without Ralph, when a shout told them he was coming, and down the river skimmed a wherry at such a rate the boys wondered whom he had been racing with.

"Something has happened, and he is coming to tell us," said Jill, who sat where she could see his eager face.

"Nothing bad, or he wouldn't smile so. He is glad of a good row and a little fun after working so hard all the week;" and Merry shook a red napkin as a welcoming signal.

Something certainly had happened, and a very happy something it must be, they all thought, as Ralph came on with flashing oars, and leaping out as the boat touched the shore, ran up the slope, waving his hat, and calling in a glad voice, sure of sympathy in his delight, -- 

"Good news! good news! Hurrah for Rome, next month!"

The young folks forgot their supper for a moment, to congratulate him on his happy prospect, and hear all about it, while the leaves rustled as if echoing the kind words, and the squirrels sat up aloft, wondering what all the pleasant clamor was about.

"Yes, I'm really going in November. German asked me to go with him to-day, and if there is any little hitch in my getting off, he'll lend a hand, and I -- I'll black his boots, wet his clay, and run his errands the rest of my life to pay for this!" cried Ralph, in a burst of gratitude; for, independent as he was, the kindness of this successful friend to a deserving comrade touched and won his heart.

"I call that a handsome thing to do!" said Frank, warmly, for noble actions always pleased him. "I heard my mother say that making good or useful men was the best sort of sculpture, so I think David German may be proud of this piece of work, whether the big statue succeeds or not."

"I'm very glad, old fellow. When I run over for my trip four years from now, I'll look you up, and see how you are getting on," said Gus, with a hearty shake of the hand; and the younger lads grinned cheerfully, even while they wondered where the fun was in shaping clay and chipping marble.

"Shall you stay four years?" asked Merry's soft voice, while a wistful look came into her happy eyes.

"Ten, if I can," answered Ralph, decidedly, feeling as if a long lifetime would be all too short for the immortal work he meant to do. "I've got so much to learn, that I shall do whatever David thinks best for me at first, and when I can go alone, I shall just shut myself up and forget that there is any world outside my den."

"Do write and tell us how you get on now and then; I like to hear about other people's good times while I'm waiting for my own," said Molly, too much interested to observe that Grif was sticking burrs up and down her braids.

"Of course I shall write to some of you, but you mustn't expect any great things for years yet. People don't grow famous in a hurry, and it takes a deal of hard work even to earn your bread and butter, as you'll find if you ever try it," answered Ralph, sobering down a little as he remembered the long and steady effort it had taken to get even so far.

"Speaking of bread and butter reminds me that we'd better eat ours before the coffee gets quite cold," said Annette, for Merry seemed to have forgotten that she had been chosen to play matron, as she was the oldest.

The boys seconded the motion, and for a few minutes supper was the all-absorbing topic, as the cups went round and the goodies vanished rapidly, accompanied by the usual mishaps which make picnic meals such fun. Ralph's health was drunk with all sorts of good wishes; and such splendid prophecies were made, that he would have far surpassed Michael Angelo, if they could have come true. Grif gave him an order on the spot for a full-length statue of himself, and stood up to show the imposing attitude in which he wished to be taken, but unfortunately slipped and fell forward with one hand in the custard pie, the other clutching wildly at the coffee-pot, which inhospitably burnt his fingers.

"I think I grasp the idea, and will be sure to remember not to make your hair blow one way and the tails of your coat another, as a certain sculptor made those of a famous man," laughed Ralph, as the fallen hero scrambled up, amidst general merriment.

"Will the little bust be done before you go?" asked Jill, anxiously, feeling a personal interest in the success of that order.

"Yes: I've been hard at it every spare minute I could get, and have a fortnight more. It suits Mrs. Lennox, and she will pay well for it, so I shall have something to start with, though I haven't been able to save much. I'm to thank you for that, and I shall send you the first pretty thing I get hold of," answered Ralph, looking gratefully at the bright face, which grew still brighter as Jill exclaimed, -- 

"I do feel so proud to know a real artist, and have my bust done by him. I only wish I could pay for it as Mrs. Lennox does; but I haven't any money, and you don't need the sort of things I can make," she added, shaking her head, as she thought over knit slippers, wall-pockets, and crochet in all its forms, as offerings to her departing friend.

"You can write often, and tell me all about everybody, for I shall want to know, and people will soon forget me when I'm gone," said Ralph, looking at Merry, who was making a garland of yellow leaves for Juliet's black hair.

Jill promised, and kept her word; but the longest letters went from the farm-house on the hill, though no one knew the fact till long afterward. Merry said nothing now, but she smiled, with a pretty color in her cheeks, and was very much absorbed in her work, while the talk went on.

"I wish I was twenty, and going to seek my fortune, as you are," said Jack; and the other boys agreed with him, for something in Ralph's new plans and purposes roused the manly spirit in all of them, reminding them that playtime would soon be over, and the great world before them, where to choose.

"It is easy enough to say what you'd like; but the trouble is, you have to take what you can get, and make the best of it," said Gus, whose own views were rather vague as yet.

"No you don't, always; you can make things go as you want them, if you only try hard enough, and walk right over whatever stands in the way. I don't mean to give up my plans for any man; but, if I live, I'll carry them out -- you see if I don't;" and Frank gave the rock where he lay a blow with his fist, that sent the acorns flying all about.

One of them hit Jack, and he said, sorrowfully, as he held it in his hand so carefully it was evident he had some association with it, -- 

"Ed used to say that, and he had some splendid plans, but they didn't come to anything."

"Perhaps they did; who can tell? Do your best while you live, and I don't believe anything good is lost, whether we have it a long or a short time," said Ralph, who knew what a help and comfort high hopes were, and how they led to better things, if worthily cherished.

"A great many acorns are wasted, I suppose; but some of them sprout and grow, and make splendid trees," added Merry, feeling more than she knew how to express, as she looked up at the oaks overhead.

Only seven of the party were sitting on the knoll now, for the rest had gone to wash the dishes and pack the baskets down by the boats. Jack and Jill, with the three elder boys, were in a little group, and as Merry spoke, Gus said to Frank, -- 

"Did you plant yours?"

"Yes, on the lawn, and I mean it shall come up if I can make it," answered Frank, gravely.

"I put mine where I can see it from the window, and not forget to water and take care of it," added Jack, still turning the pretty brown acorn to and fro as if he loved it.

"What do they mean?" whispered Merry to Jill, who was leaning against her knee to rest.

"The boys were walking in the Cemetery last Sunday, as they often do, and when they came to Ed's grave, the place was all covered with little acorns from the tree that grows on the bank. They each took up some as they stood talking, and Jack said he should plant his, for he loved Ed very much, you know. The others said they would, too; and I hope the trees will grow, though we don't need anything to remember him by," answered Jill, in a low tone, thinking of the pressed flowers the girls kept for his sake.

The boys heard her, but no one spoke for a moment as they sat looking across the river toward the hill where the pines whispered their lullabies and pointed heavenward, steadfast and green, all the year round. None of them could express the thought that was in their minds as Jill told the little story; but the act and the feeling that prompted it were perhaps as beautiful an assurance as could have been given that the dear dead boy's example had not been wasted, for the planting of the acorns was a symbol of the desire budding in those young hearts to be what he might have been, and to make their lives nobler for the knowledge and the love of him.

"It seems as if a great deal had happened this year," said Merry, in a pensive tone, for this quiet talk just suited her mood.

"So I say, for there's been a Declaration of Independence and a Revolution in our house, and I'm commander-in-chief now; and don't I like it!" cried Molly, complacently surveying the neat new uniform she wore of her own choosing.

"I feel as if I never learned so much in my life as I have since last December, and yet I never did so little," added Jill, wondering why the months of weariness and pain did not seem more dreadful to her.

"Well, pitching on my head seems to have given me a good shaking up, somehow, and I mean to do great things next year in better ways than breaking my bones coasting," said Jack, with a manly air.

"I feel like a Siamese twin without his mate now you are gone, but I'm under orders for a while, and mean to do my best. Guess it won't be lost time;" and Frank nodded at Gus, who nodded back with the slightly superior expression all Freshmen wear.

"Hope you won't find it so. My work is all cut out for me, and I intend to go in and win, though it is more of a grind than you fellows know."

"I'm sure I have everything to be grateful for. It won't be plain sailing -- I don't expect it; but, if I live, I'll do something to be proud of," said Ralph, squaring his shoulders as if to meet and conquer all obstacles as he looked into the glowing west, which was not fairer than his ambitious dreams.

Here we will say good-by to these girls and boys of ours as they sit together in the sunshine talking over a year that was to be for ever memorable to them, not because of any very remarkable events, but because they were just beginning to look about them as they stepped out of childhood into youth, and some of the experiences of the past months had set them to thinking, taught them to see the use and beauty of the small duties, joys, and sorrows which make up our lives, and inspired them to resolve that the coming year should be braver and brighter than the last.

There are many such boys and girls, full of high hopes, lovely possibilities, and earnest plans, pausing a moment before they push their little boats from the safe shore. Let those who launch them see to it that they have good health to man the oars, good education for ballast, and good principles as pilots to guide them as they voyage down an ever-widening river to the sea.

<eob>

Bound To Rise

Or

Up The Ladder

By

Horatio Alger, Jr.



Chapter I


"Sit up to the table, children, breakfast's ready."

The speaker was a woman of middle age, not good-looking in the ordinary acceptation of the term, but nevertheless she looked good. She was dressed with extreme plainness, in a cheap calico; but though cheap, the dress was neat. The children she addressed were six in number, varying in age from twelve to four. The oldest, Harry, the hero of the present story, was a broad-shouldered, sturdy boy, with a frank, open face, resolute, though good-natured.

"Father isn't here," said Fanny, the second child.

"He'll be in directly. He went to the store, and he may stop as he comes back to milk."

The table was set in the center of the room, covered with a coarse tablecloth. The breakfast provided was hardly of a kind to tempt an epicure. There was a loaf of bread cut into slices, and a dish of boiled potatoes. There was no butter and no meat, for the family were very poor.

The children sat up to the table and began to eat. They were blessed with good appetites, and did not grumble, as the majority of my readers would have done, at the scanty fare. They had not been accustomed to anything better, and their appetites were not pampered by indulgence.

They had scarcely commenced the meal when the father entered. Like his wife, he was coarsely dressed. In personal appearance he resembled his oldest boy. His wife looking up as he entered perceived that he looked troubled.

"What is the matter, Hiram?" she asked. "You look as if something had happened."

"Nothing has happened yet," he answered; "but I am afraid we are going to lose the cow."

"Going to lose the cow!" repeated Mrs. Walton in dismay.

"She is sick. I don't know what's the matter with her."

"Perhaps it is only a trifle. She may get over it during the day."

"She may, but I'm afraid she won't. Farmer Henderson's cow was taken just that way last fall, and he couldn't save her."

"What are you going to do?"

"I have been to Elihu Perkins, and he's coming over to see what he can do for her. He can save her if anybody can."

The children listened to this conversation, and, young as they were, the elder ones understood the calamity involved in the possible loss of the cow. They had but one, and that was relied upon to furnish milk for the family, and, besides a small amount of butter and cheese, not for home consumption, but for sale at the store in exchange for necessary groceries. The Waltons were too poor to indulge in these luxuries.

The father was a farmer on a small scale; that is, he cultivated ten acres of poor land, out of which he extorted a living for his family, or rather a partial living. Besides this he worked for his neighbors by the day, sometimes as a farm laborer, sometimes at odd jobs of different kinds, for he was a sort of Jack at all trades. But his income, all told, was miserably small, and required the utmost economy and good management on the part of his wife to make it equal to the necessity of a growing family of children.

Hiram Walton was a man of good natural abilities, though of not much education, and after half an hour's conversation with him one would say, unhesitatingly, that he deserved a better fate than his hand-to-hand struggle with poverty. But he was one of those men who, for some unaccountable reason, never get on in the world. They can do a great many things creditably, but do not have the knack of conquering fortune. So Hiram had always been a poor man, and probably always would be poor. He was discontented at times, and often felt the disadvantages of his lot, but he was lacking in energy and ambition, and perhaps this was the chief reason why he did not succeed better.

After breakfast Elihu Perkins, the "cow doctor," came to the door. He was an old man with iron-gray hair, and always wore steel-bowed spectacles; at least for twenty years nobody in the town could remember ever having seen him without them. It was the general opinion that he wore them during the night. Once when questioned on the subject, he laughingly said that he "couldn't see to go to sleep without his specs".

"Well, neighbor Walton, so the cow's sick?" he said, opening the outer door without ceremony.

"Yes, Elihu, she looks down in the mouth. I hope you can save her."

"I kin tell better when I've seen the critter. When you've got through breakfast, we'll go out to the barn."

"I've got through now," said Mr. Walton, whose anxiety for the cow had diminished his appetite.

"May I go too, father?" asked Harry, rising from the table.

"Yes, if you want to."

The three went out to the small, weather-beaten building which served as a barn for the want of a better. It was small, but still large enough to contain all the crops which Mr. Walton could raise. Probably he could have got more out of the land if he had had means to develop its resources; but it was naturally barren, and needed much more manure than he was able to spread over it.

So the yield to an acre was correspondingly small, and likely, from year to year, to grow smaller rather than larger.

They opened the small barn door, which led to the part occupied by the cow's stall. The cow was lying down, breathing with difficulty. Elihu Perkins looked at her sharply through his "specs."

"What do you think of her, neighbor Perkins?" asked the owner, anxiously.

The cow doctor shifted a piece of tobacco from one cheek to the other, and looked wise.

"I think the critter's nigh her end," he said, at last.

"Is she so bad as that?"

"Pears like it. She looks like Farmer Henderson's that died a while ago. I couldn't save her."

"Save my cow, if you can. I don't know what I should do without her."

"I'll do my best, but you mustn't blame me if I can't bring her round. You see there's this about dumb critters that makes 'em harder to cure than human bein's. They can't tell their symptoms, nor how they feel; and that's why it's harder to be a cow doctor than a doctor for humans. You've got to go by the looks, and looks is deceivin'. If I could only ask the critter how she feels, and where she feels worst, I might have some guide to go by. Not but I've had my luck. There's more'n one of 'em I've saved, if I do say it myself."

"I know you can save her if anyone can, Elihu," said Mr. Walton, who appreciated the danger of the cow, and was anxious to have the doctor begin.

"Yes, I guess I know about as much about them critters as anybody," said the garrulous old man, who had a proper appreciation of his dignity and attainments as a cow doctor. "I've had as good success as anyone I know on. If I can't cure her, you may call her a gone case. Have you got any hot water in the house?"

"I'll go in and see."

"I'll go, father," said Harry.

"Well, come right back. We have no time to lose."

Harry appreciated the need of haste as well as his father, and speedily reappeared with a pail of hot water.

"That's right, Harry," said his father. "Now you'd better go into the house and do your chores, so as not to be late for school."

Harry would have liked to remain and watch the steps which were being taken for the recovery of the cow; but he knew he had barely time to do the "chores" referred to before school, and he was far from wishing to be late there. He had an ardent thirst for learning, and, young as he was, ranked first in the district school which he attended. I am not about to present my young hero as a marvel of learning, for he was not so. He had improved what opportunities he had enjoyed, but these were very limited. Since he was nine years of age, his schooling had been for the most part limited to eleven weeks in the year. There was a summer as well as a winter school; but in the summer he only attended irregularly, being needed to work at home. His father could not afford to hire help, and there were many ways in which Harry, though young, could help him. So it happened that Harry, though a tolerably good scholar, was deficient in many respects, on account of the limited nature of his opportunities.

He set to work at once at the chores. First he went to the woodpile and sawed and split a quantity of wood, enough to keep the kitchen stove supplied till he came home again from school in the afternoon. This duty was regularly required of him. His father never touched the saw or the ax, but placed upon Harry the general charge of the fuel department.

After sawing and splitting what he thought to be sufficient, he carried it into the house by armfuls, and piled it up near the kitchen stove. He next drew several buckets of water from the well, for it was washing day, brought up some vegetables from the cellar to boil for dinner, and then got ready for school.



Chapter II. A Calamity


Efforts for the recovery of the cow went on. Elihu Perkins exhausted all his science in her behalf. I do not propose to detail his treatment, because I am not sure whether it was the best, and possibly some of my readers might adopt it under similar circumstances, and then blame me for its unfortunate issue. It is enough to say that the cow grew rapidly worse in spite of the hot-water treatment, and about eleven o'clock breathed her last. The sad intelligence was announced by Elihu, who first perceived it.

"The critter's gone," he said. "'Tain't no use doin' anything more."

"The cow's dead!" repeated Mr. Walton, sorrowfully. He had known for an hour that this would be the probable termination of the disease. Still while there was life there was hope. Now both went out together.

"Yes, the critter's dead!" said Elihu, philosophically, for he lost nothing by her. "It was so to be, and there wa'n't no help for it. That's what I thought from the fust, but I was willin' to try."

"Wasn't there anything that could have saved her?"

Elihu shook his head decidedly.

"If she could a-been saved, I could 'ave done it," he said. "What I don't know about cow diseases ain't wuth knowin'."

Everyone is more or less conceited. Elihu's conceit was as to his scientific knowledge on the subject of cows and horses and their diseases. He spoke so confidently that Mr. Walton did not venture to dispute him.

"I s'pose you're right, Elihu," he said; "but it's hard on me."

"Yes, neighbor, it's hard on you, that's a fact. What was she wuth?"

"I wouldn't have taken forty dollars for her yesterday."

"Forty dollars is a good sum."

"It is to me. I haven't got five dollars in the world outside of my farm."

"I wish I could help you, neighbor Walton, but I'm a poor man myself."

"I know you are, Elihu. Somehow it doesn't seem fair that my only cow should be taken, when Squire Green has got ten, and they're all alive and well. If all his cows should die, he could buy as many more and not feel the loss."

"Squire Green's a close man."

"He's mean enough, if he is rich."

"Sometimes the richest are the meanest."

"In his case it is true."

"He could give you a cow just as well as not. If I was as rich as he, I'd do it."

"I believe you would, Elihu; but there's some difference between you and him."

"Maybe the squire would lend you money to buy a cow. He always keeps money to lend on high interest."

Mr. Walton reflected a moment, then said slowly, "I must have a cow, and I don't know of any other way, but I hate to go to him."

"He's the only man that's likely to have money to lend in town."

"Well, I'll go."

"Good luck to you, neighbor Walton."

"I need it enough," said Hiram Walton, soberly. "If it comes, it'll be the first time for a good many years."

"Well, I'll be goin', as I can't do no more good."

Hiram Walton went into the house, and a look at his face told his wife the news he brought before his lips uttered it.

"Is she dead, Hiram?"

"Yes, the cow's dead. Forty dollars clean gone," he said, rather bitterly.

"Don't be discouraged, Hiram. It's bad luck, but worse things might happen."

"Such as what?"

"Why, the house might burn down, or -- or some of us might fall sick and die. It's better that it should be the cow."

"You're right there; but though it's pleasant to have so many children round, we shan't like to see them starving."

"They are not starving yet, and please God they won't yet awhile. Some help will come to us."

Mrs. Walton sometimes felt despondent herself, but when she saw her husband affected, like a good wife she assumed cheerfulness, in order to raise his spirits. So now, things looked a little more hopeful to him, after he had talked to his wife. He soon took his hat, and approached the door.

"Where are you going, Hiram?" she asked.

"Going to see if Squire Green will lend me money; enough to buy another cow."

"That's right, Hiram. Don't sit down discouraged, but see what you can do to repair the loss."

"I wish there was anybody else to go to. Squire Green is a very mean man, and he will try to take advantage of any need."

"It is better to have a poor resource than none at all."

"Well, I'll go and see what can be done."

Squire Green was the rich man of the town. He had inherited from his father, just as he came of age, a farm of a hundred and fifty acres, and a few hundred dollars.

The land was not good, and far from productive; but he had scrimped and saved and pinched and denied himself, spending almost nothing, till the little money which the farm annually yielded him had accumulated to a considerable sum. Then, too, as there were no banks near at hand to accommodate borrowers, the squire used to lend money to his poorer neighbors. He took care not to exact more than six per cent. openly, but it was generally understood that the borrower must pay a bonus besides to secure a loan, which, added to the legal interest, gave him a very handsome consideration for the use of his spare funds. So his money rapidly increased, doubling every five or six years through his shrewd mode of management, and every year he grew more economical. His wife had died ten years before. She had worked hard for very poor pay, for the squire's table was proverbially meager, and her bills for dress, judging from her appearance, must have been uncommonly small.

The squire had one son, now in the neighborhood of thirty, but he had not been at home for several years. As soon as he attained his majority he left the homestead, and set out to seek his fortune elsewhere. He vowed he wouldn't any longer submit to the penurious ways of the squire. So the old man was left alone, but he did not feel the solitude. He had his gold, and that was company enough. A time was coming when the two must part company, for when death should come he must leave the gold behind; but he did not like to think of that, putting away the idea as men will unpleasant subjects. This was the man to whom Hiram Walton applied for help in his misfortune.

"Is the squire at home?" he asked, at the back door. In that household the front door was never used. There was a parlor, but it had not been opened since Mrs. Green's funeral.

"He's out to the barn," said Hannah Green, a niece of the old man, who acted as maid of all work.

"I'll go out there."

The barn was a few rods northeast of the house, and thither Mr. Walton directed his steps.

Entering, he found the old man engaged in some light work.

"Good morning, Squire Green."

"Good morning, Mr. Walton," returned the squire.

He was a small man, with a thin figure, and a face deep seamed with wrinkles, more so than might have been expected in a man of his age, for he was only just turned of sixty; but hard work, poor and scanty food and sharp calculation, were responsible for them.

"How are you gettin' on?" asked the squire.

This was rather a favorite question of his, it being so much the custom for his neighbors to apply to him when in difficulties, so that their misfortune he had come to regard as his harvests..

"I've met with a loss," answered Hiram Walton.

"You don't say so," returned the squire, with instant attention. "What's happened?"

"My cow is dead."

"When did she die?"

"This morning."

"What was the matter?"

"I don't know. I didn't notice but that she was welt enough last night; but this morning when I went out to the barn, she was lying down breathing heavily."

"What did you do?"

"I called in Elihu Perkins, and we worked over her for three hours; but it wasn't of any use; she died half an hour ago."

"I hope it isn't any disease that's catchin'," said the squire in alarm, thinking of his ten. "It would be a bad job if it should get among mine."

"It's a bad job for me, squire. I hadn't but one cow, and she's gone."

"Just so, just so. I s'pose you'll buy another."

"Yes, I must have a cow. My children live on bread and milk mostly. Then there's the butter and cheese, that I trade off at the store for groceries."

"Just so, just so. Come into the house, neighbor Walton."

The squire guessed his visitor's business in advance, and wanted to take time to talk it over. He would first find out how great his neighbor's necessity was, and then he accommodated him, would charge him accordingly.



Chapter III. Hiram's Motto


There was a little room just off the kitchen, where the squire had an old-fashioned desk. Here it was that he transacted his business, and in the desk he kept his papers. It was into this room that he introduced Mr. Walton.

"Set down, set down, neighbor Walton," he said. "We'll talk this thing over. So you've got to have a cow?"

"Yes, I must have one."

The squire fixed his eyes cunningly on his intended victim, and said, "Goin' to buy one in town?"

"I don't know of any that's for sale."

"How much do you calc'late to pay?"

"I suppose I'll have to pay thirty dollars."

Squire Green shook his head.

"More'n that, neighbor Walton. You can't get a decent cow for thirty dollars. I hain't got one that isn't wuth more, though I've got ten in my barn."

"Thirty dollars is all I can afford to pay, squire."

"Take my advice, and get a good cow while you're about it. It don't pay to get a poor one."

"I'm a poor man, squire. I must take what I can get."

"I ain't sure but I've got a cow that will suit you, a red with white spots. She's a fust-rate milker."

"How old is she?"

"She's turned of five."

"How much do you ask for her?"

"Are you going to pay cash down?" asked the squire, half shutting his eyes, and looking into the face of his visitor.

"I can't do that. I'm very short of money."

"So am I," chimed in the squire. He had two hundred dollars in his desk at that moment waiting for profitable investment; but then he didn't call it exactly a lie to misrepresent for a purpose. "So am I. Money's tight, neighbor."

"Money's always tight with me, squire," returned Hiram Walton, with a sigh.

"Was you a-meanin' to pay anything down?" inquired the squire.

"I don't see how I can."

"That alters the case, you know. I might as well keep the cow, as to sell her without the money down."

"I am willing to pay interest on the money."

"Of course that's fair. Wall, neighbor, what do you say to goin' out to see the cow?"

"Is she in the barn?"

"No, she's in the pastur'. 'Tain't fur."

"I'll go along with you."

They made their way by a short cut across a cornfield to the pasture -- a large ten-acre lot, covered with a scanty vegetation. The squire's cows could not be said to live in clover.

"That's the critter," he said, pointing out one of the cows which was grazing near by. "Ain't she a beauty?"

"She looks pretty well," said Mr. Walton, dubiously, by no means sure that she would equal his lost cow.

"She's one of the best I've got. I wouldn't sell ef it wasn't to oblige. I ain't at all partic'lar, but I suppose you've got to hev a cow."

"What do you ask for her, squire?"

"She's wuth all of forty dollars," answered the squire, who knew perfectly well that a fair price would be about thirty. But then his neighbor must have a cow, and had no money to pay, and so was at his mercy.

"That seems high," said Hiram.

"She's wuth every cent of it; but I ain't nowise partic'lar about sellin' her."

"Couldn't you say thirty-seven?"

"I couldn't take a dollar less. I'd rather keep her. Maybe I'd take thirty-eight, cash down."

Hiram Walton shook his head.

"I have no cash," he said. "I must buy on credit."

"Wall, then, there's a bargain for you. I'll let you have her for forty dollars, giving you six months to pay it, at reg'lar interest, six per cent. Of course I expect a little bonus for the accommodation."

"I hope you'll be easy with me -- I'm a poor man, squire."

"Of course, neighbor; I'm always easy."

"That isn't your reputation," thought Hiram; but he knew that this was a thought to which he must not give expression.

"All I want is a fair price for my time and trouble. We'll say three dollars extra for the accommodation -- three dollars down."

Hiram Walton felt that it was a hard bargain the squire was driving with him, but there seemed no help for it.

He must submit to the imposition, or do without a cow. There was no one else to whom he could look for help on any terms. As to the three dollars, his whole available cash amounted to but four dollars, and it was for three quarters of this sum that the squire called. But the sacrifice must be made.

"Well, Squire Green, if that is your lowest price, I suppose I must come to it," he answered, at last.

"You can't do no better," said the squire, with alacrity.

"If so be as you've made up your mind, we'll make out the papers."

"Very well."

"Come back to the house. When do you want to take the cow?"

"I'll drive her along now, if you are willing."

"Why, you see," said the squire, hesitating, while a mean thought entered his, mind, "she's been feedin' in my pastur' all the mornin', and I calc'late I'm entitled to the next milkin', you'd better come 'round to-night, just after milkin', and then you can take her."

"I didn't think he was quite so mean," passed through Hiram Walton's mind, and his lip curved slightly in scorn, but he knew that this feeling must be concealed.

"Just as you say," he answered. "I'll come round tonight, or send Harry."

"How old is Harry now?"

"About fourteen."

"He's got to be quite a sizable lad -- ought to earn concid'able. Is he industrious?"

"Yes, Harry is a good worker -- always ready to lend a hand."

"That's good. Does he go to school?"

"Yes, he's been going to school all the term."

"Seems to me he's old enough to give up larnin' altogether. Don't he know how to read and write and cipher?"

"Yes, he's about the best scholar in school."

"Then, neighbor Walton, take my advice and don't send him any more. You need him at home, and he knows enough to get along in the world."

"I want him to learn as much as he can. I'd like to send him to school till he is sixteen."

"He's had as much schoolin' now as ever I had," said the squire, "and I've got along pooty well. I've been seleckman, and school committy, and filled about every town office, and I never wanted no more schoolin'. My father took me away from school when I was thirteen."

"It wouldn't hurt you if you knew a little more," thought Hiram, who remembered very well the squire's deficiencies when serving on the town school committee.

"I believe in learning," he said. "My father used to say, 'Live and learn.' That's a good motto, to my thinking."

"It may be carried too far. When a boy's got to be of the age of your boy, he'd ought to be thinking of workin.' His time is too valuable to spend in the schoolroom."

"I can't agree with you, squire. I think no time is better spent than the time that's spent in learning. I wish I could afford to send my boy to college."

"It would cost a mint of money; and wouldn't pay. Better put him to some good business."

That was the way he treated his own son, and for this and other reasons, as soon as he arrived at man's estate, he left home, which had never had any pleasant associations with him. His father wanted to convert him into a money-making machine -- a mere drudge, working him hard, and denying him, as long as he could, even the common recreations of boyhood -- for the squire had an idea that the time devoted in play was foolishly spent, inasmuch as it brought him in no pecuniary return. He was willfully blind to the faults and defects of his system, and their utter failure in the case of his own son, and would, if could, have all the boys in town brought up after severely practical method. But, fortunately for Harry, Mr. Walton had very different notions. He was compelled to keep his son home the greater part of the summer, but it was against his desire.

"No wonder he's a poor man," thought the squire, after his visitor returned home. "He ain't got no practical idees. Live and learn! that's all nonsense. His boy looks strong and able to work, and it's foolish sendin' him school any longer. That wa'n't my way, and see where I am," he concluded, with complacent remembrance of bonds and mortgages and money out at interest. "That was a pooty good cow trade," he concluded. "I didn't calc' late for to get more'n thirty-five dollars for the critter; but then neighbor Walton had to have a cow, and had to pay my price."

Now for Hiram Walton's reflections.

"I'm a poor man," he said to himself, as he walked slowly homeward, "but I wouldn't be as mean as Tom Green for all the money he's worth. He's made a hard bargain with me, but there was no help for it."



Chapter IV. A Sum In Arithmetic


Harry kept on his way to school, and arrived just the bell rang. Many of my readers have seen a country schoolhouse, and will not be surprised to learn that the one in which our hero obtained his education was far from stately or ornamental, architecturally speaking. It was a one-story structure, about thirty feet square, showing traces of having been painted once, but standing greatly in need of another coat. Within were sixty desks, ranged in pairs, with aisles running between them. On one side sat the girls, on the other the boys. These were of all ages from five to sixteen. The boys' desks had suffered bad usage, having been whittled and hacked, and marked with the initials of the temporary occupants, with scarcely an exception. I never knew a Yankee boy who was not the possessor of a knife of some kind, nor one who could resist the temptation of using it for such unlawful purposes. Even our hero shared the common weakness, and his desk was distinguished from the rest by "H. W." rudely carved in a conspicuous place.

The teacher of the school for the present session was Nathan Burbank, a country teacher of good repute, who usually taught six months in a year, and devoted the balance of the year to surveying land, whenever he could get employment in that line, and the cultivation of half a dozen acres of land, which kept him in vegetables, and enabled him to keep a cow. Altogether he succeeded in making a fair living, though his entire income would seem very small to many of my readers. He was not deeply learned, but his education was sufficient to meet the limited requirements of a country school.

This was the summer term, and it is the usual custom in New England that the summer schools should be taught by females. But in this particular school the experiment had been tried, and didn't work. It was found that the scholars were too unruly to be kept in subjection by a woman, and the school committee had therefore engaged Mr. Burbank, though, by so doing, the school term was shortened, as he asked fifty per cent. higher wages than a female teacher would have done. However, it was better to have a short school than an unruly school, and so the district acquiesced.

Eight weeks had not yet passed since the term commenced, and yet this was the last day but one. To-morrow would be examination day. To this Mr. Burbank made reference in a few remarks which he made at the commencement of the exercises.

He was rather a tall, spare man, and had a habit of brushing his hair upward, thus making the most of a moderate forehead. Probably he thought it made him look more intellectual.

"Boys and girls," he said, "to-morrow is our examination day. I've tried to bring you along as far as possible toward the temple of learning, but some of you have held back, and have not done as well as I should like -- John Plympton, if you don't stop whispering I'll keep you after school -- I want you all to remember that knowledge is better than land or gold. What would you think of a man who was worth a great fortune, and couldn't spell his name? -- Mary Jones, can't you sit still till I get through? -- It will be well for you to improve your opportunities while you are young, for by and by you will grow up, and have families to support, and will have no chance to learn -- Jane Quimby, I wish you would stop giggling, I see nothing to laugh at -- There are some of you who have studied well this term, and done the best you could. At the beginning of the term I determined to give a book to the most deserving scholar at the end of the term. I have picked out the boy, who, in my opinion, deserves it -- Ephraim Higgins, you needn't move round in your seat. You are not the one."

There was a general laugh here, for Ephraim was distinguished chiefly for his laziness.

The teacher proceeded:

"I do not mean to tell you to-day who it is. To-morrow I shall call out his name before the school committee, and present him the prize. I want you to do as well as you can to-morrow. I want you to do yourselves credit, and to do me credit, for I do not want to be ashamed of you. Peter Shelby, put back that knife into your pocket, and keep it there till I call up the class in whittling."

There was another laugh here at the teacher's joke, and Peter himself displayed a broad grin on his large, good-humored face.

"We will now proceed to the regular lessons," said Mr. Burbank, in conclusion. "First class in arithmetic will take their places."

The first class ranked as the highest class, and in it was Harry Walton.

"What was your lesson to-day?" asked the teacher.

"Square root," answered Harry.

"I will give you out a very simple sum to begin with. Now, attention all! Find the square root of 625. Whoever gets the answer first may hold up his hand."

The first to hold up his hand was Ephraim Higgins.

"Have you got the answer?" asked Mr. Burbank in some surprise. "Yes, sir."

"State it."

"Forty-five."

"How did you get it?"

Ephraim scratched his head, and looked confused. The fact was, he was entirely ignorant of the method of extracting the square root, but had slyly looked at the slate of his neighbor, Harry Walton, and mistaken the 25 for 45, and hurriedly announced the answer, in the hope of obtaining credit for the same.

"How did you get it?" asked the teacher again.

Ephraim looked foolish.

"Bring me your slate."

Ephraim reluctantly left his place, and went up to Mr. Burbank.

"What have we here?" said the teacher. "Why, you have got down the 625, and nothing else, except 45. Where did you get that answer?"

"I guessed at it," answered Ephraim, hard pressed for an answer, and not liking to confess the truth -- namely, that he had copied from Harry Walton.

"So I supposed. The next time you'd better guess a little nearer right, or else give up guessing altogether. Harry Walton, I see your hand up. What is your answer?"

"Twenty-five, sir."

"That is right."

Ephraim looked up suddenly. He now saw the explanation of his mistake.

"Will you explain how you did it? You may go to the blackboard, and perform the operation once more, explaining as you go along, for the benefit of Ephraim Higgins, and any others who guessed at the answer. Ephraim, I want you to give particular attention, so that you can do yourself more credit next time. Now Harry, proceed."

Our hero explained the sum in a plain, straightforward way, for he thoroughly understood it.

"Very well," said the schoolmaster, for this, rather than teacher, is the country name of the office. "Now, Ephraim, do you think you can explain it?"

"I don't know, sir," said Ephraim, dubiously.

"Suppose you try. You may take the same sum."

Ephraim advanced to the board with reluctance, for he was not ambitious, and had strong doubts about his competence for the task.

"Put down 625."

Ephraim did so.

"Now extract the square root. What do you do first?"

"Divide it into two figures each."

"Divide it into periods of two figures each, I suppose you mean. Well, what will be the first period?"

"Sixty-two," answered Ephraim.

"And what will be the second?"

"I don't see but one other figure."

"Nor I. You have made a mistake. Harry, show to point it off."

Harry Walton did so.

"Now what do you do next?"

"Divide the first figure by three."

"What do you do that for?"

Ephraim didn't know. It was only a guess of his, because he knew that the first figure of the answer was two, and this would result from dividing the first figure by three.

"To bring the answer," he replied.

"And I suppose you divide the next period by five, for the same reason, don't you?"

"Yes, sir."

"You may take your seat, sir. You are an ornament to the class, and you may become a great mathematician, if you live to the age of Methuselah. I rather think it will take about nine hundred years for you to reach that, point."

The boys laughed. They always relish a joke at the expense of a companion, especially when perpetrated by the teacher.

"Your method of extracting the square root is very original. You didn't find it in any arithmetic, did you?"

"No, sir."

"So I thought. You'd better take out a patent for it. The next boy may go to the board."

I have given a specimen of Mr. Burbank's method of conducting the school, but do not propose to enter into further details at present. It will doubtless recall to some of my readers experiences of their own, as the school I am describing is very similar to hundreds of country schools now in existence, and Mr. Burbank is the representative of a large class.



Chapter V. The Prize Winner


"Are you going to the examination to-day, mother?" asked Harry, at breakfast.

"I should like to go," said Mrs. Walton, "but I don't see how I can. To-day's my bakin' day, and somehow my work has got behindhand during the week."

"I think Harry'll get the prize," said Tom, a boy of ten, not heretofore mentioned. He also attended the school, but was not as promising as his oldest brother.

"What prize?" asked Mrs. Walton, looking up with interest.

"The master offered a prize, at the beginning of the term, to the scholar that was most faithful to his studies."

"What is the prize?"

"A book."

"Do you think you will get it, Harry?" asked his mother.

"I don't know," said Harry, modestly. "I think I have some chance of getting it."

"When will it be given?"

"Toward the close of the afternoon."

"Maybe I can get time to come in then; I'll try."

"I wish you would come, mother," said Harry earnestly. "Only don't be disappointed if I don't get it. I've been trying, but there are some other good scholars."

"You're the best, Harry," said Tom.

"I don't know about that. I shan't count my chickens before they are hatched. Only if I am to get the prize I should like to have mother there."

"I know you're a good scholar, and have improved your time," said Mrs. Walton. "I wish your father was rich enough to send you to college."

"I should like that very much," said Harry, his eyes sparkling at merely the suggestion.

"But it isn't much use hoping," continued his mother, with a sigh. "It doesn't seem clear whether we can get a decent living, much less send our boy to college. The cow is a great loss to us."

Just then Mr. Walton came in from the barn.

"How do you like the new cow, father?" asked Harry.

"She isn't equal to our old one. She doesn't give as much milk within two quarts, if this morning's milking is a fair sample."

"You paid enough for her," said Mrs. Walton.

"I paid too much for her," answered her husband, "but it was the best I could do. I had to buy on credit, and Squire Green knew I must pay his price, or go without."

"Forty-three dollars is a great deal of money to pay for a cow."

"Not for some cows. Some are worth more; but this one isn't."

"What do you think she is really worth?"

"Thirty-three dollars is the most I would give if I had the cash to pay."

"I think it's mean in Squire Green to take such advantage of you," said Harry.

"You mustn't say so, Harry, for it won't do for me to get the squire's ill will. I am owing him money. I've agreed to pay for the cow in six months."

"Can you do it?"

"I don't see how; but the money's on interest, and it maybe the squire'll let it stay. I forgot to say, though, that last evening when I went to get the cow he made me agree to forfeit ten dollars if I was not ready with the money and interest in six months. I am afraid he will insist on that if I can't keep my agreement."

"It will be better for you to pay, and have done with it."

"Of course. I shall try to do it, if I have to borrow the money. I suppose I shall have to do that."

Meantime Harry was busy thinking. "Wouldn't it be possible for me to earn money enough to pay for the cow in six months? I wish I could do it, and relieve father."

He began to think over all the possible ways of earning money, but there was nothing in particular to do in the town except to work for the farmers, and there was very little money to earn ill that way. Money is a scarce commodity with farmers everywhere. Most of their income is in the shape of farm produce, and used in the family. Only a small surplus is converted into money, and a dollar, therefore, seems more to them than to a mechanic, whose substantial income is perhaps less. This is the reason, probably, why farmers are generally loath to spend money. Harry knew that if he should hire out to a farmer for the six months the utmost he could expect would be a dollar a week, and it was not certain he could earn that. Besides, he would probably be worth as much to his father as anyone, and his labor in neither case provide money to pay for the cow. Obviously that would not answer. He must think of some other way, but at present none seemed open. He sensibly deferred thinking till after the examination.

"Are you going to the school examination, father?" asked our hero.

"I can't spare time, Harry. I should like to, for I want to know how far you have progressed. 'Live and learn,' my boy. That's a good motto, though Squire Green thinks that 'Live and earn' is a better."

"That's the rule he acts on," said Mrs. Walton. "He isn't troubled with learning."

"No, he isn't as good a scholar probably as Tom, here."

"Isn't he?" said Tom, rather complacently.

"Don't feel too much flattered, Tom," said his mother.

"You don't know enough to hurt you."

"He never will," said his sister, Jane, laughing.

"I don't want to know enough to hurt me," returned Tom, good humoredly. He was rather used to such compliments, and didn't mind them.

"No," said Mr. Walton; "I am afraid I can't spare time to come to the examination. Are you going, mother?"

It is quite common in the country for husbands to address wives in this manner.

"I shall try to go in the last of the afternoon," said Mrs. Walton.

"If you will come, mother," said Harry, "we'll all help you afterwards, so you won't lose anything by it."

"I think I will contrive to come."

The examination took place in the afternoon. Mr. Burbank preferred to have it so, for two reasons. It allowed time to submit the pupils to a previous private examination in the morning, thus insuring a better appearance in the afternoon. Besides, in the second place, the parents were more likely to be at liberty to attend in the afternoon, and he naturally liked to have as many visitors as possible. He was really a good teacher, though his qualifications were limited; but as far as his knowledge went, he was quite successful in imparting it to others.

In the afternoon there was quite a fair attendance of parents and friends of the scholars, though some did not come in till late, like Mrs. Walton. It is not my intention to speak of the examination in detail. My readers know too little of the scholars to make that interesting. Ephraim Higgins made some amusing mistakes, but that didn't excite any surprise, for his scholarship was correctly estimated in the village. Tom Walton did passably well, but was not likely to make his parents proud of his performances. Harry, however, eclipsed himself. His ambition had been stirred by the offer of a prize, and he was resolved to deserve it. His recitations were prompt and correct, and his answers were given with confidence. But perhaps he did himself most credit in declamation. He had always been very fond of that, and though he had never received and scientific instruction in it, he possessed a natural grace and a deep feeling of earnestness which made success easy. He had selected an extract from Webster -- the reply to the Hayne -- and this was the showpiece of the afternoon. The rest of the declamation was crude enough, but Harry's impressed even the most ignorant of his listeners as superior for a boy of his age. When he uttered his last sentence, and made a parting bow, there was subdued applause, and brought a flush of gratification to the cheek of our young hero.

"This is the last exercise," said the teacher "except one. At the commencement of the term, I offered a prize to the scholar that would do the best from that time till the close of the school. I will now award the prize. Harry Walton, come forward."

Harry rose from his seat, his cheeks flushed again with gratification, and advanced to where the teacher was standing.

"Harry," said Mr. Burbank, "I have no hesitation in giving you the prize. You have excelled all the other scholars, and it is fairly yours. The book is not of much value, but I think you will find it interesting and instructive. It is the life of the great American philosopher and statesman, Benjamin Franklin. I hope you will read and profit by it, and try like him to make your life a credit to yourself and a blessing to mankind."

"Thank you, sir," said Harry, bowing low. "I will try to do so."

There was a speech by the chairman of the school committee, in which allusion was made to Harry and the prize, and the exercises were over. Harry received the congratulations of his schoolmates and others with modest satisfaction, but he was most pleased by the evident pride and pleasure which his mother exhibited, when she, too, was congratulated on his success. His worldly prospects were very uncertain, but he had achieved the success for which he had been laboring, and he was happy.



Chapter VI. Looking Out On The World


It was not until evening that Harry had a chance to look at his prize. It was a cheap book, costing probably not over a dollar; but except his schoolbooks, and a ragged copy of "Robinson Crusoe," it was the only book that our hero possessed. His father found it difficult enough to buy him the necessary books for use in school, and could not afford to buy any less necessary. So our young hero, who was found of reading, though seldom able to gratify his taste, looked forward with great joy to the pleasure of reading his new book. He did not know much about Benjamin Franklin, but had a vague idea that he was a great man.

After his evening "chores" were done, he sat down by the table on which was burning a solitary tallow candle, and began to read. His mother was darning stockings, and his father had gone to the village store on an errand.

So he began the story, and the more he read the more interesting he found it. Great as he afterwards became, he was surprised to find that Franklin was a poor boy, and had to work for a living. He started out in life on his own account, and through industry, frugality, perseverance, and a fixed determination to rise in life, he became a distinguished an in the end, and a wise man also, though his early opportunities were very limited. It seemed to Harry that there was a great similarity between his own circumstances and position in life and those of the great man about whom he was reading, and this made the biography the more fascinating. The hope came to him that, by following Franklin's example, he, too, might become a successful man.

His mother, looking up at intervals from the stockings which had been so repeatedly darned that the original texture was almost wholly lost of sight of, noticed how absorbed he was.

"Is your book interesting, Harry?" she asked.

"It's the most interesting book I ever read," said Harry, with a sigh of intense enjoyment.

"It's about Benjamin Franklin, isn't it?"

"Yes. Do you know, mother, he was a poor boy, and he worked his way up?"

"Yes, I have heard so, but I never read his life."

"You'd better read this when I have finished it. I've been thinking that there's a chance for me, mother."

"A chance to do what?"

"A chance to be somebody when I get bigger. I'm poor now, but so was Franklin. He worked hard, and tried to learn all he could. That's the way he succeeded. I'm going to do the same."

"We can't all be Franklins, my son," said Mrs. Walton, not wishing her son to form high hopes which might be disappointed in the end.

"I know that, mother, and I don't expect to be a great man like him. But if I try hard I think I can rise in the world, and be worth a little money."

"I hope you wont' be as poor as your father, Harry," said Mrs. Walton, sighing, as she thought of the years of pain privation and pinching poverty reaching back to the time of their marriage. They had got through it somehow, but she hoped that their children would have a brighter lot.

"I hope not," said Harry. "If I ever get rich, you shan't have to work any more."

Mrs. Walton smiled faintly. She was not hopeful, and thought it probable that before Harry became rich, both she and her husband would be resting from their labor in the village churchyard. But she would not dampen Harry's youthful enthusiasm by the utterance of such a thought.

"I am sure you won't let your father and mother want, if you have the means to prevent it," she said aloud.

"We can't any of us tell what's coming, but I hope you may be well off some time."

"I read in the country paper the other day that many of the richest men in Boston and New York were once poor boys," said Harry, in a hopeful tone.

"So I have heard," said his mother.

"If they succeeded I don't see why I can't."

"You must try to be something more than a rich man. I shouldn't want you to be like Squire Green."

"He is rich, but he is mean and ignorant. I don't think I shall be like him. He has cheated father about the cow."

"Yes, he drove a sharp trade with him, taking advantage of his necessities. I am afraid your father won't be able to pay for the cow six months from now."

"I am afraid so, too."

"I don't see how we can possibly save up forty dollars. We are economical now as we can be."

"That is what I have been thinking of, mother. There is no chance of father's paying the money."

"Then it won't be paid, and we shall be worse off when the note comes due, than now."

"Do you think," said Harry, laying down the book on the table, and looking up earnestly, "do you think, mother, I could any way earn the forty dollars before it is to be paid?"

"You, Harry?" repeated his mother, in surprise, "what could you do to earn the money?"

"I don't know, yet," answered Harry; "but there are a great many things to be done."

"I don't know what you can do, except to hire out to a farmer, and they pay very little. Besides, I don't know of any farmer in the town that wants a boy. Most of them have boys of their own, or men."

"I wasn't thinking of that," said Harry. "There isn't much chance there."

"I don't know of any work to do here."

"Nor I, mother. But I wasn't thinking of staying in town."

"Not thinking of staying in town!" repeated Mrs. Walton, in surprise. "You don't want to leave home, do you?"

"No, mother, I don't want to leave home, or I wouldn't want to, if there was anything to do here. But you know there isn't. Farm work wont' help me along, and I don't' like it as well as some other kinds of work. I must leave home if I want to rise in the world."

"But your are too young, Harry."

This was touching Harry on a tender spot. No boy of fourteen likes to be considered very young. By that time he generally begins to feel a degree of self-confidence and self-reliance, and fancies he is almost on the threshold of manhood. I know boys of fourteen who look in the glass daily for signs of a coming mustache, and fancy they can see plainly what is not yet visible. Harry had not got as far as that, but he no longer looked upon himself as a young boy. He was stout and strong, and of very good height for his age, and began to feel manly. So he drew himself up, upon this remark of his mother's, and said proudly: "I am going on fifteen" -- that sounds older than fourteen -- "and I don't call that very young."

"It seems but a little while since you were a baby," said his mother, meditatively.

"I hope you don't think me anything like a baby now, mother," said Harry, straightening up, and looking as large as possible.

"No, you're quite a large boy, now. How quick the years have passed!"

"And I am strong for my age, too, mother. I am sure I am old enough to take care of myself."

"But you are young to go out into the world."

"I don't believe Franklin was much older than I, and he got along. There are plenty of boys who leave home before they are as old as I am."

"Suppose you are sick, Harry?"

"If I am I'll come home. But you know I am very healthy, mother, and if I am away from home I shall be very careful."

"But you would not be sure of getting anything to do."

"I'll risk that, mother," said Harry, in a confident tone.

"Did you think of this before you read that book?"

"Yes, I've been thinking of it for about a month; but the book put it into my head to-night. I seem to see my way clearer than I did. I want most of all, to earn money enough to pay for the cow in six months. You know yourself, mother, there isn't any chance of father doing it himself, and I can't earn anything if I stay at home."

"Have you mentioned the matter to your father yet, Harry?"

"No, I haven't. I wish you would speak about it tonight, mother. You can tell him first what makes me want to go."

"I'll tell him that you want to go; but I won't promise to say I think it a good plan."

"Just mention it, mother, and then I'll talk with him about it to-morrow."

To this Mrs. Walton agreed, and Harry, after reading a few pages more in the "Life of Franklin," went up to bed; but it was some time before he slept. His mind was full of the new scheme on which he had set his heart.



Chapter VII. In Franklin's Footsteps


"Father," said Harry, the next morning, as Mr. Walton was about to leave the house, "there's something I want to say to you."

"What is it?" asked his father, imagining it was some trifle.

"I'll go out with you, and tell you outside."

"Very well, my son."

Harry put on his cap, and followed his father into the open air.

"Now, my son, what is it?"

"I want to go away from home."

"Away from home! Where?" asked Mr. Walton, in surprise.

"I don't know where; but somewhere where I can earn my own living."

"But you can do that here. You can give me your help on the farm, as you always have done."

"I don't like farming, father."

"You never told me that before. Is it because of the hard work?"

"No," said Harry, earnestly. "I am not afraid of hard work; but you know how it is, father. This isn't a very good farm, and it's all you can do to make a living for the rest of us out of it. If I could go somewhere, where I could work at something else, I could send you home my wages."

"I am afraid a boy like you couldn't earn very large wages."

"I don't see why not, father. I'm strong and stout, and willing to work."

"People don't give much for boys' work."

"I don't expect much; but I know I can get something, and by and by it will lead to more. I want to help you to pay for that cow you've just bought of Squire Green."

"I don't see how I'm going to pay for it," said Mr. Walton, with a sigh. "Hard money's pretty scarce, and we farmers don't get much of it."

"That's just what I'm saying, father. There isn't much money to be got in farming. That's why I want to try something else."

"How long have you been thinking of this plan, Harry?"

"Only since last night."

"What put it into your head?"

"That book I got as a prize."

"It is the life of Franklin, isn't it?"

"Yes."

"Did he go away from home when he was a boy?"

"Yes, and he succeeded, too."

"I know he did. He became a famous man. But it isn't every boy that is like Franklin."

"I know that. I never expect to become a great man like him; but I can make something."

Harry spoke those words in a firm, resolute tone, which seemed to indicate a consciousness of power. Looking in his son's face, the elder Walton, though by no means a sanguine man, was inclined to think favorably of the scheme, But he was cautious, and he did not want Harry to be too confident of success.

"It's a new idea to me," he said. "Suppose you fail?"

"I don't mean to."

"But suppose you do -- suppose you get sick?"

"Then I'll come home. But I want to try. There must be something for me to do in the world."

"There's another thing, Harry. It takes money to travel round, and I haven't got any means to give you."

"I don't want any, father. I mean to work my way. I've got twenty-five cents to start with. Now, father, what do you say?"

"I'll speak to your mother about it."

"To-day?"

"Yes, as soon as I go in."

With this Harry was content. He had a good deal of confidence that he could carry his point with both parents. He went into the house, and said to his mother:

"Mother, father's going to speak to you about my going away from home. Now don't you oppose it."

"Do you really think it would be a good plan, Harry?"

"Yes, mother."

"And if you're sick will you promise to come right home?"

"Yes, I'll promise that."

"Then I won't oppose your notion, though I ain't clear about its being wise."

"We'll talk about that in a few months, mother."

"Has Harry spoken to you about his plan of going away from home?" asked the farmer, when he reentered the house.

"Yes," said Mrs. Walton.

"What do you think?"

"Perhaps we'd better let the lad have his way. He's promised to come home if he's taken sick."

"So let it be, then, Harry. When do you want to go?"

"As soon as I can."

"You'll have to wait till Monday. It'll take a day or two to fix up your clothes," said his mother.

"All right, mother."

"I don't know but you ought to have some new shirts. You haven't got but two except the one you have on."

"I can get along, mother. Father hasn't got any money to spend for me. By the time I want some new shirts, I'll buy them myself."

"Where do you think of going, Harry? Have you any idea?"

"No, mother. I'm going to trust to luck. I shan't go very far. When I've got fixed anywhere I'll write, and let you know."

In the evening Harry resumed the "Life of Franklin," and before he was ready to go to bed he had got two thirds through with it. It possessed for him a singular fascination. To Harry it was no alone the "Life of Benjamin Franklin." It was the chart by which he meant to steer in the unknown career which stretched before him. He knew so little of the world that he trusted implicitly to that as a guide, and he silently stored away the wise precepts in conformity with which the great practical philosopher had shaped and molded his life.

During that evening, however, another chance was offered to Harry, as I shall now describe.

As the family were sitting around the kitchen table, on which was placed the humble tallow candle by which the room was lighted, there was heard a scraping at the door, and presently a knock. Mr. Walton answered it in person, and admitted the thin figure and sharp, calculating face of Squire Green.

"How are you, neighbor?" he said, looking about him with his parrotlike glance. "I thought I'd just run in a minute to see you as I was goin' by."

"Sit down, Squire Green. Take the rocking-chair."

"Thank you, neighbor. How's the cow a-doin'?"

"Middling well. She don't give as much milk as the one I lost."

"She'll do better bymeby. She's a good bargain to you, neighbor."

"I don't know," said Hiram Walton, dubiously. "She ought to be a good cow for the price you asked."

"And she is a good cow," said the squire, emphatically; "and you're lucky to get her so cheap, buyin' on time. What are you doin' there, Harry? School through, ain't it?"

"Yes, sir."

"I hear you're a good scholar. Got the prize, didn't you?"

"Yes," said Mr. Walton; "Harry was always good at his books."

"I guess he knows enough now. You'd ought to set him to work."

"He is ready enough to work," said Mr. Walton. "He never was lazy."

"That's good. There's a sight of lazy, shiftless boys about in these days. Seems as if they expected to earn their bread 'n butter a-doin' nothin'. I've been a thinkin', neighbor Walton, that you'll find it hard to pay for that cow in six months."

"I am afraid I shall," said the farmer, thinking in surprise, "Can he be going to reduce the price?"

"So I thought mebbe we might make an arrangement to make it easier."

"I should be glad to have it made easier, squire. It was hard on me, losing that cow by disease."

"Of course. Well, what I was thinkin' was, you might hire out your boy to work for me. I'd allow him two dollars a month and board, and the wages would help pay for the cow."

Harry looked up in dismay at this proposition. He knew very well the meanness of the board which the squire provided, how inferior it was even to the scanty, but well-cooked meals which he got at home; he knew, also that the squire had the knack of getting more work out of his men than any other farmer in the town; and the prospect of being six months in his employ was enough to terrify him. He looked from Squire Green's mean, crafty face to his father's in anxiety and apprehension. Were all his bright dreams of future success to terminate in this?



Chapter VIII. Harry's Decision


Squire Green rubbed his hands as if he had been proposing a plan with special reference to the interest of the Waltons. Really he conceived that it would save him a considerable sum of money. He had in his employ a young man of eighteen, named Abner Kimball, to whom he was compelled to pay ten dollars a month. Harry, he reckoned, could be made to do about as much, though on account of his youth he had offered him but two dollars, and that not to be paid in cash.

Mr. Walton paused before replying to his proposal.

"You're a little too late," he said, at last, to Harry's great relief.

"Too late!" repeated the squire, hastily. "Why, you hain't hired out your boy to anybody else, have you?"

"No; but he has asked me to let him leave home, and I've agreed to it."

"Leave home? Where's he goin'?"

"He has not fully decided. He wants to go out and seek his fortune."

"He'll fetch up at the poorhouse," growled the squire.

"If he does not succeed, he will come home again."

"It's a foolish plan, neighbor Walton. Take my word for't. You'd better keep him here, and let him work for me."

"If he stayed at home, I should find work for him on my farm."

Mr. Walton would not have been willing to have Harry work for the squire, knowing well his meanness, and how poorly he paid his hired men.

"I wanted to help you pay for that cow," said the squire, crossly. "If you can't pay for't when the time comes you mustn't blame me."

"I shall blame no one. I can't foresee the future; but I hope to get together the money somehow."

"You mustn't ask for more time. Six months is a long time to give."

"I believe I haven't said anything about more time yet, Squire Green," said Hiram Walton, stiffly. "I don't see that you need warn me."

"I thought we might as well have an understandin' about it," said the squire. "So you won't hire out the boy?"

"No, I cannot, under the circumstances. If I did I should consider his services worth more than two dollars a month."

"I might give him two'n a half," said the squire, fancying it was merely a question of money.

"How much do you pay Abner Kimball?"

"Wal, rather more than that," answered the squire, slowly.

"You pay him ten dollars a month, don't you?"

"Wal, somewheres about that; but it's more'n he earns."

"If he is worth ten dollars, Harry would be worth four or six."

"I'll give three," said the squire, who reflected that even at that rate he would be saving considerable.

"I will leave it to Harry himself," said his father.

"Harry, you hear Squire Green's offer. What do you say? Will you go to work for him at three dollars a month?"

"I'd rather go away, as you told me I might, father."

"You hear the boy's decision, squire."

"Wal, wal," said the squire, a good deal disappointed -- for, to tell the truth, he had told Abner he should not want him, having felt confident of obtaining Harry. "I hope you won't neither of ye regret it."

His tone clearly indicated that he really hoped and expected they would. "I bid ye good night."

"I'll hev the cow back ag'in," said the squire to himself. "He needn't hope no massy. If he don't hev the money ready for me when the time is up, he shan't keep her."

The next morning he was under the unpleasant necessity of reengaging Abner.

"Come to think on't, Abner," he said, "I guess I'd like to hev you stay longer. There's more work than I reckoned, and I guess I'll hev to have somebody."

This was at the breakfast table. Abner looked around him, and after making sure that there was nothing eatable left, put down his knife and fork with the air of one who could have eaten more, and answered, deliberately: "Ef I stay I'll hev to hev more wages."

"More wages?" repeated Squire Green, in dismay. "More'n ten dollars?"

"Yes, a fellow of my age orter hey more'n that."

"Ten dollars is a good deal of money."

"I can't lay up a cent off'n it."

"Then you're extravagant."

"No I ain't. I ain't no chance to be. My cousin, Paul Bickford, is gettin' fifteen dollars, and he ain't no better worker'n I am."

"Fifteen dollars!" ejaculated, the squire, as if he were naming some extraordinary sum. "I never heerd of such a thing."

"I'll work for twelve'n a half," said Abner, "and I won't work for no less."

"It's too much," said the squire. "Besides, you agreed to come for ten."

"I know I did; but this is a new engagement."

Finally Abner reduced his terms to twelve dollars, an advance of two dollars a month, to which the squire was forced to agree, though very reluctantly. He thought, with an inward groan, that but for his hasty dismissal of Abner the night before, on the supposition that he could obtain Harry in his place, he would not have been compelled to raise Abner's wages. This again resulted indirectly from selling the cow, which had put the new plan into his head. When the squire reckoned up this item, amounting in six months to twelve dollars, he began to doubt whether his cow trade had been quite so good after all.

"I'll get it out of Hiram Walton some way," he muttered. "He's a great fool to let that boy have his own way. I thought to be sure he'd oblige me arter the favor I done him in sellin' him the cow. There's gratitude for you!"

The squire's ideas about gratitude, and the manner in which he had earned it, were slightly mixed, it must be acknowledged. But, though he knew very well that he had been influenced only by the consideration of his own interest, he had a vague idea that he was entitled to some credit for his kindness in consenting to sell his neighbor a cow at an extortionate price.

Harry breathed a deep sigh of relief after Squire Green left the room.

"I was afraid you were going to hire me out to the squire, father," he said.

"You didn't enjoy the prospect, did you?" said his father, smiling.

"Not much."

"Shouldn't think he would," said his brother Tom.

"The squire's awful stingy. Abner Kimball told me he had the meanest breakfast he ever ate anywhere."

"I don't think any of his household are in danger of contracting the gout from luxurious living."

"I guess not," said Tom.

"I think," said Jane, slyly, "you'd better hire out Tom to the squire."

"The squire would have the worst of the bargain," said his father, with a good-natured hit at Tom's sluggishness.

"He wouldn't earn his board, however poor it might be."

"The squire didn't seem to like it very well," said Mrs. Walton, looking up from her mending.

"No, he fully expected to get Harry for little or nothing. It was ridiculous to offer two dollars a month for a boy of his age."

"I am afraid he will be more disposed to be hard on you, when the time comes to pay for the cow. He told you he wouldn't extend the time."

"He is not likely to after this; but, wife, we won't borrow trouble. Something may turn up to help us."

"I am sure I shall be able to help you about it, father," said Harry.

"I hope so, my son, but don't feel too certain. You may not succeed as well as you anticipate."

"I know that, but I mean to try at any rate."

"If you don't, Tom will," said his sister.

"Quit teasin' a feller, Jane," said Tom. "I ain't any lazier'n you are. If I am, I'll eat my head."

"Then you'll have to eat it, Tom," retorted Jane; "and it won't be much loss to you, either."

"Don't dispute, children," said Mrs. Walton. "I expect you both will turn over a new leaf by and by."

Meanwhile, Harry was busily reading the "Life of Franklin." The more he read, the more hopeful he became as to the future.



Chapter IX. Leaving Home


Monday morning came, and the whole family stood on the grass plat in front of the house, ready to bid Harry good-by. He was encumbered by no trunk, but carried his scanty supply of clothing wrapped in a red cotton handkerchief, and not a very heavy bundle at that. He had cut a stout stick in the woods near by, and from the end of this suspended over his back bore the bundle which contained all his worldly fortune except the twenty-five cents which was in his vest pocket.

"I don't like to have you go," said his mother, anxiously. "Suppose you don't get work?"

"Don't worry about me, mother," said Harry, brightly. "I'll get along somehow."

"Remember you've got a home here, Harry, whatever happens," said his father.

"I shan't forget, father."

"I wish I was going with you," said Tom, for the first time fired with the spirit of adventure.

"What could you do, Tom?" said Jane, teasingly.

"Work, of course."

"I never saw you do it yet."

"I'm no more lazy than you," retorted Tom, offended.

"Don't dispute, children, just as your brother is leaving us," said Mrs. Walton.

"Good-by, mother," said Harry, feeling an unwonted moistening of the eyes, as he reflected that he was about to leave the house in which he had lived since infancy.

"Good-by, my dear child," said his mother, kissing him.

"Be sure to write."

"Yes I will."

So with farewell greetings Harry walked out into the world. He had all at once assumed a man's responsibilities, and his face grew serious, as he began to realize that he must now look out for himself.

His native village was situated in the northern part of New Hampshire. Not far away could be seen, indistinct in the distance, the towering summits of the White Mountain range, but his back was turned to them. In the south were larger and more thriving villages, and the wealth was greater. Harry felt that his chances would be greater there. Not that he had any particular place in view. Wherever there was an opening, he meant to stop.

"I won't come back till I am better off," he said to himself. "If I don't succeed it won't be for want of trying."

He walked five miles without stopping. This brought him to the middle of the next town. He was yet on familiar ground, for he had been here more than once. He felt tired, and sat down by the roadside to rest before going farther. While he sat there the doctor from his own village rode by, and chanced to espy Harry, whom he recognized.

"What brings you here, Harry?" he asked, stopping his chaise.

"I'm going to seek my fortune," said Harry.

"What, away from home?"

"Yes, sir."

"I hadn't heard of that," said the doctor, surprised.

"You haven't run away from home?" he asked, with momentary suspicion.

"No, indeed!" said Harry, half indignantly. "Father's given his permission for me to go."

"Where do you expect to go?"

"South," said Harry, vaguely.

"And what do you expect to find to do?"

"I don't know -- anything that'll bring me a living."

"I like your spunk," said the doctor, after a pause. "If you're going my way, as I suppose you are, I can carry you a couple of miles. That's better than walking, isn't it?"

"I guess it is," said Harry, jumping to his feet with alacrity.

In a minute he was sitting beside Dr. Dunham in his old-fashioned chaise. "I might have known that you were not running away," said the doctor. "I should be more likely to suspect your Brother Tom."

"Tom's too lazy to run away to earn his own living," said Harry, laughing, "as long as he can get it at home."

The doctor smiled.

"And what put it into your head to start out in this way?" he asked.

"The first thing, was reading the' Life of Franklin.'"

"To be sure. I remember his story."

"And the next thing was, because my father is so poor. He finds it hard work to support us all. The farm is small, and the land is poor. I want to help him if I can."

"Very commendable, Harry," said the doctor, kindly.

"You owe a debt of gratitude to your good father, who has not succeeded so well in life as he deserves."

"That's true, sir. He has always been a hard-working man."

"If you start out with such a good object, I think you will succeed. Have you any plans at all, or any idea what you would like to do?"

"I thought I should like to work in a shoe shop, if I got a chance," said Harry.

"You like that better than working on a farm, then?"

"Yes, sir, There isn't much money to be earned by working on a farm. I had a chance to do that before I came away."

"You mean working on your father's land, I suppose?"

"No, Squire Green wanted to hire me."

"What wages did he offer?"

"Two dollars a month, at first. Afterwards he got up to three."

The doctor smiled.

"How could you decline such a magnificent offer?" he asked.

"I don't think I should like boarding at the squire's."

"A dollar is twice as large at least in his eyes as in those of anyone else."

By this time they had reached a place where a road turned at right angles.

"I am going down here, Harry," said the doctor. "I should like to have you ride farther, but I suppose it would only be taking you out of your course."

"Yes, doctor. I'd better get out."

"I'll tell your father I saw you."

"Tell him I was in good spirits," said Harry, earnestly. "Mother'll be glad to know that."

"I will certainly. Good-by!"

"Good-by, doctor. Thank you for the ride."

"You are quite welcome to that, Harry."

Harry followed with his eyes the doctor's chaise. It seemed like severing the last link that bound him to his native village. He was very glad to have fallen in with the doctor, but it seemed all the more lonesome that he had left him.

Harry walked six miles farther, and then decided that it was time to rest again. He was not only somewhat fatigued, but decidedly hungry, although it was but eleven o'clock in the forenoon. However, it must be considered that he had walked eleven miles, and this was enough to give anyone an appetite.

He sat down again beside the road, and untying the handkerchief which contained his worldly possessions, he drew therefrom a large slice of bread and began to eat with evident relish. There was a slice of cold meat also, which he found tasted particularly good.

"I wonder whether they are thinking of me at home," he said to himself.

They were thinking about him, and when an hour later the family gathered around the table, no one seemed to have much appetite. All looked sober, for all were thinking of the absent son and brother.

"I wish Harry was here," said Jane, at length, giving voice to the general feeling.

"Poor boy," sighed his mother. "I'm afraid he'll have a hard time. I wish he had stayed at home, or even have gone to Squire Green's to work. Then we could have seen him every day."

"I should have pitied him more if he had gone there than I do now," said his father. "Depend upon it, it; will be better for him in the end."

"I hope so," said his mother, dubiously.

"But you don't feel sure? Well, time will show. We shall hear from him before long."

We go back to Harry.

He rested for a couple of hours, sheltered from the sun by the foliage of the oak beneath which he had stretched himself. He whiled away the time by reading for the second time some parts of the "Life of Franklin," which he had brought away in his bundle, with his few other possessions. It seemed even more interesting to him now that he, too, like Franklin, had started out in quest for fortune.

He resumed walking, but we will not dwell upon the details of his journey. At six o'clock he was twenty-five miles from home. He had not walked much in the afternoon when, all at once, he was alarmed by the darkening of the sky. It was evident that a storm was approaching. He looked about him for shelter from the shower, and a place where he could pass the night.



Chapter X. The General


The clouds were darkening, and the shower was evidently not far off. It was a solitary place, and no houses were to be seen near by. But nearly a quarter of a mile back Harry caught sight of a small house, and jumping over the fence directed his steps toward it. Five minutes brought him to it. It was small, painted red, originally, but the color had mostly been washed away. It was not upon a public road, but there was a narrow lane leading to it from the highway. Probably it was occupied by a poor family, Harry thought. Still it would shelter him from the storm which had even now commenced.

He knocked at the door.

Immediately it was opened and a face peered out -- the face of a man advanced in years. It was thin, wrinkled, and haggard. The thin white hair, uncombed, gave a wild appearance to the owner, who, in a thin, shrill voice, demanded, "Who are you?"

"My name is Harry Walton."

"What do you want?"

"Shelter from the storm. It is going to rain."

"Come in," said the old man, and opening the door wider, he admitted our hero.

Harry found himself in a room very bare of furniture, but there was a log fire in the fireplace, and this looked comfortable and pleasant. He laid down his bundle, and drawing up a chair sat down by it, his host meanwhile watching him closely.

"Does he live alone, I wonder?" thought Harry.

He saw no other person about, and no traces of a woman's presence. The floor looked as if it had not been swept for a month, and probably it had not.

The old man sat down opposite Harry, and stared at him, till our hero felt somewhat embarrassed and uncomfortable.

"Why don't he say something?" thought Harry.

"He is a very queer old man."

After a while his host spoke.

"Do you know who I am?" he asked.

"No," said Harry, looking at him.

"You've heard of me often," pursued the old man.

"I didn't know it," answered Harry, beginning to feel curious.

"In history," added the other.

"In history?"

"Yes."

Harry began to look at him in increased surprise.

"Will you tell me your name, if it is not too much trouble," he asked, politely.

"I gained the victory of New Orleans," said the old man.

"I thought General Jackson did that," said Harry.

"You're right," said the old man, complacently. "I am General Jackson."

"But General Jackson is dead."

"That's a mistake," said the old man, quietly. "That's what they say in all the books, but it isn't true."

This was amusing, but it was also startling. Harry knew now that the old man was crazy, or at least a monomaniac, and, though he seemed harmless enough, it was of course possible that he might be dangerous. He was almost sorry that he had sought shelter here. Better have encountered the storm in its full fury than place himself in the power of a maniac. The rain was now falling in thick drops, and he decided at any rate to remain a while longer. He knew that it would not be well to dispute the old man, and resolved to humor his delusion.

"You were President once, I believe?" he asked.

"Yes," said the old man; "and you won't tell anybody, will you?"

"No."

"I mean to be again," said the old man in a low voice, half in a whisper. "But you mustn't say anything about it. They'd try to kill me, if they knew it."

"Who would?"

"Mr. Henry Clay, and the rest of them."

"Doesn't Henry Clay want you to be President again?"

"Of course not. He wants to be President himself. That's why I'm hiding. They don't any of them know where I am. You won't tell, will you?"

"No."

"You might meet Henry Clay, you know."

Harry smiled to himself. It didn't seem very likely that he would ever find himself in such distinguished company, for Henry Clay was at that time living, and a United States Senator.

"What made you come here, General Jackson?" he inquired.

The old man brightened, on being called by this name.

"Because it was quiet. They can't find me here."

"When do you expect to be President again?"

"Next year," said the old man. "I've got it all arranged. My friends are to blow up the capitol, and I shall ride into Washington on a white horse. Do you want an office?"

"I don't know but I should like one," said Harry, amused.

"I'll see what I can do for you," said the old man, seriously. "I can't put you in my Cabinet. That's all arranged. If you would like to be Minister to England or to France, you can go."

"I should like to go to France. Benjamin Franklin was Minister to France."

"Do you know him?"

"No; but I have read his life."

"I'll put your name down in my book. What is it?"

"Harry Walton."

The old man went to the table, on which was a common account book. He took a pen, and, with a serious look, made this entry:

"I promise to make Harry Walton Minister to France, as soon as I take my place in the White House.

"General Andrew Jackson"

"It's all right now," he said.

"Thank you, general. You are very kind," said our hero.

"Were you ever a soldier?" asked his host.

"I never was."

"I thought you might have been in the battle of New Orleans. Our men fought splendidly, sir."

"I have no doubt of it."

"You'll read all about it in history. We fought behind cotton bales. It was glorious!"

"General," said Harry, "if you'll excuse me, I'll take out my supper from this bundle."

"No, no," said the old man; "you must take supper with me."

"I wonder whether he has anything fit to eat," thought Harry. "Thank you," he said aloud. "If you wish it."

The old man had arisen, and, taking a teakettle, suspended it over the fire. A monomaniac though he was on the subject of his identity with General Jackson, he knew how to make tea. Presently he took from the cupboard a baker's roll and some cold meat, and when the tea was ready, invited Harry to be seated at the table. Our hero did so willingly. He had lost his apprehensions, perceiving that his companion's lunacy was of a very harmless character.

"What if mother could see me now!" he thought.

Still the rain poured down. It showed no signs of slackening. He saw that it would be necessary to remain where he was through the night.

"General, can you accommodate me till morning?" he asked.

"Certainly," said the old man. "I shall be glad to have you stay here. Do you go to France to-morrow?"

"I have not received my appointment yet."

"True, true; but it won't be long. I will write your instructions to-night."

"Very well."

The supper was plain enough, but it was relished by our young traveler, whose long walk had stimulated a naturally good appetite.

"Eat heartily, my son," said the old man. "A long journey is before you."

After the meal was over, the old man began to write.

Harry surmised that it was his instructions. He paid little heed, but fixed his eyes upon the fire, listening to the rain that continued to beat against the window panes, and began to speculate about the future. Was he to be successful or not? He was not without solicitude, but he felt no small measure of hope. At nine o'clock he began to feel drowsy, and intimated as much to his host. The old man conducted him to an upper chamber, where there was a bed upon the floor.

"You can sleep there," he said.

"Where do you sleep?" asked Harry.

"Down below; but I shall not go to bed till late. I must get ready your instructions."

"Very well," said Harry. "Good night."

"Good night."

"I am glad he is not in the room with me," thought Harry. "I don't think there is any danger, but it isn't comfortable to be too near a crazy man."



Chapter XI. In Search Of Work


When Harry awoke the next morning, after a sound and refreshing sleep, the sun was shining brightly in at the window. He rubbed his eyes, and stared about him, not at first remembering where he was. But almost immediately recollection came to his aid, and he smiled as he thought of the eccentric old man whose guest he was. He leaped out of bed, and quickly dressing himself, went downstairs. The fire was burning, and breakfast was already on the table. It was precisely similar to the supper of the night previous. The old man sat at the fireside smoking a pipe.

"Good morning, general," said Harry. "I am up late."

"It is no matter. You have a long journey before you, and it is well to rest before starting."

"Where does he think I am going?" thought our hero.

"Breakfast is ready," said the old man, hospitably. "I can't entertain you now as I could have done when I was President. You must come and see me at the White House next year."

"I should like to."

Harry ate a hearty breakfast. When it was over, he rose to go.

"I must be going, general," he said. "Thank you for your kind entertainment. If you would allow me to pay you."

"General Jackson does not keep an inn," said the old man, with dignity. "You are his guest. I have your instructions ready."

He opened a drawer in the table, and took a roll of foolscap, tied with a string.

"Put it in your bundle," he said. "Let no one see it. Above all, don't let it fall into the hands of Henry Clay, or my life will be in peril."

Harry solemnly assured him that Henry Clay should never see it, and shaking the old man by the hand, made his way across the fields to the main road. Looking back from time to time, he saw the old man watching him from his place in the doorway, his eyes shaded by his hand.

"He is the strangest man I ever saw," thought Harry. "Still he treated me kindly. I should like to find out some more about him."

When he reached the road he saw, just in front of him, a boy of about his own age driving half a dozen cows before him.

"Perhaps he can tell me something about the old man."

"Hello!" he cried, by way of salutation.

"Hello!" returned the country boy. "Where are you going?"

"I don't know. Wherever I can find work," answered our hero.

The boy laughed. "Dad finds enough for me to do. I don't have to go after it. Haven't you got a father?"

"Yes."

"Why don't you work for him?"

"I want to work for pay."

"On a farm?"

"No. I'll work in a shoe shop if I get a chance or in a printing office."

"Do you understand the shoe business?"

"No; but I can learn."

"Where did you come from?"

"Granton."

"You didn't come from there this morning?"

"No, I guess not, as it's over twenty miles. Last night I stopped at General Jackson's."

The boy whistled.

"What, at the old crazy man's that lives down here a piece?"

"Yes."

"What made you go there?"

"It began, to rain, and I had no other place to go."

"What did he say?" asked the new boy with curiosity.

"Did he cut up?"

"Cut up? No, unless you mean the bread. He cut up that."

"I mean, how did he act?"

"All right, except when he was talking about being General Jackson."

"Did you sleep there?"

"Yes."

"I wouldn't."

"Why not?"

"I wouldn't sleep in a crazy man's house."

"He wouldn't hurt you."

"I don't know about that. He chases us boys often, and threatens to kill us."

"You plague him, don't you?"

"I guess we do. We call him 'Old Crazy,' and that makes him mad. He says Henry Clay puts us up to it -- ho, ho, ho!"

"He thinks Clay is his enemy. He told me so."

"What did you say?"

"Oh, I didn't contradict him. I called him general. He treated me tip-top. He is going to make me Minister of France, when he is President again."

"Maybe that was the best way to get along."

"How long has he lived here? What made him crazy?"

"I don't know. Folks say he was disappointed."

"Did he ever see Jackson?"

"Yes; he fit at New Orleans under him."

"Has he lived long around here?"

"Ever since I can remember. He gets a pension, I've heard father say. That's what keeps him."

Here the boy reached the pasture to which he was driving the cows, and Harry, bidding him "good-by," went on his way. He felt fresh and vigorous, and walked ten miles before he felt the need of rest. When this distance was accomplished, he found himself in the center of a good-sized village. He felt hungry, and the provision which he brought from home was nearly gone. There was a grocery store close at hand, and he went in, thinking that he would find something to help his meal. On the counter he saw some rolls, and there was an open barrel of apples not far off.

"What do you charge for your rolls?" he asked.

"Two cents."

"I'll take one. How do you sell your apples?"

"A cent apiece."

"I'll take two."

Thus for four cents Harry made quite a substantial addition to his meal. As he left the store, and walked up the road, with the roll in his hand, eating an apple, he called to mind Benjamin Franklin's entrance of Philadelphia with a roll under each arm.

"I hope I shall have as good luck as Franklin had," he thought.

Walking slowly, he saw, on a small building which he I had just reached, the sign, "Post Office."

"Perhaps the postmaster will know if anybody about here wants a boy," Harry said to himself. "At any rate, it won't do any harm to inquire."

He entered, finding himself in a small room, with one part partitioned off as a repository for mail matter. He stepped up to a little window, and presently the postmaster, an elderly man, presented himself.

"What name," he asked.

"I haven't come for a letter," said Harry.

"What do you want, then?" asked the official, but not roughly.

"Do you know of anyone that wants to hire a boy?"

"Who's the boy?"

"I am. I want to get a chance to work."

"What kind of work?"

"Any kind that'll pay my board and a little over."

"I don't know of any place," said the postmaster, after a little thought.

"Isn't there any shoe shop where I could get in?"

"That reminds me -- James Leavitt told me this morning that his boy was going to Boston to go into a store in a couple of months. He's been pegging for his father and I guess they'll have to get somebody in his place."

Harry's face brightened at this intelligence.

"That's just the kind of place I'd like to get," he said.

"Where does Mr. Leavitt live?"

"A quarter of a mile from here -- over the bridge. You'll know it well enough. It's a cottage house, with a shoe shop in the backyard."

"Thank you, sir," said Harry. "I'll go there and try my luck."

"Wait a minute," said the postmaster. "There's a letter here for Mr. Leavitt. If you're going there, you may as well carry it along. It's from Boston. I shouldn't wonder if it's about the place Bob Leavitt wants."

"I'll take it with pleasure," said Harry.

It occurred to him that it would be a good introduction for him, and pave the way for his application.

"I hope I may get a chance to work for this Mr. Leavitt," he said to himself. "I like the looks of this village. I should like to live here for a while."

He walked up the street, crossing the bridge referred to by the postmaster, and looked carefully on each side of him for the cottage and shop. At length he came to a place which answered the description, and entered the yard. As he neared the shop he heard a noise which indicated that work was going on inside. He opened the door, and entered.



Chapter XII. The New Boarder


Harry found himself in a room about twenty-five feet by twenty. The floor was covered with scraps of leather. Here stood a deep wooden box containing a case of shoes ready to send off. There was a stove in the center, in which, however, as it was a warm day, no fire was burning. There were three persons present. One, a man of middle age, was Mr. James Leavitt, the proprietor of the shop. His son Robert, about seventeen, worked at an adjoining bench. Tom Gavitt, a journeyman, a short, thick-set man of thirty, employed by Mr. Leavitt, was the third.

The three looked up as Harry entered the shop.

"I have a letter for Mr. Leavitt," said our hero.

"That is my name," said the eldest of the party.

Harry advanced, and placed it in his hands.

"Where did you get this letter?"

"At the post office."

"I can't call you by name. Do you live about here?"

"No, I came from Granton."

No further questions were asked just then, as Mr. Leavitt, suspending work, opened the letter.

"It's from your Uncle Benjamin," he said, addressing Robert. "Let us see what he has to say."

He read the letter in silence.

"What does he say, father?" asked Robert.

"He says he shall be ready to take you the first of September. That's in six weeks -- a little sooner than we calculated. I wish it were a little later, as work is brisk, and I may find it difficult to fill your place without paying more than I want to."

"I guess you can pick up somebody," said Robert, who was anxious to go to Boston as soon as possible.

"Won't you hire me?" asked Harry, who felt that the time had come for him to announce his business.

Mr. Leavitt looked at him more attentively.

"Have you ever worked in a shop?"

"No, sir."

"It will take you some time to learn pegging."

"I'll work for my board till I've learned."

"But you won't be able to do all I want at first."

"Suppose I begin now," said Harry, "and work for my board till your son goes away. By that time I can do considerable."

"I don't know but that's a good idea," said Mr. Leavitt. "What do you think, Bob?"

"Better take him, father," said Robert, who felt that it would facilitate his own plans.

"How much would you want after you have learned?" asked the father.

"I don't know; what would be a fair price," said Harry.

"I'll give you three dollars a week and board," said Mr. Leavitt, after a little consideration -- "that is, if I am satisfied with you."

"I'll come," said Harry, promptly. He rapidly calculated that there would be about twenty weeks for which he would receive pay before the six months expired, at the end of which the cow must be paid for. This would give him sixty dollars, of which he thought he should be able to save forty to send or carry to his father.

"How did you happen to come to me?" asked Mr. Leavitt, with some curiosity.

"I heard at the post office that your son was going to the city to work, and I thought I could get in here."

"Is your father living?"

"Yes, my father and mother both."

"What business is he in?"

"He is a farmer; but his farm is small, and not very profitable."

"So you thought you would leave home and try something else?"

"Yes, sir."

"Well, we will try you at shoemaking. Robert, you can teach him what you know about pegging."

"Come here," said Robert. "What is your name?"

"Harry Walton."

"How old are you?"

"Fifteen."

"Did you ever work much?"

"Yes, on a farm."

"Do you think you'll like shoemaking better?"

"I don't know yet, but I think I shall. I like almost anything better than farming."

"And I like almost anything better than pegging. I began when I was only twelve years old, and I'm sick of it."

"What kind of store is it you are going into?"

"Dry goods. My uncle, Benjamin Streeter, mother's brother, keeps a dry goods store on Washington street. It'll be jolly living in the city."

"I don't know," said Harry thoughtfully. "I think I like a village just as well."

"What sort of a place is Granton, where you come from?"

"It's a farming town. There isn't any village at all."

"There isn't much going on here."

"There'll be more than in Granton. There's nothing to do there but to work on a farm."

"I shouldn't like that myself; but the city's the best of all."

"Can you make more money in a store than working in a shoe shop?"

"Not so much at first, but after you've got learned there's better chances. There's a clerk, that went from here ten years ago, that gets fifty dollars a week."

"Does he?" asked Harry, to whose rustic inexperience this seemed like an immense salary. "I didn't think any clerk ever got so much."

"They get it often if they are smart," said Robert.

Here he was wrong, however. Such cases are exceptional, and a city fry goods clerk, considering his higher rate of expense, is no better off than many country mechanics. But country boys are apt to form wrong ideas on this subject, and are in too great haste to forsake good country homes for long hours of toil behind a city counter, and a poor home in a dingy, third-class city boarding house. It is only in the wholesale houses, for the most part, that high salaries are paid, and then, of course, only to those who have shown superior energy and capacity. Of course some do achieve success and become rich; but of the tens of thousand who come from the country to seek clerkships, but a very small proportion rise above a small income.

"I shall have a start," Robert proceeded, "for I go into my uncle's store. I am to board at his house, and get three dollars a week."

"That's what your father offers me," said Harry.

"Yes; you'll earn more after a while, and I can now; but I'd rather live in the city. There's lots to see in the city -- theaters, circuses, and all kinds of amusements."

"You won't have much money to spend on theaters," said Harry, prudently.

"Not at first, but I'll get raised soon."

"I think I should try to save as much as I could."

"Out of three dollars a week?"

"Yes."

"What can you save out of that?"

"I expect to save half of it, perhaps more."

"I couldn't do that. I want a little fun."

"You see my father's poor. I want to help him all I can."

"That's good advice for you, Bob," said Mr. Leavitt.

"Save up money, and help me."

Robert laughed.

"You'll have to wait till I get bigger pay," he said.

"Your father's better off than mine," said Harry.

"Of course, if he don't need it, that makes a difference."

Here the sound of a bell was heard, proceeding from the house.

"Robert," said his father "go in and tell your mother to put an extra seat at the table. She doesn't know that we've got a new boarder."

He took off his apron, and washed his hands. Tom Gavitt followed his example, but didn't go into the house of his employer. He lived in a house of his own about five minutes' walk distant, but left the shop at the same time. In a country village the general dinner hour is twelve o'clock -- a very unfashionably early hour -- but I presume any of my readers who had been at work from seven o'clock would have no difficulty in getting up a good appetite at noon.

Robert went in and informed his mother of the new boarder. It made no difference, for the table was always well supplied.

"This is Harry Walton, mother," said Mr. Leavitt, "our new apprentice. He will take Bob's place when he goes."

"I am glad to see you," said Mrs. Leavitt, hospitably.

"You may sit here, next to Robert."

"What have you got for us to-day, mother?" asked her husband.

"A picked-up dinner. There's some cold beef left over from yesterday, and I've made an apple pudding."

"That's good. We don't want anything better."

So Harry thought. Accustomed to the painful frugality of the table at home, he regarded this as a splendid dinner, and did full justice to it.

In the afternoon he resumed work in the shop under Robert's guidance. He was in excellent spirits. He felt that he was very fortunate to have gained a place so soon, and determined to write home that same evening.



Chapter XIII. An Invitation Declined


The summer passed quickly, and the time arrived for Robert Leavitt to go to the city. By this time Harry was well qualified to take his place. It had not been difficult, for he had only been required to peg, and that is learned in a short time. Harry, however, proved to be a quick workman, quicker, if anything, than Robert, though the latter had been accustomed to the work for several years. Mr. Leavitt was well satisfied with his new apprentice, and quite content to pay him the three dollars a week agreed upon. In fact, it diminished the amount of cash he was called upon to pay.

"Good-by, Harry," said Robert, as he saw the coach coming up the road, to take him to the railroad station.

"Good-by, and good luck!" said Harry.

"When you come to the city, come and see me."

"I don't think I shall be going very soon. I can't afford it."

"You must save up your wages, and you'll have enough soon."

"I've got another use for my wages, Bob."

"To buy cigars?"

Harry shook his head. "I shall save it up to carry home."

"Well, you must try to make my place good in the shop."

"He can do that," said Mr. Leavitt, slyly; "but there's one place where he can't equal you."

"Where is that?"

"At the dinner table."

"You've got me there, father," said Bob, good-naturedly. "Well, good-by all, here's the stage."

In a minute more he was gone. Harry felt rather lonely, for he had grown used to working beside him. But his spirits rose as he reflected that the time had now come when he should be in receipt of an income. Three dollars a week made him feel rich in anticipation. He looked forward already with satisfaction to the time when he might go home with money enough to pay off his father's debt to Squire Green. But he was not permitted to carry out his economical purpose without a struggle.

On Saturday evening, after he had received his week's pay, Luke Harrison, who worked in a shop near by, met him at the post office.

"Come along, Harry," he said. "Let us play a game of billiards."

"You must excuse me," said Harry.

"Oh, come along," said Luke, taking him by the arm; "it's only twenty-five cents."

"I can't afford it."

"Can't afford it! Now that's nonsense. You just changed a two-dollar note for those postage stamps."

"I know that; but I must save that money for another purpose."

"What's the use of being stingy, Harry? Try one game."

"You can get somebody else to play with you, Luke."

"Oh, hang it, if you care so much for a quarter, I'll pay for the game myself. Only come and play."

Harry shook his head.

"I don't want to amuse myself at your expense."

"You are a miser," said Luke, angrily.

"You can call me so, if you like," said Harry, firmly; "but that won't make it so."

"I don't see how you can call yourself anything else, if you are so afraid to spend your money."

"I have good reasons."

"What are they?"

"I told you once that I had another use for the money."

"To hoard away in an old stocking," said Luke, sneering.

"You may say so, if you like," said Harry, turning away.

He knew he was right, but it was disagreeable to be called a miser. He was too proud to justify himself to Luke, who spent all his money foolishly, though earning considerably larger wages than he.

There was one thing that Harry had not yet been able to do to any great extent, though it was something he had at heart. He had not forgotten his motto, "Live and Learn," and now that he was in a fair way to make a living, he felt that he had made no advance in learning during the few weeks since he arrived in Glenville.

The day previous he had heard, for the first time, that there was a public library in another part of the town, which was open evenings. Though it was two miles distant, and he had been at work all day, he determined to walk up there and get a book. He felt that he was very ignorant, and that his advance in the world depended upon his improving all opportunities that might present themselves for extending his limited knowledge. This was evidently one.

After his unsatisfactory interview with Luke, he set out for the upper village, as it was called. Forty minutes' walk brought him to the building in which the library was kept. An elderly man had charge of it -- a Mr. Parmenter.

"Can I take out a book?" asked Harry.

"Do you live in town?"

"Yes, sir."

"I don't remember seeing you before. You don't live in this village, do you?"

"No, sir. I live in the lower village."

"What is your name?"

"Harry Walton."

"I don't remember any Walton family."

"My father lives in Granton. I am working for Mr. James Leavitt."

"I have no doubt this is quite correct, but I shall have to have Mr. Leavitt's certificate to that effect, before I can put your name down, and trust you with books."

"Then can't I take any book to-night?" asked Harry, disappointed.

"I am afraid not."

So it seemed his two-mile walk was for nothing. He must retrace his steps and come again Monday night.

He was turning away disappointed when Dr. Townley, of the lower village, who lived near Mr. Leavitt, entered the library.

"My wife wants a book in exchange for this, Mr. Parmenter," he said. "Have you got anything new in? Ah, Harry Walton, how came you here? Do you take books out of the library?"

"That's is what I came up for, but the librarian says I must bring a line from Mr. Leavitt, telling who I am."

"If Dr. Townley knows you, that is sufficient," said the librarian.

"He is all right, Mr. Parmenter. He is a young neighbor of mine."

"That is enough. He can select a book."

Harry was quite relieved at this fortunate meeting, and after a little reflection selected the first volume of "Rollin's Universal History," a book better known to our fathers than the present generation.

"That's a good, solid book, Harry," said the doctor.

"Most of our young people select stories."

"I like stories very much," said Harry; "but I have only a little time to read, and I must try to learn something."

"You are a sensible boy," said the doctor, emphatically.

"I'm afraid there are few of our young people who take such wise views of what is best for them. Most care only for present enjoyment."

"I have got my own way to make," said Harry, "and I suppose that is what influences me. My father is poor and cannot help me, and I want to rise in the world."

"You are going the right way to work. Do you intend to take out books often from the library?"

"Yes, sir."

"It will be a long walk from the lower village."

"I would walk farther rather than do without the books."

"I can save you at any rate from walking back. My chaise is outside, and, if you will jump in, I will carry you home."

"Thank you, doctor. I shall be very glad to ride."

On the way, Dr. Townley said: "I have a few miscellaneous book in my medical library, which I will lend to you with pleasure, if you will come in. It may save you an occasional walk to the library."

Harry thanked him, and not long afterwards availed himself of the considerate proposal. Dr Townley was liberally educated, and as far as his professional engagements would permit kept up with general literature. He gave Harry some valuable directions as to the books which it would benefit him to read, and more than once took him up on the road to the library.

Once a week regularly Harry wrote home. He knew that his letters would give pleasure to the family, and he never allowed anything to interfere with his duty.

His father wrote: "We are getting on about as usual. The cow does tolerably well, but is not as good as the one I lost. I have not yet succeeded in laying up anything toward paying for her. Somehow, whenever I have a few dollars laid aside Tom wants shoes, or your sister wants a dress, or some other expense swallows it up."

Harry wrote in reply: "Don't trouble yourself, father, about your debt to Squire Green. If I have steady work, and keep my health, I shall have enough to pay it by the time it comes due."



Chapter XIV. The Tailor's Customer


At the end of six weeks from the date of Robert's departure, Harry had been paid eighteen dollars. Of this sum he had spent but one dollar, and kept the balance in his pocketbook. He did not care to send it home until he had enough to meet Squire Green's demand, knowing that his father would be able to meet his ordinary expenses. Chiefly through the reports of Luke Harrison he was acquiring the reputation of meanness, though, as we know, he was far from deserving it.

"See how the fellow dresses," said Luke, contemptuously, to two of his companions one evening. "His clothes are shabby enough, and he hasn't got an overcoat at all. He hoards his money, and is too stingy to buy one. See, there he comes, buttoned to the chin to keep warm, and I suppose he has more money in his pocketbook than the whole of us together. I wouldn't be as mean as he is for a hundred dollars."

"You'd rather get trusted for your clothes than do without them," said Frank Heath, slyly; for he happened to know that Luke had run up a bill with the tailor, about which the latter was getting anxious.

"What if I do," said Luke, sharply, "as long as I am going to pay for them?"

"Oh, nothing," said Frank. "I didn't say anything against it, did I? I suppose you are as able to owe the tailor as anyone."

By this time, Harry had come up.

"Where are you going, Walton?" asked Luke. "You look cold."

"Yes, it's a cold day."

"Left your overcoat at home, didn't you?"

Harry colored. The fact was, he felt the need of an overcoat, but didn't know how to manage getting one. At the lowest calculation, it would cost all the money he had saved up for one, and the purchase would defeat all his plans. The one he had worn at home during the previous winter was too small for him, and had been given to his brother.

"If I only could get through the winter without one," he thought, "I should be all right." But a New England winter is not to be braved with impunity, useless protected by adequate clothing. Luke's sneer was therefore not without effect. But he answered, quietly: "I did not leave it at home, for I have none to leave."

"I suppose you are bound to the tailor's to order one."

"What makes you think so?" asked Harry.

"You are not such a fool as to go without one when you have money in your pocket, are you?"

"You seem very curious about my private affairs," said Harry, rather provoked.

"He's only drumming up customers for the tailor," said Frank Heath. "He gets a commission on all he brings."

"That's the way he pays his bill," said Sam Anderson.

"Quit fooling, boys," said Luke, irritated. "I ain't a drummer. I pay my bills, like a gentleman."

"By keeping the tailor waiting," said Frank.

"Quit that!"

So attention was diverted from Harry by this opportune attack upon Luke, much to our hero's relief. Nevertheless, he saw, that in order to preserve his health, he must have some outer garment, and in order the better to decide what to do, he concluded to step into the tailor's, and inquire his prices.

The tailor, Merrill by name, had a shop over the dry goods store, and thither Harry directed his steps. There was one other person in the shop, a young fellow but little larger than Harry, though two years older, who was on a visit to an aunt in the neighborhood, but lived in Boston. He belonged to a rich family, and had command of considerable money. His name was Maurice Tudor. He had gone into the shop to leave a coat to be repaired.

"How are you, Walton?" he said, for he knew our hero slightly.

"Pretty well. Thank you."

"It's pretty cold for October."

"Yes, unusually so."

"Mr. Merrill," said Harry, "I should like to inquire the price of an overcoat. I may want to order one by and by."

"What sort of one do you want -- pretty nice?"

"No, I can't afford anything nice -- something as cheap as possible."

"This is the cheapest goods I have," said the tailor, pointing to some coarse cloth near by.

"I can make you up a coat from that for eighteen dollars."

"Eighteen dollars!" exclaimed Harry, in dismay. "Is that the cheapest you have?"

"The very cheapest."

After a minute's pause he added, "I might take off a dollar for cash. I've got enough of running up bills. There's Luke Harrison owes me over thirty dollars, and I don't believe he means to pay it al all."

"If I buy, I shall pay cash," said Harry, quietly.

"You can't get anything cheaper than this." said the tailor.

"Very likely not," said Harry, soberly. "I'll think about it, and let you know if I decide to take it."

Maurice Tudor was a silent listener to this dialogue. He saw Harry's sober expression, and he noticed the tone in which he repeated "eighteen dollars," and he guessed the truth. He lingered after Harry went out, and said:

"That's a good fellow."

"Harry Walton?" repeated the tailor. "Yes, he's worth a dozen Luke Harrisons."

"Has he been in the village long?"

"No, not more than two or three months. He works for Mr. Leavitt."

"He is rather poor, I suppose."

"Yes. The boys call him mean; but Leavitt tells me he is saving up every cent to send to his father, who is a poor farmer."

"That's a good thing in him."

"Yes, I wish I could afford to give him and overcoat. He needs one, but I suppose seventeen dollars will come rather hard on him to pay. If it was Luke Harrison, it wouldn't trouble him much."

"You mean he would get it on tick."

"Yes, if he found anybody fool enough to trust him. I've done it as long as I'm going to. He won't get a dollar more credit out of me till he pays his bill."

"You're perfectly right, there."

"So I think. He earns a good deal more than Walton, but spends what he earns on billiards, drinks and cigars."

"There he comes up the stairs, now."

In fact, Luke with his two companions directly afterwards entered the shop.

"Merrill," said he, "have you got in any new goods? I must have a new pair of pants."

"Yes, I've got some new goods. There's a piece open before you."

"It's a pretty thing, Merrill," said Luke, struck by it; "what's your price for a pair off of it?"

"Ten dollars."

"Isn't that rather steep?"

"No; the cloth is superior quality."

"Well, darn the expense. I like it, and must have it. Just measure me, will you?"

"Are you ready to pay the account I have against you?"

"How much is it?"

The tailor referred to his books.

"Thirty-two dollars and fifty cents," he answered.

"All right, Merrill. Wait till the pants are done, and I'll pay the whole at once."

"Ain't my credit good?" blustered Luke.

"You can make it good," said the tailor, significantly.

"I didn't think you'd make such a fuss about a small bill."

"I didn't think you'd find is so difficult to pay a small bill," returned the tailor.

Luke looked discomfited. He was silent a moment, and then changed his tactics.

"Come, Merrill," he said, persuasively; "don't be alarmed. I'm good for it, I guess. I haven't got the money convenient to-day. I lent fifty dollars. I shall have it back next week and then I will pay you."

"I am glad to hear it," said Merrill.

"So just measure me and hurry up the pants."

"I'm sorry but I can't till you settle the bill."

"Look here, has Walton been talking against me?"

"No; what makes you think so?"

"He don't like me, because I twitted him with his meanness."

"I don't consider him mean."

"Has he ever bought anything of you?"

"No."

"I knew it. He prefers to go ragged and save his money."

"He's too honorable to run up a bill without paying it."

"Do you mean me?" demanded Luke, angrily.

"I hope not. I presume you intend to pay your bills."

Luke Harrison left the shop. He saw that he exhausted his credit with Merrill. As to paying the bill, there was not much chance of that at present, as he had but one dollar and a half in his pocket.



Chapter XV. "By Express"


"There's a model for you," said the tailor to Maurice Tudor. "He won't pay his bills."

"How did you come to trust him in the first place?"

"I didn't know him then as well as I do now. I make it a practice to accommodate my customers by trusting them for a month or two, if they want it. But Luke Harrison isn't one to be trusted."

"I should say not."

"If young Walton wants to get an overcoat on credit, I shan't object. I judge something by looks, and I am sure he is honest."

"Well, good night, Mr. Merrill. You'll have my coat done soon?"

"Yes, Mr. Tudor. It shall be ready for you to-morrow."

Maurice Tudor left the tailor's shop, revolving a new idea which had just entered his mind. Now he remembered that he had at home and excellent overcoat which he had worn the previous winter, but which was now too small for him. He had no younger brother to wear it, nor in his circumstances was such economy necessary. As well as he could judge by observing Harry's figure, it would be an excellent fit for him. Why should he not give it to him?

The opportunity came. On his way home he overtook our hero, plunged in thought. In fact, he was still occupied with the problem of the needed overcoat.

"Good evening, Harry," said young Tudor.

"Good evening, Mr. Tudor," answered Harry. "Are you going back to the city soon?"

"In the course of a week or two. Mr. Leavitt's son is in a store in Boston, is he not?"

"Yes. I have taken his place in the shop."

"By the way, I saw you in Merrill's this evening."

"Yes; I was pricing an overcoat."

"I bought this one in Boston just before I came away. I have a very good one left from last winter but it is too small for me. It is of no use to me. If I thought you would accept it, I would offer it to you."

Harry's heart gave a joyful bound.

"Accept it!" he repeated. "Indeed I will and thank you for your great kindness."

"Then I will write home at once to have it sent to me. I also have a suit which I have outgrown; if you wouldn't be too proud to take it."

"I am not so foolish. It will be a great favor."

"I thought you would take it right," said Maurice, well pleased. "I will also send for the suit. I will get my mother to forward them by express."

"They will be as good as money to me," said Harry; "and that is not very plenty with me."

"Will you tell me something of your circumstances? Perhaps I may have it in my power to help you."

Harry, assured of his friendly interest, did not hesitate to give him a full account of his plans in life, and especially of his desire to relieve his father of the burden of poverty. His straightforward narrative made a very favorable impression upon Maurice, who could not help reflecting: "How far superior this boy is to Luke Harrison and his tribe!"

"Thank you for telling me all this," he said. "It was not from mere curiosity that I asked."

"I am sure of that," said Harry. "Thanks to your generosity, I shall present a much more respectable appearance, besides being made more comfortable."

Three days later a large bundle was brought by the village expressman to Mr. Leavitt's door.

"A bundle for you, Walton," said the expressman, seeing Harry in the yard.

"What is there to pay?" he asked.

"Nothing. It was prepaid in the city?"

Harry took it up to his room and opened it eagerly. First came the promised overcoat. It was of very handsome French cloth, with a velvet collar, and rich silk facings, far higher in cost than any Mr. Merrill would have made for him. It fitted as if it had been made for him. Next came, not one, but two complete suits embracing coat, vest and pants. One of pepper-and-salt cloth, the other a dark blue. These, also, so similar was he in figure to Maurice, fitted him equally well. The clothes which he brought with from form Granton were not only of coarse material but were far from stylish in cut, whereas these garments had been made by a fashionable Boston tailor and set off his figure to much greater advantage.

"I wonder what Luke Harrison will say?" said our hero to himself, smiling, as he thought of the surprise of Luke at witnessing his transformation.

"I've a great mind to keep these on to-night," he said.

"Perhaps I shall meet Luke. He won't have anything more to say about my going without an overcoat."

After supper Harry, arrayed in his best suit and wearing the overcoat, walked down tot he center of the village.

Luke was standing on the piazza of the tavern.

"Luke, see how Walton is dressed up!" exclaimed Frank Heath, who was the first to see our hero.

"Dressed up!" repeated Luke, who was rather shortsighted. "That would be a good joke."

"He's got a splendid overcoat," continued Frank.

"Where'd he get it? Merrill hasn't been making him one."

"It's none of Merrill's work. It's too stylish for him."

By this time Harry had come within Luke's range of vision. The latter surveyed him with astonishment and it must be confessed, with disappointment; for he had been fond of sneering at Harry's clothes, and now the latter was far better dressed than himself.

"Where did you get that coat, Walton?" asked Luke, the instant Harry came up.

"Honestly," said Harry, shortly.

"Have you got anything else new?"

Harry opened his coat and displayed the suit.

"Well, you are coming out, Walton, that's a fact," said Frank Heath. "That's a splendid suit."

"I thought you couldn't afford to buy a coat," said Luke.

"You see I've got one," answered Harry.

"How much did it cost?"

"That's a secret."

Here he left Luke and Frank.

"Well, Luke, what do you say to that?" said Frank Heath.

Luke said nothing. He was astonished and unhappy. He had a fondness for dress and spent a good share of his earnings upon it, paying where he must, and getting credit besides where he could. But he had never had so stylish a suit as this and it depressed him.



Chapter XVI. Asking A Favor


There was one other tailor in the village, James Hayden, and to him Luke Harrison determined to transfer his custom, hoping to be allowed to run up a bill with him. He did not like his style of cut as well as Merrill's, but from the latter he was cut off unless he would pay the old bill, and this would be inconvenient.

He strolled into James Hayden's shop and asked to look at some cloth for pants.

Hayden was a shrewd man and, knowing that Luke was a customer of his neighbor, suspected the reason of his transfer. However, he showed the cloth, and, a selection having been made, measured him.

"When will you have them done?" asked Luke.

"In three days."

"I want them by that time sure."

"Of course you pay cash."

"Why," said Luke, hesitating, "I suppose you won't mind giving me a month's credit."

Mr. Hayden shook his head.

"I couldn't do it. My goods are already paid for and I have to pay for the work. I must have cash."

"Merrill always trusted me," pleaded Luke.

"Then why did you leave him?"

"Why," said Luke, a little taken aback, "he didn't cut the last clothes exactly to suit me."

"Didn't suit you? I thought you young people preferred his cut to mine. I am old-fashioned. Hadn't you better go back to Merrill?"

"I've got tired of him," said Luke. "I'll get a pair of pants of you, and see how I like them."

"I'll make them but I can't trust."

"All right. I'll bring the money," said Luke, who yet thought that he might get off by paying part down when he took the pants.

"The old fellow's deuced disobliging," said he o Frank Heath, when they got into the street.

"I don't know as I blame him," said Frank.

"I wish Merrill wasn't so stiff about it. He's terribly afraid of losing his bill."

"That's where he's right," said Frank, laughing. "I'd be the same if I were in his place."

"Do you always pay your bills right off?" said Luke.

"Yes, I do. I don't pretend to be a model boy. I'm afraid I keep bad company," he continued, "but I don't owe a cent to anybody except for board and that I pay up at the end of every week."

Luke dropped the subject, not finding it to his taste.

On Saturday night he went round to the tailor's.

"Have you got my pants done, Mr. Hayden?"

"Yes -- here they are."

"Let me see," he said, "how much are they?"

"Nine dollars."

"I'll pay you three dollars to-night and the rest at the end of next week," he said.

"Very well; then you may have them at the end of next week."

"Why not now? They are done, ain't they?"

"Yes," said Mr. Hayden; "but not paid for."

"Didn't I tell you I'd pay three dollars now?"

"Our terms are cash down."

"You ain't afraid of me, are you?" blustered Luke.

"You understood when you ordered the pants that they were to be paid for when they were taken."

"I hate to see people so afraid of losing their money."

"Do you? Was that why you left Merrill?"

Luke colored. He suspected that the fact of his unpaid bill at the other tailor's was known to Mr. Hayden.

"I've a great mind to leave them on your hands."

"I prefer to keep them on my hands, rather than to let them go out of the shop without being paid for."

"Frank," said Luke, turning to his companion, "lend me five dollars, can't you?"

"I'm the wrong fellow to ask," said he; "I've got to pay my board and another bill to-night."

"Oh, let your bills wait."

"And lend you the money? Thank you, I ain't so green. When should I get the money again?"

"Next week."

"In a horn. No; I want to wear the pants to-morrow. I'm going out to ride."

"I don't see, unless you fork over the spondulies."

"I can't. I haven't got enough money."

"See Harry Walton."

"I don't believe he has got any. He bought a lot of clothes last week. They must have cost a pile."

"Can't help it. I saw him open his pocketbook last night and in it was a roll of bills."

Turning to the tailor, Luke said: "Just lay aside the pants and I'll come back for them pretty soon."

Mr. Hayden smiled to himself.

"There's nothing like fetching up these fellows with a round turn," he said. "'No money, no clothes' -- that's my motto. Merrill told me all about that little bill that sent Luke Harrison over here. He don't run up any bill with me, if I know myself."

Luke went round to the village store. Harry Walton usually spent a part of every evening in instructive reading and study; but after a hard day's work he felt it necessary to pass an hour or so in the open air, so he came down to the center of center of the village.

"Hello, Walton!" said Luke, accosting him with unusual cordiality. "You are just the fellow I want to see."

"Am I?" inquired Harry in surprise, for there was no particular friendship or intimacy between them.

"Yes; I'm going to ask a little favor of you -- a mere trifle. Lend me five or ten dollars for a week. Five will do it, you can't spare more."

Harry shook his head.

"I can't do that, Luke."

"Why not? Haven't you got as much?"

"Yes, I've got it."

"Then why won't you lend it to me?"

"I have little money and I can't run any risk."

"Do you think I won't pay you back?"

"Why do you need to borrow of me? You get much higher wages than I do."

"I want to pay a bill to-night. I didn't think you'd be so unaccommodating."

"I shouldn't be willing to lend to anyone," said Harry.

"The money isn't mine. I am going to send it home."

"A great sight you are!" sneered Luke. "I wanted to see just how mean you were. You've got the money in your pocket but you won't lend it."

This taunt did not particularly disturb Harry. There is a large class like Luke, who offended at being refused a loan, though quite aware that they are never likely to repay it. My young readers will be sure to meet specimens of this class, against whom the only protection is a very firm and decided "No."



Chapter XVII. The Night Scholars


Immediately after Thanksgiving Day, the winter schools commenced. That in the center district was kept by a student of Dartmouth college, who had leave of absence from the college authorities for twelve weeks, in order by teaching to earn something to help defray his college expenses. Leonard Morgan, now a junior, was a tall, strongly made young man of twenty-two, whose stalwart frame had not been reduced by his diligent study. There were several shoe shops in the village, each employing from one to three boys, varying in age from fifteen to nineteen. Why could he not form a private class, to meet in the evening, to be instructed in advanced arithmetic, or, if desired, in Latin and Greek? He broached the idea to Stephen Bates, the prudential committeeman.

"I don't know," said Mr. Bates, "what our boys will think of it. I've got a boy that I'll send, but whether you'll get enough to make it pay I don't know."

"I suppose I can have the schoolhouse, Mr. Bates?"

"Yes, there won't be no objection. Won't it be too much for you after teachin' in the daytime?"

"It would take a good deal to break me down."

"Then you'd better draw up a notice and put it up in the store and tavern," suggested the committeeman.

In accordance with this advice, the young teacher posted up in the two places the following notice:


"Evening School

"I propose to start an evening school for those who are occupied during the day, and unable to attend the district school. Instruction will be given in such English branches as may be desired, and also in Latin and Greek, if any are desirous of pursuing a classical course. The school will commence next Monday evening at the schoolhouse, beginning at seven o'clock. Terms: Seventy cents a week, or five dollars for the term of ten weeks.

"Leonard Morgan."


"Are you going to join the class, Walton?" asked Frank Heath.

"Yes," said Harry, promptly.

"Where'll you get the money?" asked Luke Harrison, in a jeering tone.

"I shan't have to go far for it."

"I don't see how you can spend so much money."

"I am willing to spend money when I can get my money's worth," said our hero. "Are you going?"

"To school? No, I guess not. I've got through my schooling."

"You don't know enough to hurt you, do you, Luke?" inquired Frank Heath, slyly.

"Nor I don't want to. I know enough to get along."

"I don't and never expect to," said Harry.

"Do you mean to go to school when you're a gray-headed old veteran?" asked Frank, jocosely.

"I may not go to school then but I shan't give up learning then," said Harry, smiling. "One can learn without going to school. But while I'm young, I mean to go to school as much as I can."

"I guess you're right," said Frank; "I'd go myself, only I'm too lazy. It's hard on a feller to worry his brain with study after he's been at work all day. I don't believe I was cut out for a great scholar."

"I don't believe you were, Frank," said Joe Bates.

"You always used to stand pretty well down toward the foot of the class when you went to school."

"A feller can't be smart as well as handsome. As long as I'm good-looking, I won't complain because I wasn't born with the genius of a Bates."

"Thank you for the compliment, Frank, though I suppose it means that I am homely. I haven't got any genius or education to spare."

When Monday evening arrived ten pupils presented themselves, of whom six were boys, or young men, and four were girls. Leonard Morgan felt encouraged. A class of ten, though paying but five dollars each, would give him fifty dollars, which would be quite an acceptable addition to his scanty means.

"I am glad to see so many," he said. "I think our evening class will be a success. I will take your names and ascertain what studies you wish to pursue."

When he came to Harry; he asked, "What do you propose to study?"

"I should like to take up algebra and Latin, if you are willing," answered our hero.

"Have you studied either at all?"

"No, sir; I have not had an opportunity."

"How far have you been in arithmetic?"

"Through the square and cube root?"

"If you have been so far, you will have no difficulty with algebra. As to Latin, one of the girls wishes to take up that and I will put you in the class with her."

It will be seen that Harry was growing ambitious. He didn't expect to go to college, though nothing would have pleased him better; but he felt that some knowledge of a foreign language could do him no harm. Franklin, whom he had taken as his great exemplar, didn't go to college; yet he made himself one of the foremost scientific men of the age and acquired enduring reputation, not only as a statesman and a patriot, but chiefly as a philosopher.

A little later, Leonard Morgan came round to the desk at which Harry was sitting.

"I brought a Latin grammar with me," he said, "thinking it probable some one might like to begin that language. You can use it until yours comes."

"Thank you," said Harry; and he eagerly took the book, and asked to have a lesson set, which was done.

"I can get more than that," he said.

"How much more?"

"Twice as much."

Still later he recited the double lesson, and so correctly that the teacher's attention was drawn to him.

"That's a smart boy," he said. "I mean to take pains with him. What a pity he can't go to college!"



Chapter XVIII. Lost, Or Stolen


Harry learned rapidly. At the end of four weeks he had completed the Latin grammar, or that part of it which his teacher, thought necessary for a beginner to be familiar with, and commenced translating the easy sentences in "Andrews' Latin Reader."

"You are getting on famously, Harry," said his teacher. "I never had a scholar who advanced so."

"I wish I knew as much as you."

"Don't give me too much credit. When I compare myself with our professors, I feel dissatisfied."

"But you know so much more than I do," said Harry.

"I ought to; I am seven years older."

"What are you going to study, Mr. Morgan?"

"I intend to study law."

"I should like to be an editor," said Harry; "but I don't see much prospect of it."

"Why not?"

"An editor must know a good deal."

"There are some who don't," said Leonard Morgan, with a smile. "However, you would like to do credit to the profession and it is certainly in these modern days a very important profession."

"How can I prepare myself?"

"By doing your best to acquire a good education; not only by study but by reading extensively. An editor should be a man of large information. Have you ever practiced writing compositions?"

"A little; not much."

"If you get time to write anything, and will submit it to me, I will point out such faults as I may notice."

"I should like to do that," said Harry, promptly.

"What subject shall I take?"

"You may choose your own subject. Don't be too ambitious but select something upon which you have some ideas of your own."

"Suppose I take my motto? 'Live and learn.'"

"Do so, by all means. That is a subject upon which you may fairly be said to have some ideas of your own."

In due time Harry presented a composition on this subject. The thoughts were good, but, as might be expected, the expression was somewhat crude, and of course the teacher found errors to correct and suggestions to make. These Harry eagerly welcomed and voluntarily proposed to rewrite the composition. The result was a very much improved draft. He sent a copy home and received in reply a letter from his father, expressing surprise and gratification at the excellence of his essay.

"I am glad, Harry," the letter concluded, "that you have formed just views of the importance of learning. I have never ceased to regret that my own opportunities for education were so limited and that my time has been so much absorbed by the effort to make a living, that I have been able to do so little toward supplying my deficiencies. Even in a pecuniary way an education will open to you a more prosperous career, and lead, I hope, to competence, instead of the narrow poverty which has been my lot. I will not complain of my own want of success, if I can see my children prosper."

But while intent upon cultivating his mind, Harry had not lost sight of the great object which had sent him from home to seek employment among strangers. He had undertaken to meet the note which his father had given Squire Green in payment for the cow. By the first of December he had saved up thirty-three dollars toward this object. By the middle of January the note would come due.

Of course he had not saved so much without the strictest economy, and by denying himself pleasures which were entirely proper. For instance, he was waited upon by Luke Harrison on the first day of December, and asked to join in a grand sleighing excursion to a town ten miles distant, where it was proposed to take supper, and, after a social time, return late in the evening.

"I would like to go," said Harry, who was strongly, tempted, for he was by no means averse to pleasure; "but I am afraid I cannot. How much will it cost?"

"Three dollars apiece. That pays for the supper too."

Harry shook his head. It was for rum a week's wages. If he were not trying to save money for his father, he might have ventured to incur this expense, but he felt that under present circumstances it would not be best.

"I can't go," said Harry.

"Oh, come along," urged Luke. "Don't make such a mope of yourself. You'll be sure to enjoy it."

"I know I should; but I can't afford it."

"I never knew a feller that thought so much of money as you," sneered Luke.

"I suppose it looks so," said Harry; "but it isn't true."

"Everybody says you are a miser."

"I have good reasons for not going."

"If you would come, it would make the expense lighter for the rest of us and you would have a jolly time."

This conversation took place as they were walking home from the store in the evening. Harry pulled out his handkerchief suddenly from his pocket and with it came his pocketbook, containing all his savings. He didn't hear if fall; but Luke did, and the latter, moreover, suspected what it was. He did not call Harry's attention to it, but, falling back, said: "I've got to go back to the store. I forgot something. Good night!"

"Good night!" said Harry, unsuspiciously.

Luke stooped swiftly while our hero's back was turned, and picked up the pocketbook. He slipped it into his own pocket, and, instead of going back to the store, went to his own room, locked the door, and then eagerly pulled out the pocketbook and counted the contents.

"Thirty-three dollars! What a miser that fellow is! It serves him right to lose his money."



Chapter XIX. An Unwelcome Visitor


Luke Harrison had picked up Harry's pocketbook, and, though knowing it to be his, concealed the discovery upon the impulse of the moment.

"What I find is mine," he said to himself. "Of course it is. Harry Walton deserves to lose his money."

It will be seen that he had already decided to keep the money. It looked so tempting to him, as his eyes rested on the thick roll of bills -- for, though insignificant in amount, the bills were ones and twos, and twenty in number -- that he could not make up his mind to return it.

Luke was fond of new clothes. He wanted to reestablish his credit with Merrill, for he was in want of a new coat and knew that it would be useless to order one unless he had some money to pay on account. He decided to use a part of Harry's money for this purpose. It would be better, however, he thought, to wait a day or two, as the news of the loss would undoubtedly spread abroad, and his order might excite suspicion, particularly as he had been in Harry's company at the time the money disappeared. He therefore put the pocketbook into his trunk, and carefully locked it. Then he went to bed.

Meanwhile, Harry reached Mr. Leavitt's unconscious of the serious misfortune which had befallen him. He went into the sitting room and talked a while with Mr. Leavitt, and at ten o'clock took his lamp and went up to bed. While he was undressing he felt in his pocket for his money, intending to lock it up in his trunk as usual. His dismay may be conceived when he could not find it.

Poor Harry sank into a chair with that sudden sinking of the heart which unlooked-for misfortune brings and tried to think where he could have left the pocketbook.

That evening he found himself under the necessity of buying a necktie at the store, and so had taken it from his trunk. Could he have left it on the counter? No; he distinctly remembered replacing it in his pocket. He felt the need of consulting with somebody, and with his lamp in his hand went downstairs again.

"You haven't concluded to sit up all night, have you?" asked Mr. Leavitt, surprised at his reappearance.

"Are you sick, Harry?" asked Mrs. Leavitt. "You're looking dreadfully pale."

"I've lost my pocketbook," said Harry..

"How much was there in it?" asked his employer.

"Thirty-three dollars," answered Harry.

"Whew! that's a good deal of money to lose. I shouldn't want to lose so much myself. When did you have it last?"

Harry told his story, Mr. Leavitt listening attentively

"And you came right home?"

"Yes."

"Alone."

"No; Luke Harrison came with me."

"Are you two thick together?"

"Not at all. He doesn't like me, and I don't fancy him."

"What was he talking about?"

"He wanted me to join a sleighing party."

"What did you say?"

"I said I couldn't afford it. Then he charged me with being a miser, as he often does."

"Did he come all the way home with you?"

"No; he left me at Deacon Brewster's. He said he must go back to the store."

"There is something queer about this," said Mr. Leavitt, shrewdly. "Do you want my advice?"

"Yes; I wish you would advise me, for I don't know what to do."

"Then go to the store at once. Ask, but without attracting any attention, if Luke came back there after leaving you. Then ask Mr. Meade, the storekeeper, whether he noticed you put back your pocketbook."

"But I know I did."

"Then it will be well to say nothing about it, at least publicly. If you find that Luke's excuse was false, and that he did not go back, go at once to his boarding place, and ask him whether he saw you drop the pocketbook. You might have dropped it and he picked it up."

"Suppose he says no?"

"Then we must watch whether he seems flush of money for the next few days."

This seemed to Harry good advice. He retraced his steps to the store, carefully looking for the lost pocketbook. But of course, it was not to be seen and he entered the store troubled and out of spirits.

"I thought you went home, Harry," said Frank Heath.

"You see I am here again," said our hero.

"Time to shut up shop," said Mr. Meade, the storekeeper. "You boys will have to adjourn till to-morrow."

"Where's Luke Harrison?" asked Frank Heath.

"Didn't he go out with you?"

"Yes; but he left me some time ago. He came back here, didn't he?"

"No; he hasn't been here since."

"He spoke of coming," said Harry. "He wanted me to join that sleighing party."

"Good night, boys," said the storekeeper, significantly.

They took the hint and went out. Their way lay in different directions, and they parted company.

"Now I must call on Luke," said Harry to himself.

"I hope he found the pocketbook. He wouldn't be wicked enough to keep it."

But he was not quite so sure of this as he would like to have been. He felt almost sick as he thought of the possibility that he might never recover the money which he had saved so gladly, though with such painful economy. It represented the entire cash earnings of eleven weeks.

Luke Harrison boarded with a Mr. Glenham, a carpenter, and it was at his door that Harry knocked.

"Is Luke Harrison at home?" he inquired of Mrs. Glenham, who opened the door.

"At home and abed, I reckon," she replied.

"I know it's late, Mrs. Glenham, but it is about a matter of importance that I wish to see Luke."

"I reckon it's about the sleighing party."

"No, it is quite another thing. I won't stay but minute."

"Well, I suppose you can go up."

Harry went upstairs and knocked. Ordinarily, Luke would have been asleep, for generally he sank to sleep five minutes after his head touched the pillow; but to-night the excitement of his dishonest intention kept him awake, and he started uneasily when he heard the knock.

"Who's there?" he called out from the bed.

"It's I -- Harry Walton."

"He's come about that pocketbook," thought Luke.

"I'm in bed," he answered.

"I want to see you a minute, on a matter of importance."

"Come to-morrow morning."

"I must see you now."

"Oh, well, come in, if you must," said Luke.



Chapter XX.


"You seem to be in an awful hurry to see me," said Luke, grumbling. "I was just getting to sleep."

"I've lost my pocketbook. Have you seen it?"

"Have I seen it? That's a strange question. How should I have seen it?"

"I lost it on the way from the store to the house."

"Do you mean to charge me with taking it?"

"I haven't said anything of the sort," said Harry; "but you were with me, and I thought you might have seen it drop out of my pocket."

"Did you drop it out of your pocket?"

"I can't think of any other way I could lose it."

"Of course I haven't seen it. Was that all you woke me up about?"

"Is that all? You talk as if it was a little thing losing thirty-three dollars."

"Thirty-three dollars!" repeated Luke, pretending to be surprised. "You don't mean to say you've lost all that?"

"Yes, I do."

"Well," said Luke, yawning, "I wish I could help you; but I can't. Good night."

"Good night," said Harry, turning away disappointed.

"What success, Harry?" inquired Mr. Leavitt, who had deferred going to bed in order to hear his report.

"None at all," answered Harry.

"Is there anything by which you can identify any of the bills?"

"Yes," answered Harry, with sudden recollection, "I dropped a penful of ink on one of the bills -- a two-dollar note -- just in the center. I had been writing a letter, and the bill lay on the table near by."

"Good!" said Mr. Leavitt. "Now, supposing Luke has taken this money, how is he likely to spend it?"

"At the tailor's, most likely. He is always talking about new clothes; but lately he hasn't had any because Merrill shut down on him on account of an unpaid bill."

"Then you had better see Merrill and ask him to take particular notice of any bills that Luke pays him."

"Innocence must often be suspected, or guilt would never be detected. It is the only way to get on the track of the missing bills."

Harry saw that this was reasonable and decided to call on Merrill the next day.

"Do you think Luke took it?" asked the tailor.

"I don't know. I don't like to suspect him."

"I haven't much opinion of Luke. He owes me a considerable bill."

"He prefers your clothes to Hayden's, and if he has the money, he will probably come here and spend some of it."

"Suppose he does, what do you want me to do?"

"To examine the bills he pays you, and if you find an ink spot on the center of one let me know."

"I understand. I think I can manage it."

"My money was mostly in ones and twos."

"That may help you. I will bear it in mind."

Two days afterwards, Luke Harrison met Harry.

"Have you found your money, Walton?" he asked.

"No, and I am afraid I never shall," said our hero.

"What do you think has become of it?"

"That's just what I would like to find out," said Harry.

"The only thing you can do is to grin and bear it."

"And be more careful next time."

"Of course."

"He's given it up," said Luke to himself. "I think I can venture to use some of it now. I'll go round to Merrill's and see what he's got in the way of pants."

Accordingly he strolled into Merrill's that evening.

"Got any new cloths in, Merrill?" asked Luke.

"I've got some new cloths for pants."

"That's just what I want."

"You're owing me a bill."

"How much is it?"

"Some over thirty dollars."

"I can't pay it all, but I'll tell you what I'll do. I'll pay you fifteen dollars on account, and you can make me a new pair of pants. Will that answer?"

"All right. Of course I'd rather you'd pay the whole bill. Still I want to be accommodating."

"Let me look at your cloths."

The tailor displayed a variety of cloths, one of which suited Luke's fancy.

"Here's fifteen dollars," he said. "Just credit me with that on the bill, will you?"

"All right," said Merrill.

He proceeded to count the money, which consisted of consisted of ones and twos, and instantly came to the conclusion that it was from Harry's missing pocketbook, particularly as he came upon the identical note with the blot in the center.

Unaware of the manner in which he had betrayed himself, Luke felt quite complacent over his reestablished credit, and that without any expense to himself.

"Have you got any new cloth for coats?" he asked.

"I shall have some new cloths in next week."

"All right. When will you have the pants done?"

"You may call round in two or three days."

"Just make 'em in style, Merrill, and I'll send all my friends here."

"Very well. I hope you'll soon be able to pay me the balance of my bill."

"Oh, yes, to be sure. You won't have to wait long."

He swaggered out of the shop, lighting a cigar.

"My young friend," soliloquized the tailor, watching his exit, "you have walked into my trap neatly. Colman," -- turning to a young man present at the time -- "did you see Luke Harrison pay me this money?"

"Yes; to be sure."

"Do you see this blot on one of the bills -- a two?"

"Yes; What of it?"

"Nothing. I only called your attention to it."

"I don't see what there is strange about that. Anybody might get ink on a bill, mightn't he?"

"Of course."

Colman was puzzled. He could not understand why he should have been called upon to notice such a trifle; but the tailor had his reasons. He wanted to be able to prove by Colman's testimony that the blotted bill was actually put into his hands by Luke Harrison.



Chapter XXI. In The Tailor's Power


"Is that the bill you spoke of, Walton?" asked the tailor, on Harry's next visit to the shop.

"Yes," said Harry, eagerly. "Where did you get it?"

"You can guess."

"From Luke Harrison?"

"Yes; he paid me, last evening, fifteen dollars on account. This note was among those he paid me."

"It is mine. I can swear to it."

"The rest of the money was yours, no doubt."

"What shall I do, Mr. Merrill?"

"The money is yours, and I will restore it to you after seeing Luke. I will send for him to be here at seven o'clock this evening."

As Luke was at work in his shop that day, the tailor's boy came in with a note.

Luke opened it and read as follows:


"Will you call at my shop at seven this evening about the pants you ordered?

"Henry Merrill."


"Tell your father I'll come," said Luke.

At seven o'clock he entered the tailor's shop once more.

"Well, Merrill, what do you want to see me about?" he asked. "Have you cut the pants?"

"No."

"You haven't? I wanted you to go to work on them at once."

"I know; but it was necessary to see you first."

"Why -- didn't you take the measure right?"

"Luke," said Mr. Merrill, looking him steadily in the eye, "where did you get that money you paid me?"

"Where did I get the money?" repeated Luke, flushing up. "What makes you ask me that question? Isn't it good money? 'Tisn't counterfeit, is it?"

"I asked you where you got it from?"

"From the man I work for, to be sure," said Luke.

"Will you swear to that?"

"I don't see the use. Can't you take my word?"

"I may as well tell you that Harry Walton recognizes one of the bills as a part of the money he lost."

"He does, does he?" said Luke, boldly. "That's all nonsense. Bills all look alike."

"This one has a drop of ink just in the center. He remembered having dropped a blot upon it."

"What have I to do with that?"

"It is hardly necessary to explain. The evening he lost the money you were with him. Two days after, you pay me one of the bills which he lost," said the tailor.

"Do you mean to say I stole 'em?" demanded Luke.

"It looks like it, unless you can explain how you came by the blotted bill."

"I don't believe I paid you the bill. Very likely it was some one else."

"I thought you would say that, so I called Colman's attention to it. However, if your employer admits paying you the bills, of course you are all right."

Luke remembered very well that he was paid in fives, and that such an appeal would do him no good.

"Does Walton know this?" he asked, sinking into a chair, and wiping the perspiration from his brow.

"Yes; he suspected you."

"I'd like to choke him!" said Luke, fiercely. "The miserly scoundrel!"

"It seems to me he is justified in trying to recover his money. What have you done with the rest of it?"

"Tell me what will be done to me," said Luke, sullenly.

"I didn't steal it. I only picked it up when he dropped it. He deserves to lose it, for being so careless."

"Why didn't you tell him you had found it?"

"I meant to give it to him after a while. I only wanted to keep it long enough to frighten him."

"That was dangerous, particularly as you used it."

"I meant to give him back other money."

"I don't think that excuse will avail you in court."

"Court of justice!" repeated Luke, turning pale.

"He won't have me taken up -- will he?"

"He will unless you arrange to restore all the money."

"I've paid you part of it."

"That I shall hand over to him. Have you the rest?"

"I've spent a few dollars. I've got eight dollars left."

"You had better give it to me."

Reluctantly, Luke drew out his pocketbook and passed the eight dollars to Mr. Merrill.

"Now when will you pay the rest?"

"In a few weeks," said Luke.

"That won't do. How much do you earn a week?"

"Fifteen dollars."

"How much do you pay for board?"

"Four dollars."

"Then you will be able to pay eleven dollars at the end of this week."

"I can't get along without money," said Luke.

"You will have to till you pay back the money, unless you prefer appearing before a court of justice."

Luke was just going out when the tailor called him back.

"I believe you owe me thirty dollars. When are you going to pay it?"

"I can't pay it yet a while," said Luke.

"I think you had better," said the tailor quietly.

"I'll pay you as soon as I can."

"You make eleven dollars a week over and above your board and spend it on drink, billiards and fast horses. You are fully able to pay for your clothes promptly and I advise you to do it."

"I'll pay you as soon as I can."

"If you neglect to do it, I may as well tell you that I shall let it be known that you stole Walton's pocketbook."

An expression of alarm overspread Luke's face, and he hastily made the required promise. But he added, "I didn't steal it. I only found it."

"The whole story would be told, and people might think as they pleased. But it is much better for you to avoid all this by paying your bills."

Luke Harrison left the tailor's shop in a very unhappy and disgusted frame of mind.

"If I had the sense to wait till it blew over," he said to himself, "I should have escaped all this: I didn't think Merrill would act so mean. Now I'm in for paying his infernal bill besides. It's too bad."

Just then he came upon Frank Heath, who hailed him.

"Luke, come and play a game of billiards."

"If you'll promise not to beat me. I haven't got a cent of money."

"You haven't? What have you done with those bills you had this afternoon?"

"I've paid 'em over to Merrill," said Luke, hesitating.

"He was in a deuced stew about his bill."

"When are your pants going to be ready?"

"I don't know," said Luke, with a pang of sorrow.

"Merrill's making them, isn't he?"

"He says he won't till I pay the whole bill."

"Seems to me your credit ain't very good, Luke."

"It's good enough, be he's hard up for money. I guess he's going to fail. If you'll lend me a couple of dollars, I'll go around and have a game."

Frank Heath laughed.

"You'll have to go to some one else, Luke," he said.

Luke passed a disagreeable evening. Cut off by his want of money from his ordinary amusements, and depressed by the thought that things would be no better till he had paid his bills, he lounged about, feeling that he was a victim of ill luck. It did not occur to him that that ill luck was of his own bringing.



Chapter XXII. The Coming Of The Magician


The week passed and Luke carefully avoided our hero going so far as to cross the street so as not to meet him. On Saturday evening, according to his arrangement, Luke was to have paid the surplus of his wages, after meeting his board bill, to Mr. Merrill, for Harry.

But he did not go near him. On Monday, the tailor meeting him, inquired why he had not kept his agreement.

"The fact is," said Luke, "I have been unlucky."

"How unlucky?"

"I had my wages loose in my pocket, and managed to lose them somehow."

"That is very singular," said the tailor, suspiciously.

"Why is it singular?" asked Luke. "Didn't Harry Walton lose his money?"

"You seem to have lost yours at a very convenient time."

"It's hard on me," said Luke. "Owing so much, I want to pay as quick as I can, so as to have my wages to myself. Don't you see that?"

"Where do you think you lost the money?"

"I'm sure I don't know," said Luke.

"Well," said Merrill, dryly, "I hope you will take better care of your wages next Saturday evening."

"I mean to. I can't afford to lose anymore."

"I don't believe, a word of what he says about losing his money," said the tailor, privately, to Harry. "I think it's only a trick to get rid of paying you."

"Don't you think he'll pay me?" asked Harry.

"He won't if he can help it," was the answer. "He's a slippery customer. I believe his money is in his pocket at this moment."

Mr. Merrill was not quite right; but it was only as to the whereabouts of the money. It was in Luke's trunk. He intended to run away, leaving all his creditors in the lurch. This was the "new way to pay old debts," which occurred to Luke as much the easiest.

The next Saturday evening, Mr. Merrill waited in vain for a call from his debtor.

"What excuse will he have now?" he thought.

On Monday morning he learned that Luke had left town without acquainting anyone with his destination. It transpired, also, that he was owing at his boarding house for two weeks' board. He was thus enabled to depart with nearly thirty dollars, for parts unknown.

"He's a hard case," said Mr. Merrill to Harry. "I am afraid he means to owe us for a long time to come."

"Where do you think he is gone?" asked Harry.

"I have no idea. He has evidently been saving up money to help him out of town. Sometime we may get upon his track, and compel him to pay up."

"That won't do me much good," said Harry, despondently. And then he told the tailor why he wanted the money. "Now," he concluded, "I shan't be able to have the money ready in time."

"You'll have most of it ready, won't you?"

"I think I will."

"I would lend you the money myself," said the tailor, "but I've got a heavy payment to meet and some of my customers are slow pay, though I have not many as bad as Luke Harrison."

"Thank you, Mr. Merrill," said Harry. "I am as much obliged to you as if you could lend the money."

But it is said that misfortunes never come singly. The very next day Mr. Leavitt received a message from the wholesale dealer to whom he sold his shoes, that the market was glutted and sales slow.

"I shall not want any more goods for a month or two," the letter concluded. "I will let you know, when I more."

Mr. Leavitt read this letter aloud in the shop.

"So it seems we are to have a vacation," he said. "That's the worst of the shoe trade. It isn't steady. When it's good everybody rushes into it, and the market soon gets overstocked. Then there's no work for weeks."

This was a catastrophe for which Harry was no prepared. He heard the announcement with a grave face, for to him it was a serious calamity. Twenty-three dollars were all that he had saved from the money lost and this would be increased by a dollar or two only, when he had settled up with Mr. Leavitt. If he stayed here did not obtain work, he must pay his board, and that would soon swallow up his money. Could he get work in any other shop? That was an important question.

"Do you think I can get into any other shop in town?" he inquired anxiously of Mr. Leavitt.

"You can try, Harry; but I guess you'll find others no better off than I."

This was not very encouraging, but Harry determined not to give up without an effort. He devoted the next day to going around among the shoe shops; but everywhere he met with unfavorable answers. Some had ready suspended. Others were about to do so.

"It seems as if all my money must go," thought Harry, looking despondently at his little hoard. "First the ten dollars Luke Harrison stole. Then work stopped. I don't know but it would be better for me to go home."

But the more Harry thought of this, the less he liked it. It would be an inglorious ending to his campaign. Probably now he would not be able to carry out his plan of paying for the cow; but if his father should lose it, he might be able, if he found work, to buy him another Squire Green's cow was not the only cow in the world and all would not be lost if he could not buy her.

"I won't give up yet," said Harry, pluckily. "I must expect to meet with some bad luck. I suppose everybody does. Something'll turn up for me if I try to make it."

This was good philosophy. Waiting passively for something to turn up is bad policy and likely to lead to disappointment; but waiting actively, ready to seize any chance that may offer, is quite different. The world is full of chances, and from such chances so seized has been based many a prosperous career.

During his first idle day, Harry's attention was drawn to a handbill which had been posted up in the store, the post office, the tavern, and other public places in the village. It was to this effect:


"Professor Henderson,

"The celebrated Magician,

"Will exhibit his wonderful feats of Magic and Sleight of Hand in the Town Hall this evening, commencing at 8 o'clock. In the course of the entertainment he will amuse the audience by his wonderful exhibition of Ventriloquism, in which he is unsurpassed.

"Tickets 25 cents. Children under twelve, 15 cents."


In a country village, where amusements are few, such entertainments occupy a far more important place than in a city, where amusements abound.

"Are you going to the exhibition, Walton?" asked Frank Heath.

"I don't know," said Harry.

"Better come. It'll be worth seeing."

In spite of his economy, our hero wanted to go.

"The professor's stopping at the tavern. Come over, and we may see him," said Frank.



Chapter XXIII. The Ventriloquist


The boys went into the public room of the tavern. In the center was a stove, around which were gathered a miscellaneous crowd, who had assembled, as usual, to hear and talk over the news of the day. At the farther end of the room was a bar, where liquor and cigars were sold. The walls of the room, which was rather low-studded, were ornamented by sundry notices and posters of different colors, with here and there an engraving of no great artistic excellence -- one representing a horse race, another a steamer of the Cunard Line, and still another, the Presidents of the United States grouped together, with Washington as the central figure.

"Have a cigar, Walton?" asked Frank Heath.

"No, thank you, Frank."

"You haven't got so far along, hey?"

"I don't think it would do me any good," said Harry.

"Maybe not; but jolly comfortable on a cold night. The worst of it is, it's mighty expensive."

Frank walked up to the bar and bought a ten-cent cigar. He returned and sat down on a settee.

"The magician isn't here," said Harry.

"Hush, he is here!" said Frank, in a low voice, as the door opened, and a tall, portly man entered the room.

Professor Henderson -- for it was he -- walked up the bar, and followed Frank Heath's example in the purchase of a cigar Then he glanced leisurely round the apartment. Apparently, his attention was fixed by our hero, for he walked up to him, and said: "Young man, I would like to speak to you."

"All right, sir," said Harry, in surprise.

"If you are not otherwise occupied, will you accompany me to my room?"

"Certainly, sir," returned Harry, in fresh wonder.

"Perhaps he's going to take in Walton as partner," Frank Heath suggested to Tom Frisbie.

"I wonder what he want anyway?" said Frisbie. "Why didn't he take you?"

"Because I'm too sharp," said Frank. "I should see through his tricks."

Meanwhile, Harry had entered the professor's chamber.

"Sit down," said the magician. "I'll tell you what I want of you. I want you to take tickets at the door of hall to-night. Can you do it?"

"Yes, sir," said Harry, promptly.

"It seems easy enough," said the professor; "but not everyone can do it rapidly without making mistakes. Are you quick at figures?"

"I am usually considered so," said our hero.

"I won't ask whether you are honest, for you would so, of course."

"I hope -- " commenced Harry.

"I know what you are going to say; but there is no need of saying it," interrupted the magician. "I judge from your face, which is an honest one. I have traveled about a good deal, and I am a good judge of faces."

"You shall not be disappointed, sir."

"I know that, in advance. Now, tell me if you are at work, or do you attend school?"

"I have been at work in a shoe shop in this village, sir."

"Not now?"

"No, sir; business is dull, and work has given out."

"What are you going to do next?"

"Anything by which I can earn an honest living."

"That's the way to talk. I'll take you into my employ, if you have no objection to travel."

Objection to travel! Who ever heard of a boy of fifteen who had an objection to travel?

"But will your parents consent? That is the next question. I don't want to entice any boys away from home against their parents' consent."

"My parents do not live here. They live farther north, in the town of Granton."

"Granton? I never was there. Is it a large place?"

"No, sir, it is a very small place. My father consented to have me leave home and he will have no objection to my earning my living in any honest way."

"Well, my young friend, I can assure you that my way is an honest one, though I frankly confess I do my best to deceive the people who come to my entertainments."

"What is it you want me to do, sir?"

"Partly what you are going to do to-night -- take tickets at the door; but that is not all. I have to carry about considerable apparatus and I need help about arranging it. Sometimes, also, I need help in my experiments. I had a young man with me; but he is taken down with a fever and obliged to go home. It is not likely, as his health is delicate, that he will care to resume his position. I must have somebody in his place. I have no doubt you will answer my purpose."

"How much pay do you give, sir?"

"A practical question," said the professor, smiling.

"To begin with, of course I pay traveling expenses, and I can offer you five dollars a week besides. Will that be satisfactory?"

"Yes, sir," said Harry, his heart giving a great throb of exultation as he realized that his new business would give him two dollars week more than his work in the shop, besides being a good deal more agreeable, since it would give him a chance to see a little of the world.

"Can you start with me to-morrow morning?"

"Yes, sir."

"Then it is settled. But it is time you were at the hall. I will give you a supply of small bills and, change, as you may have to change some bills."

He drew from his side pocket a wallet, which he placed in the hands of our hero.

"This wallet contains twenty dollars," he said: "Of course you will bring me back that amount, in addition to what you take at the door this evening."

"Very well, sir."

"You can wait for me at the close of the evening, and hand me all together. Now go over to the hall, as the doors are to be open at half past seven o'clock."

When Frank Heath and his companion went over to the Town Hall they found Harry making change.

"Hello, Walton!" said Frank. "Are you the treasurer of this concern?"

"It seems so," said Harry.

"You'll let in your friends for nothing, won't you?"

"Not much. I charge them double price."

"Well here's our money. I say, Tom, I wonder the old fellow didn't take me instead of Walton."

"That's easily told. You don't look honest enough."

"Oh, if it comes to that, he passed over you, too, Tom."

"He wouldn't insult a gentleman of my dignity. Come on; there's room on the front seat."

Harry was kept busy till ten minutes after eight. By that time about all who intended to be present were in the hall and the magician was gratified by seeing that it was crowded. He was already well known in the village, having been in the habit of visiting it every for years and his reputation for dexterity, and especially for ventriloquism, had called out this large audience.

The professor's tricks excited great wonder in the younger spectators. I will only dwell slightly on his ventriloquism. When he came to this part of the entertainment, he said: "Will any young gentleman assist me?"

Frank Heath immediately left his seat and took up his position beside the professor.

"Now, sir," said the professor, "I want to ask you a question or two. Will you answer me truly?"

A gruff voice appeared to proceed from Frank's mouth, saying: "Yes, sir."

"Are you married, sir?"

Again the same gruff voice answered: "Yes, sir; I wish I wasn't;" to the great delight of the small boys.

"Indeed, sir! I hope your wife doesn't make it uncomfortable for you."

"She licks me," Frank appeared to answer.

"I am sorry. What does she lick you with?"

"With a broomstick."

Frank looked foolish and there was a general laugh.

"I hope she doesn't treat you so badly very often, sir."

"Yes, she does, every day," was the answer. "If she knowed I was up here telling you, she'd beat me awful."

"In that case, sir, I won't be cruel enough to keep you here any longer. Take my advice, sir, and get a divorce."

"So I will, by hokey!"

And Frank, amid hearty laughter, resumed his seat, not having uttered a word, the professor being responsible for the whole conversation.



Chapter XXIV. Harry's Letter


During Harry's absence, the little household at Granton had got along about as usual. They lived from hand to mouth. It required sharp financiering to provide food and clothes for the little family.

There was one neighbor who watched their progress sharply and this was Squire Green. It will be remembered that he had bound Mr. Walton to forfeit ten dollars, if, at the end of six months, he was not prepared to pay the forty dollars and interest which he had agreed to pay for the cow. It is a proof of the man's intense meanness that, though rich while his neighbor was poor, he was strongly in hopes that the latter would incur the forfeit and be compelled to pay it.

One morning Squire Green accosted Mr. Walton, the squire being at work in his own front yard.

"Good morning, neighbor Walton," he said.

"Good morning, squire."

"How is that cow a-doin'?"

"Pretty well."

"She's a good cow."

"Not so good as the one I lost."

"You're jokin' now, neighbor. It was my best cow. I wouldn't have sold her except to obleege."

"She doesn't give as much milk as my old one."

"Sho! I guess you don't feed her as well as I did."

"She fares just as well as the other one did. Of course, I don't know how you fed her."

"She allers had her fill when she was with me. Le' me see, how long is it since I sold her to ye?"

Though the squire apparently asked for information, he knew the time to a day and was not likely to forget.

"It's between four and five months, I believe."

"Jus'so. You was to be ready to pay up at the end of six months."

"That was the agreement."

"You'd better be a-savin' up for it."

"There isn't much chance of my saving. It's all I can do to make both ends meet."

"You don't say so," said the squire, secretly pleased.

"My farm is small and poor, and doesn't yield much."

"But you work out, don't you?"

"When I get a chance. You don't want any help, do you, squire? I might work off part of the debt that way."

"Mebbe next spring I'd like some help."

"That will be too late to meet my note, unless you'll renew."

"I'll see about it," said the squire, evasively. "What do you hear from that boy of yours? Is he doin' well?"

"He's at work in a shoe shop."

"Does it pay well?"

"He doesn't get much just at first."

"Then he won't be able to pay for the cow," thought the squire. "That's what I wanted to know."

"He'd better have gone to work for me," he said

"No, I think he will do better away from home. He will get a good trade that he can fall back upon hereafter, even if he follows some other business."

"Wal, I never learned no trade but I've got along middlin' well," said the squire, in a complacent tone. "Farmin's good enough for me."

"I would say the same if I had your farm, squire. You wouldn't exchange, would you?"

"That's a good joke, neighbor Walton. When I make up my mind to do it. I'll let you know."

"What a mean old curmudgeon he is!" thought Hiram Walton, as he kept on his way to the village store. "He evidently intends to keep me to my agreement and will exact the ten dollars in case I can't pay for the cow at the appointed time. It will be nothing but a robbery."

This was not the day for a letter from Harry but it occurred to Mr. Walton to call at the post office. Contrary to his anticipations, a letter was handed him.

"I won't open it till I get home," he said to himself.

"I've got a letter from Harry," he said, as he entered the house.

"A letter from Harry? It isn't his day for writing," said Mrs. Walton. "What does he say?"

"I haven't opened the letter yet. Here, Tom, open and read it aloud."

Tom opened the letter and read as follows:


"Dear Father: -- I must tell you, to begin with, that I have been compelled to stop work in the shoe shop. The market is overstocked and trade has become very dull.

"Of course, I felt quite bad when Mr. Leavitt told me this, for I feared it would prevent my helping you pay for the cow, as I want so much to do. I went round to several other shops, hoping to get in, but I found it impossible. Still, I have succeeded in getting something to do that will pay me better than work in the shop. If you were to guess all day, I don't believe you would guess what business it is. So, to relieve your suspense, I will tell you that I have engaged as assistant to Professor Henderson, the famous magician and ventriloquist and am to start to-morrow on a tour with him."


"Assistant to a magician!" exclaimed Mrs. Walton

"What does the boy know about magic?"

"It's a bully business," said Tom, enthusiastically. "I only wish I was in Harry's shoes. I'd like to travel round with a magician first-rate."

"You're too thick-headed, Tom," said Marry.

"Shut up!" said Tom. "I guess I'm as smart as you, any day."

"Be quiet, both of you!" said Mr. Walton. "Now, Tom, go on with your brother's letter."

Tom proceeded: "I am to take money at the door. We are going about in the southern part of the State and shall visit some towns in Massachusetts, the professor says. You know I've never been round any and I shall like traveling and seeing new places. Professor Henderson is very kind and I think I shall like him. He pays my traveling expenses and five dollars a week, which is nearly twice as much money as I got from Mr. Leavitt. I can't help thinking I am lucky in getting so good a chance only a day after I lost my place in the shoe shop. I hope, yet, to be able to pay for the cow when the money comes due.

"Love to all at home.

"Harry."


"Harry's lucky," said Mary. "He can get along."

"He is fortunate to find employment at once," said his father; "though something which he can follow steadily is better. But the pay is good and I am glad he has it."

"How long it seems since Harry was at home," said his mother. "I wish I could see him."

"Yes, it would be pleasant," said Mr. Walton; "but the boy has his own way to make, so we will be thankful that he is succeeding so well."



Chapter XXV. A Strange Companion


At ten o'clock the next day, Harry presented himself at the hotel. He carried in his hand a carpetbag lent him by Mr. Leavitt, which contained his small stock of under-clothing. His outside suits he left at Mr. Leavitt's, not wishing to be encumbered with them while traveling.

"I see you are on time," said the professor.

"Yes, sir; I always mean to be."

"That's well; now if you'll jump into my buggy with me, we will ride round to the Town Hall and take in my apparatus. I have to keep a carriage," said the magician, as they rode along. "It saves me a great deal of trouble by making me independent of cars and stages."

The apparatus was transferred to a trunk in the back part of the buggy and securely locked.

"Now we are all ready," said Professor Henderson,

"Would you like to drive?"

"Yes, sir," answered Harry, with alacrity.

"I am going to give an entertainment in Holston this evening," said his new employer. "Were you ever there?"

"No, sir."

"It is a smart little place and although the population is not large, I always draw a full house."

"How far is it, sir?"

"About six miles."

Harry was sorry it was not farther, as he enjoyed driving. His companion leaned back at his ease and talked on various subjects. He paused a moment and Harry was startled by hearing a stifled child's voice just behind him: "Oh, let me out! Don't keep me locked up here!"

The reins nearly fell from his hands. He turned and heard the voice apparently proceeding from the trunk.

"What's the matter?" asked Professor Henderson.

"I thought I heard a child's voice."

"So you did," said the voice again.

The truth flashed upon Harry. His companion was exerting some of his powers as a ventriloquist.

"Oh, it is you, sir," he said, smiling.

His companion smiled.

"You are right," he said.

"I don't see how you can do it," said Harry.

"Practice, my boy."

"But practice wouldn't make everybody a ventriloquist, would it?"

"Most persons might become ventriloquists, though in an unequal degree. I often amuse myself by making use of it for playing practical jokes upon people.

"Do you see that old lady ahead?"

"Yes, sir."

"I'll offer her a ride. If she accepts, you'll see sport. I shall make you talk but you must be careful to say nothing yourself."

A few rods farther on, they overtook an old woman.

"Good morning, ma'am," said the professor. "Won't you get in and ride? It's easier riding than walking."

The old women scanned his countenance and answered: "Thank you, sir, I'm obleeged to ye. I don't mind if I do."

She was assisted into the carriage and sat at one end of the seat, Harry being in the middle.

"I was going to see my darter, Nancy," said the old women. "Mrs. Nehemiah Babcock her name is. Mebbe you know her husband."

"I don't think I do," said the professor.

"He's got a brother in Boston in the dry goods business. Mebbe you've been at his store."

"Mebbe I have."

"I ginerally call to see my darter -- her name is Nancy -- once a week; but it's rather hard for me to walk, now I'm getting' on in years."

"You're most eighty, ain't you?" appeared to proceed from Harry's mouth. Our hero's face twitched and he had hard work to keep from laughing.

"Indeed, I'm not!" said the old lady, indignantly.

"I'm only sixty-seven and folks say I don't look more'n sixty," and the old lady looked angrily at Harry.

"You must excuse him, ma'am," said the professor, soothingly. "He is no judge of a lady's age."

"I should think not, indeed."

"Indeed, madam, you are very young looking."

The old lady was pacified by this compliment but looked askance at Harry.

"Is he your son?"

"No, ma'am."

The old lady sniffed, as if to say, "So much the better for you."

"Are you travelin' far?" asked the old lady.

"What do you want to know for?" Harry appeared to ask.

"You're a sassy boy!" exclaimed the old woman.

"Harry," said Professor Henderson, gravely, "how often have I told you not to be so unmannerly?"

"He orter be whipped," said the old lady. "Ef I had a boy that was so sassy, I'd larn him manners!"

"I'm glad I ain't your boy," Harry appeared to reply.

"I declare I won't ride another step if you let him insult me so," said the old woman, glaring at our hero.

Professor Henderson caught her eye and significantly touched his forehead, giving her to understand that Harry was only "half-witted."

"You don't say so," she ejaculated, taking the hint at once. "How long's he been so?"

"Ever since he was born."

"Ain't you afraid to have him drive?"

"Oh, not at all. He understands horses as well as I do."

"What's his name?"

Before the professor's answer could be heard, Harry appeared to rattle off the extraordinary name: "George Washington Harry Jefferson Ebenezer Popkins."

"My gracious! Has he got all them names?"

"Why not? What have you got to say about it, old women?" said the same voice.

"Oh, I ain't got no objection," said the old woman.

"You may have fifty-'leven names ef you want to."

"I don't interfere with his names," said the professor.

"If he chooses to call himself -- "

"George Washington Harry Jefferson Ebenezer Popkins," repeated the voice, with great volubility.

"If he chooses to call himself by all those names, I'm sure I don't care. How far do you go, ma'am?"

"About quarter of a mile farther."

The professor saw that he must proceed to his final joke.

"Let me out! Don't keep me locked up here!" said the child's voice, from behind, in a pleading tone.

"What's that?" asked the startled old lady.

"What's what?" asked the professor, innocently.

"That child that wants to get out."

"You must have dreamed it, my good lady."

"No, there 'tis agin'," said the old lady, excited.

"It's in the trunk behind you," said the assumed voice, appearing to proceed from our hero.

"So 'tis," said the old lady, turning halfway round.

"Oh, I shall die! Let me out! Let me out!"

"He's locked up his little girl in the trunk," Harry seemed to say.

"You wicked man, let her out this minute," said the old lady, very much excited. "Don't you know no better than to lock up a child where she can't get no air?"

"There is no child in the trunk, I assure you," said Professor Henderson, politely.

"Don't you believe him," said Harry's voice.

"Do let me out, father!" implored the child's voice

"If you don't open the trunk, I'll have you took up for murder," said the old lady.

"I will open it to show you are mistaken."

The professor got over the seat, and, opening the trunk, displayed its contents to the astonished old lady.

"I told you that there was no child there," he said; "but you would not believe me."

"Le' me out," gasped the old woman. "I'd rather walk. I never heerd of such strange goin's on afore."

"If you insist upon it, madam, but I'm sorry to lose your company. Take this with you and read it."

He handed her one of his bills, which she put in her pocket, saying she couldn't see to read it.

When they were far enough off to make it safe, Harry gave vent to his mirth, which he had restrained till this at difficulty and laughed long and loud.



Chapter XXVI. Pages From The Past


"What will the old lady think of you?" said Harry.

"She will have a very bad opinion till she puts on her specs and read the bill. That will explain all. I shouldn't be surprised to see her at my entertainment."

"I wonder if she'll recognize me," said Harry.

"No doubt; as soon as she learns with whom she rode, she'll be very curious to come and see me perform."

"How old were you when you began to be a ventriloquist?"

"I was eighteen. I accidentally made the discovery, and devoted considerable time to perfecting myself in it before acquainting anyone with it. That idea came later. You see when I was twenty-one, with a little property which I inherited from my uncle, I went into business for myself; but I was young and inexperienced in management, and the consequence was, that in about two years I failed. I found it difficult to get employment as a clerk, business being very dull at the time. While uncertain what to do, one of my friends, to whom I had communicated my power, induced me to give me a public entertainment, combining with it a few tricks of magic, which I had been able to pick up from books. I succeeded so well my vocation in life became Professor Henderson."

"It must be great fun to be a ventriloquist."

"So I regarded it at first. It may not be a very high vocation but I make the people laugh and so I regard myself as a public benefactor. Indeed, I once did an essential service to a young man by means of my ventriloquism."

"I should like very much to hear the story."

"I will tell you. One day, a young man, a stranger, came to me and introduced himself under the name of Paul Dabney. He said that I might, if I would, do him a great service. His father had died the year previous, leaving a farm and other property to the value of fifteen thousand dollars. Of course, being as only son, he expected that this would be left to himself, or, at least, the greater part of it. Conceive his surprise, therefore, when the will came to be read, to find that the entire property was left to his Uncle Jonas, his father brother, who, for three years past, had been a member of the family. Jonas had never prospered in life, and his brother, out of pity, had offered him an asylum on his farm. He had formerly been a bookkeeper and was an accomplished penman.

"The will was so extraordinary -- since Paul and his father had always been on perfectly good terms -- that the young man was thunderstruck. His uncle expressed hypocritical surprise at the nature of the will.

"'I don't believe my father made that will,' exclaimed Paul, angrily.

"'What do you mean by that?' demanded the uncle.

"His anger made Paul think that he had hit upon the truth, particularly as his uncle was an adroit penman.

"He carefully examined the will; but the writing so closely resembled his father's that he could see no difference. The witnesses were his Uncle Jonas and a hired man, who, shortly after witnessing the signature, had been discharged and had disappeared from the neighborhood. All this excited Paul's suspicions.

"His uncle offered him a home on the farm; but positively refused to give him any portion of the property.

"'I sympathize with you,' I said at the conclusion of Paul's story; 'but how can I help you?'

"'I will tell you, sir,' he replied. 'You must know that my Uncle Jonas is very superstitious. I mean, through your help, to play upon his fears and thus induce him to give up the property to me.'

"With this he unfolded his plan and I agreed to help him. His uncle lived ten miles distant. I procured a laborer's disguise and the morning after -- Paul having previously gone back -- I entered the yard of the farmhouse. The old man was standing outside, smoking a pipe.

"'Can you give me work?' I asked.

"'What kind of work?' inquired Jonas.

"'Farm work,' I answered.

"'How much do you want?'

"'Eight dollars a month.'

"'I'll give you six,' he said.

"'That's too little.'

"'It's the most I'll give you.'

"'Then I'll take,' I replied, and was at once engaged.

"Delighted to get me so cheap, the sordid old man asked me no troublesome questions. I knew enough of farm work to get along pretty well and not betray myself.

"That night I concealed myself in the old man's apartment without arousing his suspicions, Paul helping me. After he had been in bed about twenty minutes, I thought it time to begin. Accordingly I uttered a hollow groan.

"'Eh! What's that?' cried the old man, rising in bed.

"'I am the spirit of your dead brother,' I answered, throwing my voice near the bed.

"'What do you want?' he asked, his teeth chattering.

"'You have cheated Paul out of his property.'

"'Forgive me!' he cried, terror-stricken.

"'Then give him back the property.'

"'The whole?' he groaned.

"'Yes, the whole.'

"'Are -- are you really my brother?'

"'I will give you this proof. Unless you do as I order you, in three days you will be with me.'

"'What, dead?' he said, shuddering.

"'Yes,' I answered in sepulchral a tone as possible.

"'Are -- are you sure of it?'

"'If you doubt it, disobey me.'

"'I'll do it, but -- don't come again.'

"'Be sure you do it then.'

"I ceased to speak, being tired, and escaped as soon as I could. But the battle was not yet over. The next day gave Jonas courage. Afternoon came and he had done nothing. He was with me in the field when I threw a hollow voice, which seemed to be close to his ear. I said, 'Obey, or in three days you die.'

"He turned pale as a sheet and asked me if I heard anything. I expressed surprise and this confirmed him in his belief of the ghostly visitation. He went to the house, sent for a lawyer and transferred the entire property to his nephew. The latter made him a present of a thousand dollars and so the affair ended happily. Paul paid me handsomely for my share in the trick and the next day I made an excuse for leaving the farm."

"Did the old man ever discover your agency in the affair, Professor Henderson?"

"Never. He is dead now and my friend Paul is happily married, and has a fine family. His oldest boy is named after me. But here we are in Holston."



Chapter XXVII. A Mystifying Performance


The people of Holston turned out in large numbers. Among the first to appear was the old lady whom the professor had taken up on his way over.

"You're the boy that was so sassy to me this mornin'," she said, peering at Harry through her spectacles.

"I didn't say a word to you," said Harry.

"I'm afraid you're tellin' fibs. I heerd you."

"It was the professor. He put the words in my mouth."

"Well, come to think on't the voice was different from yours. Then there wa'n't nobody in the trunk?"

"No, ma'am," said Harry, smiling.

"It's wonderful, I declare for't. This is my darter, Mrs. Nehemiah Babcock," continued the old lady. "Nancy, this is the ventriloquer's boy. I thought he was sassy to me this mornin'; but he says he didn't speak a word. How much is to pay?" said the old lady.

"I won't charge you anything," said Harry. "Professor Henderson told me, if you came to let you in free, and any of your family."

"Really, now, that's very perlite of the professor," said the old lady. "He's a gentleman if ever there was one. Do you hear, Nancy, we can go in without payin' a cent. That's all on, account of your marm's being acquainted with the professor. I'm glad I come."

The old lady and her party entered the hall, and being early, secured good seats. Tom, her grandson, was glad to be so near, as he was ambitious to assist the professor in case volunteers were called for.

"Will any young gentleman come forward and assist me in the next trick?" asked the professor, after a while.

Tom started from his seat. His grandmother tried to seize him by the coat but he was too quick for her.

"Oh, let him go," said his mother. "He won't come to any harm."

"Is this your first appearance as a magician?" asked the professor.

"Yes, sir," answered Tom, with a grin.

"Very good. I will get you to help me, but you mustn't tell anybody how the tricks are done."

"No, sir, I won't."

"As I am going trust you with a little money, I want to ask you whether you are strictly honest."

"Yes, sir."

"I am glad to hear it. Do you see this piece of gold?"

"Yes, sir."

"What is its value?"

"Ten dollars," answered Tom, inspecting it.

"Very good. I want you hold it for me. I give you warning that I mean to make it pass out of you hand."

"I don't think you can do it, sir."

"Well, perhaps not. You look like a pretty sharp customer. It won't be easy to fool you."

"You bet."

"Nancy," whispered the old lady to her daughter. "I hope you don't allow Tom to talk so."

"Look, mother, see want he's going to do."

"What I propose to do," said the professor, "is to make that coin pass into the box on the table. I may not be able to do it, as the young gentleman is on his guard. However, I will try. Presto, change!"

"It didn't go," said Tom. "I've got it here."

"Have you? Suppose you open your hand."

Tom opened his hand.

"Well, what have you got? Is it the gold piece?"

"No sir," said Tom, astonished; "it's a cent."

"Then, sir, all I can say is, you have treated me badly. In order to prevent my getting the gold piece into the box, you changed it into a cent."

"No, I didn't," said Tom.

"Then perhaps I have succeeded, after all. The fact is, I took out the gold piece and put a penny in its place, so that you might not know the difference. Now here is the key of that box. Will you unlock it?"

Tom unlocked it, only to find another box inside. In fact, it was a perfect nest of boxes. In the very last of all was found the gold coin.

"It's very strange you didn't feel it go out of your hand," said the professor.

"I am afraid you are not quick enough to make a magician. Can you fire a pistol?"

"Yes, sir," said Tom.

"Will any lady lend me a ring?" asked the professor.

One was soon found

"I will load the pistol," said the professor, "and put the ring in with the rest of the charge. It appears to be rather too large. I shall have to hammer it down."

He brought down a hammer heavily upon the ring and soon bent it sufficiently to get it into the pistol.

"Now, sir," he said, "take the pistol, and stand off there. All right, sir. When I give the word, I want you to fire. One, two, three!"

Tom fired, his grandmother uttering a half suppressed shriek at the report. When the smoke cleared away, the professor was holding the ring between his thumb and finger, quite uninjured.

Professor Henderson's attention had been drawn to his companion of the morning. He observed that she had taken off her bonnet. He went up to her, and said, politely, "Madam, will you kindly lend me your bonnet?"

"Massy sakes, what do you want of it?"

"I won't injure it, I assure you."

"You may take it, ef you want to," said the old lady; "but be keerful and don't bend it."

"I will be very careful; but, madam," he said, in seeming surprise, "what have you got in it?"

"Nothing, sir."

"You are mistaken. See there, and there, and there"; and he rapidly drew out three onions, four turnips, and a couple of potatoes. "Really, you must have thought you were going to market."

"They ain't mine," gasped the old lady.

"Then it's very strange how they got into your bonnet. And -- let me see -- here's an egg, too."

"I never see sich doin's."

"Granny, I guess a hen made her nest in your bonnet," whispered Tom.

The old lady shook her head in helpless amazement.



Chapter XXVII. An Unexpected Payment


A week later Harry reached a brisk manufacturing place which I will call Centreville. He assisted the professor during the afternoon to get ready the hall for his evening performance and, at half past five, took his seat at the supper table in the village hotel.

Just as Harry began to eat, he lifted his eyes, and started in surprise as he recognized, in his opposite neighbor, Luke Harrison, whose abrupt departure without paying his debts the reader will remember. Under the circumstances, it will not be wondered at that our hero's look was not exactly cordial. As for Luke, he was disagreeably startled at Harry's sudden appearance. Not knowing his connection with Professor Henderson, he fancied that our hero was in quest of him and not being skilled in the law, felt a little apprehension as to what course he might take. It was best, he concluded to conciliate him.

"How are you, Walton?" he said.

"I am well," said Harry, coldly.

"How do you happen to be in this neighborhood?"

"On business," said Harry, briefly.

Luke jumped to the conclusion that the business related to him and, conscious of wrong-doing, felt disturbed.

"I'm glad to see you," he said. "It seems pleasant to see an old acquaintance" -- he intended to say "friend."

"You left us rather suddenly," said Harry.

"Why, yes," said Luke, hesitating. "I had reasons. I'll tell you about it after supper."

As Harry rose from the table, Luke joined him.

"Come upstairs to my room, Walton," he said, "and have a cigar."

"I'll go upstairs with you; but I don't smoke."

"You'd better learn. It's a great comfort."

"Do you board here?"

"Yes. I found I shouldn't have to pay any more than at a boarding house and the grub's better. Here's my room. Walk in."

He led the way into a small apartment on the top floor.

"This is my den," he said. "There isn't but one chair; but I'll sit on the bed. When did you reach town?"

"About noon."

"Are you going to stop long?" asked Luke.

"I shall stay here till I get through with my errand," answered Harry, shrewdly; for he saw what Luke thought, and it occurred to him that he might turn it to advantage.

Luke looked a little uneasy.

"By the way, Walton," he said, "I believe I owe you a little money."

"Yes. I believe so."

"I'm sorry I can't pay you the whole of it. It costs considerable to live, you know; but I'll pay part."

"Here are five dollars," he said. "I'll pay you the rest as soon as I can -- in a week or two."

Harry took the bank note with secret self-congratulation, for he had given up the debt as bad, and never expected to realize a cent of it.

"I am glad to get it," he said. "I have a use for all my money. Are you working in this town?"

"Yes. The shoe business is carried on here considerably. Are you still working for Mr. Leavitt?"

"No; I've left him."

"What are you doing, then?"

"I'm traveling with Professor Henderson."

"What, the magician?"

"Yes."

"And is that what brought you to Centreville?"

"Yes."

Luke whistled.

"I thought -- " he began.

"What did you think?"

"I thought," answered Luke, evasively, "that you might be looking for work in some of the shoe shops here."

"Is there any chance, do you think?"

"No, I don't think there is," said Luke; for he was by no means anxious to have Harry in the same town.

"Then I shall probably stay with the professor."

"What do you do?"

"Take tickets at the door and help him beforehand with his apparatus."

"You'll let me in free, to-night, won't you?"

"That isn't for me to decide."

"I should think the professor would let your friends go in free."

"I'll make you an offer, Luke," said he.

"What is it?"

"Just pay me the rest of; that money to-night and I'll let you in free at my own expense."

"I can't do it. I haven't got the money. If 'you'll give it back, I'll call it a dollar more and pay you the whole at the end of next week."

"I'm afraid your calling it a dollar more wouldn't do much good," said Harry, shrewdly.

"Do you doubt my word?" blustered Luke, who had regained courage now that he had ascertained the real object of Harry's visit and that it had no connection with him.

"I won't express any opinion on that subject," answered Harry; "but there's an old saying that a 'bird in the hand's worth two in the bush.'"

"I hate old sayings."

"Some of them contain a great deal of truth."

"What a fool I was to pay him that five dollars!" thought Luke, regretfully. "If I hadn't been such a simpleton, I should have found out what brought him here, before throwing away nearly all I had."

This was the view Luke took of paying his debts. He regarded it as money thrown away. Apparently, a good many young men are of a similar opinion. This was not, however, according to Harry's code, and was never likely to be. He believed in honesty and integrity. If he hadn't, I should feel far less confidence in his ultimate success.

"I think I must leave you," said Harry, rising. "The professor may need me."

"Do you like him? Have you got a good place?"

"Yes, I like him. He is a very pleasant man."

"How does it pay?"

"Pretty well."

"I wouldn't mind trying it myself. Do you handle all the money?"

"I take the money at the door."

"I suppose you might keep back a dollar or so, every night, and he'd never know the difference."

"I don't know. I never thought about that," said Harry, dryly.

"Oh, I remember, you're one of the pious boys."

"I'm too pious to take money that doesn't belong to me, if that's what you mean," said Harry.

This was a very innocent remark; but Luke, remembering how he had kept Harry's pocketbook, chose to interpret it as a fling to himself.

"Do you mean that for me?" he demanded, angrily.

"Mean what for you?"

"That about keeping other people's money."

"I wasn't talking about you at all. I was talking about myself."

"You'd better not insult me," said Luke, still suspicious.

"I'm not in the habit of insulting anybody."

"I don't believe in people that set themselves up to be so much better than everybody else."

"Do you mean that for me?" asked Harry, smiling.

"Yes, I do. What are you going to do about it?"

"Nothing, except to deny that I make any such claims. Shall you come round to the hall, to-night?"

"Perhaps so."

"Then I shall see you. I must be going now."

He went out, leaving Luke vainly deploring the loss of the five dollars which he had so foolishly squandered in paying his debt.



Chapter XXIX. In The Printing Office


"Harry," said the professor, after breakfast the next morning, "I find we must get some more bills printed. You may go round to the office of the Centreville Gazette, and ask them how soon they can print me a hundred large bills and a thousand small ones."

"All right, sir. Suppose they can't have them done by the ready to start?"

"They can send them to me by express."

Harry had never been in a printing office; but he had a great curiosity to see one ever since he had read the "Life of Benjamin Franklin." If there was anyone in whose steps he thought he should like to follow, it was Franklin, and Franklin was a printer.

He had no difficulty in finding the office. It was in the second story of a building, just at the junction of two roads near the center of the town, the post office being just underneath. He ascended a staircase, and saw on the door, at the head of the stairs:


"Centreville Gazette"


He opened the door and entered. He saw a large room, containing a press at the end, while two young men, with paper caps on their heads, were standing in their shirt sleeves at upright cases setting type. On one side there was a very small office partitioned off. Within, a man was seen seated at a desk, with a pile of exchange papers on the floor, writing busily. This was Mr. Jotham Anderson publisher and editor of the Gazette.

"I want to get some printing done," said Harry, looking toward the journeymen.

"Go to Mr. Anderson," said one, pointing to the office.

Harry went in. The editor looked up as he entered.

"What can I do for you?" he asked.

"I want to get some printing done."

"For yourself?"

"No; for Professor Henderson."

"I've done jobs for him before. What does he want?"

Our hero explained.

"Very well, we will do it."

"Can you have it done before two o'clock?"

"Impossible. I am just bringing out my paper."

"When can you have the job finished?"

"To-morrow noon."

"I suppose that will do. We perform to-morrow at Berlin and they can be sent over to the hotel there."

"You say 'we,'" answered Harry, amused. "I take tickets, and assist him generally."

"How do you like the business?"

"Very well; but I should like your business better."

"What makes you think so?"

"I have been reading the 'Life of Benjamin Franklin.' He was a printer."

"That's true; but I'm sorry to say Franklins are scarce in our printing offices. I never met one yet."

"I shouldn't expect to turn out a Franklins; but I think one couldn't help being improved by the business."

"True again, though, of course, it depends on the wish to improve. How long have you been working for Professor Henderson?"

"Not long. Only two or three weeks."

"What did you do before?"

"I was pegger in a shoe shop."

"Didn't you like it?"

"Well enough, for I needed to earn money and it paid me; but I don't think I should like to be a shoemaker all my life. It doesn't give any chance to learn."

"Then you like learning?"

"Yes. 'Live and learn' -- that is my motto."

"It is a good one. Do you mean to be a printer?"

"If I get a chance."

"You may come into my office on the first of April, if you like. One of my men will leave me by the first of May. If you are a smart boy, and really wish to learn the business, you can break in so as to be useful in four weeks."

"I should like it," said Harry; "but," he added, with hesitation, "I am poor, and could not afford to work for nothing while I was learning."

"I'll tell you what I'll do, then," said the editor. "I'll give you your board for the first month, on condition that you'll work for six months afterwards for two dollars a week and board. That's a fair offer. I wouldn't make it if I didn't feel assured that you were smart, and would in time be valuable to me."

"I'll come if my father does not object."

"Quite tight. I should not like to have you act contrary to his wishes. I suppose, for the present, you will remain with Professor Henderson."

"Yes, sir."

"Very well. Let me hear from you when you have communicated with your father."

Harry left the office plunged in thought. It came upon him with surprise, that he had engaged himself to learn a new business, and that the one which he had longed to follow ever since he had become acquainted with Franklin's early life. He realized that he was probably making immediate sacrifice. He could, undoubtedly, make more money in the shoe shop than in the printing office, for the present at least. By the first of April the shoe business obtain employment. But then he was sure he should like printing better, and if he was ever going to change, why, the sooner he made the change the better.

When he returned to the hotel, he told the professor what he had done.

"I am glad you are not going at once," said his employer, "for I should be sorry to lose you. I generally give up traveling for the season about the first of April, so that I shall be ready to release you. I commend your choice of a trade. Many of our best editors have been practical printers in their youth."

"I should like to be an editor, but I don't know enough."

"Not at present; but you can qualify yourself to become one -- that is, if you devote you spare time to reading and studying."

"I mean to do that."

"Then you will fair chance of becoming what you desire. To a certain extent, a boy, or young man, holds the future in his own hands."

Harry wrote to father, at once, in regard to the plan which he had in view. The answer did not reach him for nearly a week; but we will so far anticipate matters as to insert that part which related to it.

"If you desire to be a printer, Harry, I shall not object. It is a good trade, and you can make yourself, through it, useful to the community. I do not suppose it will ever make you rich. Still, I should think it might, in time, give you a comfortable living -- better, I hope, than I have been able to earn as a farmer. If you determine to win success, you probably will. If you should leave your present place before the first of April, we shall be very glad to have you come home, if only for a day or two. We all miss you very much -- your mother, particularly. Tom doesn't say much about it; but I know he will be as glad to see you as the rest of us."

Harry read this letter with great pleasure, partly because it brought him permission to do as he desired, and partly because it was gratifying to him to feel that he was missed at home. He determined, if it was a possible thing, to leave the professor a week before his new engagement, and spend that time in Granton.



Chapter XXX. The Young Treasurer


On the morning after receiving the letter from his father, Harry came down to breakfast, but looked in vain for the professor. Supposing he would be down directly, he sat down to the breakfast table. When he had nearly finished eating, a boy employed about the hotel came to his side.

"That gentleman you're with is sick. He wants you to come to his room as soon as you are through breakfast."

Harry did not wait to finish, but got up from the table at once, and went up to his employer's room.

"Are you sick, sir?" he inquired, anxiously.

The professor's face was flushed, and he was tossing about in bed.

"Yes," he answered. "I am afraid I am threatened with a fever."

"I hope not, sir."

"I am subject to fevers; but I hope I might not have another for some time to come. I must have caught cold yesterday, and the result is, that I am sick this morning."

"What can I do for you, sir?"

"I should like to have you go for the doctor. Inquire of the landlord who is the best in the village."

"I will go at once."

On inquiry, our hero was informed that Dr. Parker was the most trusted physician in the neighborhood, and he proceeded to his house at once. The doctor was, fortunately, still at home, and answered the summons immediately. He felt the sick man's pulse, asked him a variety of questions, and finally announced his opinion.

"You are about to have a fever," he said, "if, indeed, the fever has not already set in."

"A serious fever, doctor?" asked the sick man, anxiously.

"I cannot yet determine."

"Do you think I shall be long sick?"

"That, also, is uncertain. I suppose you will be likely to be detained here a fortnight, at least."

"I wish I could go home."

"It would not be safe for you to travel, under present circumstances."

"If I were at home, I could be under my wife's care."

"Can't she come here?"

"She has three young children. It would be difficult for her to leave them."

"Who is the boy that called at my house?"

"Harry Walton. He is my assistant -- takes money at the door, and helps me other ways."

"Is he trustworthy?"

"I have always found him so."

"Why can't he, attend upon you?"

"I mean to retain him with me -- that is, if he will stay. It will be dull work for a boy of his age."

"You can obtain a nurse, besides, if needful."

"You had better engage one for me, as I cannot confine him here all the time."

"I will do so. I know of one, skillful and experienced, who is just now at leisure. I will send her round here this morning."

"What is her name?"

"Not a very romantic one -- Betsy Chase."

"I suppose that doesn't prevent her being a good nurse," said the professor, smiling.

"Not at all."

Here Harry entered the room.

"Harry," said the professor, "the doctor tells me I am going to be sick."

"I am very sorry, sir," said our hero, with an air of concern.

"I shall probably be detained here at least a fortnight. Are you willing to remain with me?"

"Certainly, sir. I should not think of leaving you, sick and alone, if you desired me to stay. I hope I can make myself useful to you."

"You can. I shall need you to do errands for me, and to sit with me a part of the time."

"I shall be very willing to do so, sir."

"You will probably find it dull."

"Not so dull as you will find it, sir. The time must seem very long to you, lying on that bed."

"I suppose it will; but that can't be helped."

"A nurse will be here this afternoon," said the doctor.

"Until she comes, you will be in attendance here."

"Yes, sir."

"I will direct you what to do, and how often to administer the medicines. Can remember?"

"Yes, sir, I shall not forget."

Dr. Parker here gave Harry minute instructions, which need not be repeated, since they were altogether of a professional nature.

After the doctor was gone, Professor Henderson said:

"As soon as the nurse comes, I shall want you to ride over to the next town, Carmansville, and countermand the notices for an exhibition to-night. I shall not be able to give entertainments for some time to come. Indeed, I am not sure but I must wait till next season."

"How shall I go over?" asked Harry.

"You may get a horse and buggy at the stable, and drive over there. If I remember rightly, it is between little seven and eight miles. The road is a little winding, but I think you won't lose your way."

"Oh, I'll find it," said Harry, confidently.

It was not till three o'clock that the nurse made her appearance, and it was past three before Harry started on his way.

"You need not hurry home," said the professor. "In fact, you had better take supper at the hotel in Carmansville, as you probably could not very well get back here till eight o'clock."

"Very well, sir," said Harry. "But shan't you need me?"

"No; Miss Chase will attend to me."

"Mrs. Chase, if you please," said the nurse. "I've been a widder for twenty years."

"I beg your pardon, Mrs. Chase," said the sick man smiling.

"When my husband was alive, I never expected to go out nursin'; but I've had come to it."

"The doctor says you are a very skillful and experienced nurse."

"I'd ought to be. I've nussed people in almost all sorts of diseases, from measles to smallpox. You needn't be frightened, sir; I haven't had any smallpox case lately. Isn't it most time to take your medicine?"

Harry left the room, and was soon on his way to Carmansville. Once he got off the road, which was rather a perplexing one, but he soon found it again. However, it was half past five before he reached the village, and nearly an hour later before he had done the errand which brought him over. Finally, he came back to the tavern, and being by this time hungry, went in at once to the tavern, and being by this time hungry, went in at once to supper. He did full justice to the meal which was set before him. The day was cold, and his ride had stimulated his appetite.

When he sat down to the table he was alone; but a minute afterward a small, dark-complexioned man, with heavy black whiskers, came in, and sat down beside him. He had a heavy look, and a forbidding expression; but our hero was too busy to take particular notice of him till the latter commenced a conversation.

"It's a pretty cold day," he remarked.

"Very cold," said Harry. "I am dreading my ride back to Pentland."

"Are you going to Pentland to-night?" asked the stranger, with interest.

"Yes, sir."

"Do you live over there?"

"No; I am there for a short time only," Harry replied.

"Business?"

"Yes."

"You seem rather young to be in business," said the stranger.

"Oh," said Harry, smiling, "I am in the employ of Professor Henderson, the ventriloquist. I suppose it is hardly proper to say that I am in business."

"Professor Henderson! Why, he is going to give an entertainment here to-night, isn't he?"

"He was; but I have come over to countermand the notice."

"What is that for?"

"He is taken sick at Pentland, and won't be able to come."

"Oh, that's it. Well, I'm sorry, for I should like to have gone to hear him. So you are his assistant, are you?"

"Yes, sir."

"Can you perform tricks, too?"

"I don't assist him in that way. I take money at the door, and help him with his apparatus."

"Have you been with him long?"

"Only a few weeks."

"So you are his treasurer, are you?" asked the stranger smiling.

"Ye -- es," said Harry, slowly, for it brought to his mind that he had one hundred and fifty dollars of the professor's money in his pocket, besides the pocketbook containing his own. He intended to have left it with his employer, but in the hurry of leaving he had forgotten to do so. Now he was about to take a long ride in the evening with this large sum of money about him.

"However," he said, reassuring himself, "there is nothing to be afraid of. Country people are not robbers. Burglars stay in the cities. I have nothing to fear."

Still he prudently resolved, if compelled to be out late again, to leave his money at home.

He rose from table, followed by the stranger.

"Well," said the latter, "I must be going. How soon do you start?"

"In a few minutes."

"Well, good night."

"Good night."

"He seems inclined to be social," thought Harry, "but I don't fancy him much."



Chapter XXXI.


Harry was soon on his way home. It was already getting dark, and he felt a little anxious lest he should lose his way. He was rather sorry that he had not started earlier, though he had lost no time.

He had gone about two miles, when he came to a place where two roads met. There was no guideboard, and he could not remember by which road he had come. Luckily, as he thought, he described a man a little ahead. He stopped the horse, and hailed him.

"Can you tell me which road to take to Pentland?" he asked.

The man addressed turned his head, and, to his surprise, our hero recognized his table companion at the inn.

"Oh, it's you, my young friend!" he said.

"Yes, sir. Can you tell me the right road to Pentland? I have never been this way before to-day, and I have forgotten how I came."

"I am thinking of going to Pentland myself," said the other.

"My sister lives there. If you don't mind giving me a lift, I will jump in with you, and guide you."

Now, though Harry did not fancy the man's appearance, he had no reason to doubt him, nor any ground for refusing his request.

"Jump in, sir," he said. "There is plenty of room."

The stranger was speedily seated at his side.

"Take the left-hand road," he said.

Harry turned to his left.

"It's rather a blind road," observed the stranger.

"I think I could remember in the daytime," said Harry; "but it is so dark now, that I am in doubt."

"So I suppose."

The road on which they had entered was very lonely. Scarcely a house was passed, and the neighborhood seemed quite uninhabited.

"I don't remember this road," said Harry, anxiously.

"Are you sure we are right?"

"Yes, yes, we are right. Don't trouble yourself."

"It's a lonely road."

"So it is. I don't suppose there's anybody lives within half a mile."

"The road didn't seem so lonely when I came over it this afternoon."

"Oh, that's the effect of sunshine. Nothing seems lonely in the daytime. Turn down that lane."

"What for?" asked Harry, in surprise. "That can't be the road to Pentland."

"Never mind that. Turn, I tell you."

His companion spoke fiercely, and Harry's mind began to conceive alarming suspicions as to his character. But he was brave, and not easily daunted.

"The horse and carriage are mine, or, at least, are under my direction," he said, firmly, "and you have no control over them. I shall not turn."

"Won't you?" retorted the stranger, with an oath, and drew from his pocket a pistol. "Won't you?"

"What do you mean? Who are you?" demanded Harry.

"You will find out before I get through with you. Now turn into the lane."

"I will not," said Harry, pale, but determined.

"Then I will save you the trouble," and his companion snatched the reins from him, and turned the horse himself. Resistance was, of course, useless, and our hero was compelled to submit.

"There, that suits me better. Now to business."

"To business. Produce your pocketbook."

"Would you rob me?" asked Harry, who was in a measure prepared for the demand.

"Oh, of course not," said the other. "Gentlemen never do such things. I want to burrow your money, that is all."

"I don't want to lend."

"I dare say not," sneered the other; "but I shan't be able to respect your wishes. The sooner you give me the money the better."

Harry had two pocketbooks. The one contained his own money -- about forty dollars -- the other the money of his employer. The first was in the side pocket of his coat, the second in the pocket of his pants. The latter, as was stated in the preceding chapter, contained one hundred and fifty dollars. Harry heartily repented not having left it behind, but it was to late for repentance. He could only hope that the robber would be satisfied with one pocketbook, and not suspect the existence of the other. There seemed but little hope of saving his own money. However, he determined to do it, if possible.

"Hurry up," said the stranger, impatiently. "You needn't pretend you have no money. I know better than that. I saw you pay the landlord."

"Then he saw the professor's pocketbook," thought Harry, uneasily. "Mine is of different appearance. I hope he won't detect the difference."

"I hope you will leave me some of the money," said Harry, producing the pocketbook.

"It is all I have."

"How much is there?"

"About forty dollars."

"Humph! that isn't much."

"It is all I have in the world."

"Pooh! you are young and can soon earn some more. I must have the whole of it."

"Can't you leave me five dollars?"

"No, I can't. Forty dollars are little enough to serve my turn."

So saying, he coolly deposited the pocketbook in the pocket of his pants.

"So far so good. It's well, youngster, you didn't make any more fuss, or I might have had to use my little persuader;" and he displayed the pistol.

"Will you let me go now, sir?"

"I have not got through my business yet. That's a nice overcoat of yours."

Harry looked at him, in doubt as to his meaning, but he was soon enlightened.

"I am a small person," proceeded the man with black whiskers, "scarcely any larger than you. I think it'll be a good fit."

"Must I lose my overcoat, too?" thought Harry, in trouble.

"You've got an overcoat of your own, sir," he said.

"You don't need mine."

"Oh, I wouldn't rob you of yours on any account. A fair exchange is no robbery. I am going to give you mine in exchange for yours."

The stranger's coat was rough and well worn, and, at its best, had been inferior to Harry's coat. Our hero felt disturbed at the prospect of losing it, for he could not tell when he could afford to get another.

"I should think you might be satisfied with the pocketbook," he said. "I hope you will leave me my coat."

"Off with the coat, youngster!" was the sole reply.

"First, get out of the buggy. We can make the exchange better outside."

As opposition would be unavailing, Harry obeyed. The robber took from him the handsome overcoat, the possession of which had afforded him so much satisfaction, and handed him his own. In great disgust and dissatisfaction our hero invested himself in it.

"Fits you as if it was made for you," said the stranger, with a short laugh. "Yours is a trifle slow for me, but I can make it go. No, don't be in such a hurry."

He seized Harry by the arm as he was about to jump into the carriage.

"I must go," said Harry. "You have already detained me some time."

"I intend to detain you some time longer."

"Have you got any more business with me?"

"Yes, I have. You've hit it exactly. You'll soon know what it is."

He produced a ball of cord from a pocket of his inside coat, and with a knife severed a portion. "Do you know what this is for?" he asked, jeeringly.

"No."

"Say, 'No, sir.' It's more respectful. Well, I'll gratify your laudable curiosity. It's to tie your hands and feet."

"I won't submit to it," said Harry, angrily.

"Won't you?" asked the other, coolly. "This is a very pretty pistol, isn't it? I hope I shan't have to use it."

"What do you want to tie my hands for?" asked Harry.

"For obvious reasons, my young friend."

"I can't drive if my hands are tied."

"Correct, my son. I don't intend you to drive tonight. Give me your hands."

Harry considered whether it would be advisable to resist. The stranger was not much larger than himself. He was a man, however, and naturally stronger. Besides, he had a pistol. He seceded that it was necessary to submit. After all, he had saved his employer's money, even if he had lost his own, and this was something. He allowed himself to be bound.

"Now," said the stranger, setting him up against the stone wall, which bordered the lane, "I will bid you good night. I might take your horse, but, on the whole, I don't want him. I will fasten him to this tree, where he will be all ready for you in the morning. That's considerate in me. Good night. I hope you are comfortable."

He disappeared in the darkness, and Harry was left alone.



Chapter XXXII. The Good Samaritan


Harry's reflections, as he sat on the ground were not the most cheerful. He was sitting in a constrained posture, his hands and feet being tied, and, moreover, the cold air chilled him. The cold was not intense, but as he was unable to move his limbs he, of course, felt it the more.

"I suppose it will get colder," thought Harry, uncomfortably. "I wonder if there is any danger of freezing."

The horse evidently began to feel impatient, for he turned round and looked at our hero. "Why don't you keep on?"

"I wish somebody would come this way," thought Harry, and he looked up and down the lane as well as he could, but could see no one.

"If I could only get at my knife," said Harry, to himself, "I could cut theses cords. Let me try."

He tried to get his hands into his pockets, but it was of no avail. The pocket was too deep, and though he worked his body round, he finally gave it up. It seemed likely that he must stay here all night. The next day probably some one would come by, as they were so near a public road, upon whom he could call to release him.

"The night will seem about a week long," poor Harry considered. "I shan't dare to go to sleep, for fear I may freeze to death."

The horse whinnied again, and again looked inquiringly at his young driver, but the latter was not master of the situation, and was obliged to disregard the mute appeal.

"I wonder the robber didn't carry off the horse," thought Harry. "I suppose he had his reasons. It isn't likely he left him out of his regard for me."

Two hours passed, and Harry still found himself a prisoner. His constrained position became still more uncomfortable. He longed for the power of jumping up and stretching his legs, now numb and chilled, but the cord was strong, and defied his efforts. No person had passed, not had he heard any sound as he lay there, except the occasional whinny of the horse which was tied as well as himself, and did not appear to enjoy his confinement any better.

It was at this moment that Harry's heart leaped with sudden hope, as he heard in the distance the sound of a whistle. It might be a boy, or it might be a man; but, as he listened intently, he perceived that it was coming nearer.

"I hope I can make him hear," thought Harry, earnestly.

It was a boy of about his own age, who was advancing along the road from which he had turned into the lane. The boy was not alone, as it appeared, for a large dog ran before him. The dog first noticed the horse and buggy, and next our hero, lying on the ground, and, concluding that something was wrong, began to bark violently, circling uncomfortably near Harry, against whom he seemed to cherish hostile designs.

"What's the matter, Caesar?" shouted his young master.

"Good dog!" said Harry, soothingly, in momentary fear that the brute would bite him.

But Caesar was not to be cajoled by flattery. "Bow, wow, wow!" he answered, opening his large mouth, and displaying a formidable set of teeth.

"Good dog! I'd like to choke him!" added Harry, in an undertone to himself.

There was another volley of barks, which seemed likely to be followed by an attack. Just at this moment, however, luckily for our hero, the dog's master came up.

"Why, Caesar," he called, "what is the matter with you?"

"Please take your dog away," said Harry. "I am afraid he will bite me."

"Who are you?" inquired the boy, in surprise.

"Come and untie these cords, and I will tell you."

"What! Are you tied?"

"Yes, hand and foot."

"Who did it?" asked the boy, in increasing surprise.

"I don't know his name, but he robbed me of my pocketbook before doing it."

"What, a robber around here!" exclaimed the boy, incredulous.

"Yes; I met him first over in Carmansville. Thank you; now my feet if you please. It seems good to be free again;" and Harry swung his arms, and jumped up and down to bring back the sense of warmth to his chilled limbs.

"Is this horse yours?" asked the boy.

"Yes; I took up the man and he promised to show me the road to Pentland."

"This isn't the road to Pentland."

"I suppose not. He took me wrong on purpose."

"How much money did he take from you?"

"Forty dollars."

"That's a good deal," said the country boy. "Was it yours?"

"Yes."

"I never had so much money in my life."

"It has taken me almost six months to earn it. But I had more money with me, only he didn't know it."

"How much?"

"A hundred and fifty dollars."

"Was it yours?" asked the boy, surprised.

"No; it belonged to my employer."

"Who is he?"

"Professor Henderson, the ventriloquist."

"Where is he stopping?"

"Over at Pentland. He is sick at the hotel there."

"It's lucky for you I was out to-night. I ain't often out so late but I went to see a friend of mine, and stayed later than I meant to."

"Do you live near here?"

"I live about a quarter of a mile up this lane."

"Do you know what time it is?"

"I don't know, but I think it is past ten."

"I wonder whether I can get anybody to go with me to Pentland. I can't find my way in the dark."

"I will go with you to-morrow morning."

"But what shall I do to-night?"

"I'll tell you. Come home with me. The folks will take you in, and the horse can be put up in the barn."

Harry hesitated

"I suppose they will feel anxious about me over at Pentland. They won't know what has become of me."

"You can start early in the morning -- as early as you like."

"Perhaps it will be better," said Harry, after a pause.

"It won't trouble your family too much, will it?"

"Not a bit," answered the boy, heartily. "Very likely they won't know till morning," he added, laughing. "They go to bed early, and I told them they needn't wait up for me."

"I am very much obliged to you," said Harry. "I will accept your kind invitation. As I've got a horse, we may as well ride. I'll untie him, and you jump into the buggy."

"All right," said the boy, well pleased.

"You may drive, for you know the way better than I."

"Where did this horse come from?"

"From the stable in Pentland."

"Perhaps they will think you have run away with it."

"I hope not."

"What is your name?"

"Harry Walton. What is yours?"

"Jefferson Selden. The boys usually call me Jeff."

"Is that your dog?"

"Yes. He's a fine fellow."

"I didn't think so when he was threatening to bite me," said Harry laughing.

"I used to be afraid of dogs," said Jeff; "but I got cured of it after a while. When I go out at night, I generally take Caesar with me. If you had had him, you would have been a match for the robber."

"He had a pistol."

"Caesar would have had him down before he could use it."

"I wish he had been with me, then."

They had, by this time, come in sight of Jeff's house. It was a square farmhouse, with a barn in the rear.

"We'll go right out to the barn," said Jeff, "and put up the horse. Then we'll come back to the house and go to bed."

There was a little difficulty in unharnessing the horse, on account of the absence of light; but at last, by a combined effort, it was done, and the buggy was drawn into the barn and the doors shut.

"There, all will be safe till to-morrow morning," said Jeff. "Now we'll go into the house."

He entered by the back shed door, and Harry followed him. They went into the broad, low kitchen, with its ample fireplace, in which a few embers were glowing. By these Jeff lighted a candle, and asked Harry if he would have anything to eat.

"No, thank you," said Harry. "I ate a hearty supper at Carmansville."

"Then we'll go upstairs to bed. I sleep in a small room over the shed. You won't mind sleeping with me?"

"I should like your company," said Harry, who was attracted to his good-natured companion.

"Then come up. I guess we'll find the bed wide enough."

He led the way up a narrow staircase, into a room low studded, and very plainly but comfortably furnished.

"The folks will be surprised to see you here in the morning," said Jeff.

"I may be gone before they are up."

"I guess not. Father'll be up by five o'clock, and I think that'll be as early as you'll want to be stirring."



Chapter XXXIII. The Reward Of Fidelity


"Where am I?" asked Harry, the next morning, as he sat up in bed and stared around him.

"Don't you remember?" asked Jeff, smiling.

Jeff was standing by the bedside, already dressed.

"Yes; I remember now," said Harry, slowly. "What time is it?"

"Seven o'clock."

"Seven o'clock! I meant to be dressed at six."

"That is the time I got up," said Jeff.

"Why didn't you wake me up?"

"You looked so comfortable that I thought it was a pity to wake you. You must have felt tired."

"I think it was the cold that made me sleepy. I got chilled through when I lay on the ground there, tied hand and foot. But I must get up in hurry now."

He jumped out of bed, and hurried on his clothes.

"Now," said Jeff, "come down into the kitchen, and mother'll give you some breakfast."

"I am giving you a great deal of trouble, I am afraid," said Harry.

"No, you're not. It's no trouble at all. The rest of the family have eaten breakfast, but I waited for you. I've been up an hour, and feel as hungry as a wolf. So come down, and we'll see who'll eat the most."

"I can do my part," said Harry. "I've got a good appetite, though I've been up a food deal less than an hour."

"Take your overcoat alone," said Jeff; "or will you come up and get after breakfast?"

"I'll take it down with me. It isn't my coat, you know. Mine was a much better one. I wish I had it back."

Jeff, meanwhile, had taken up the coat.

"There's something in the pocket," he said. "What is it?"

"I didn't put anything in."

Harry thrust his hand into the side pocket for the first time, and drew out a shabby leather wallet.

"Perhaps there's money in it," Jeff suggested.

The same thought had occurred to Harry. He hastily opened it, and his eyes opened wide with astonishment as he drew out a thick roll of bills.

"By hokey!" said Jeff, "you're in luck. The robber took your pocketbook, and left his own. Maybe there's as much as you lost. Count it."

This Harry eagerly proceeded to do.

"Three -- eight -- eleven -- thirteen -- twenty," he repeated, aloud. He continued his count, which resulted in showing that the wallet contained ninety-seven dollars.

"Ninety-seven dollars!" exclaimed Jeff. "How much did you lose?"

"Forty dollars."

"Then you've made just fifty-seven dollars. Bully for you!"

"But I've exchanged a good overcoat for a poor one."

"There can't be more than seventeen dollars difference."

"Not so much."

"Then you're forty dollars better off, at any rate."

"But I don't know as I can claim this money," said Harry, doubtfully. "It isn't mine."

"He won't be likely to call for it. When he does, and returns you the money and the coat, it will be time to think about it."

"I will ask Professor Henderson about that. At any rate I've got my money back, that's one good thing."

This timely discovery made Harry decidedly cheerful, and, if anything, sharpened his appetite for breakfast.

Now Mr. Selden had gone out to oversee some farm work; but Mrs. Selden received out hero very kindly, and made him feel that he was heartily welcome to that she could offer. She had many questions to ask about the bold robber who had waylaid him, and expressed the hope that he had left the neighborhood.

"Perhaps he'll come back for his wallet, Harry," said Jeff. "You'd better look out for him."

"I shall take care how I carry much money about with me, after this," said Harry. "That was what got me into a scrape yesterday."

"He wouldn't make out much if he tried to rob me," said Jeff. "I haven't got money enough about me to pay the board of a full-grown fly for twenty-four hours."

"You don't look as if your poverty troubled you much," said his mother.

"I don't have any board bills to pay," said Jeff, "so I can get along."

"I should think you would feel nervous about riding to Pentland alone," said Mrs. Selden, "for fear of meeting the man who robbed you yesterday."

"I do dread it a little," said Harry, "having so much money about me. Besides this ninety-seven dollars, I've got a hundred and fifty dollars belonging to my employer."

"Suppose I go with you to protect you," said Jeff.

"I wish you would."

"I don't think Jefferson would make a very efficient protector," said his mother.

"You don't know how brave I am, mother," said Jeff, in the tone of an injured hero.

"No, I don't," said his mother, smiling. "I believe there was a time when you were not very heroic in the company of dogs."

"That's long ago, mother. I've got over it now."

"If you would like to ride over with your friend, you may do so. But how will you get back?"

"Major Pinkham will be up there this afternoon. I can wait, and ride home with him."

"Very well; I have no objection."

The two boys rode off together. Harry was glad to have a companion who knew the road well, for he did not care to be lost again till he had delivered up the money which he had in charge. There was no opportunity to test Jeff's courage, for the highwayman did not make his appearance. Indeed, it was not till the next morning that he discovered the serious blunder he had made in leaving his own wallet behind, and, though he was angry and disgusted, prudential considerations prevented his going back. He was forced to the unpleasant conviction that he had overreached himself, and that his intended victim had come out best in the "exchange" which "was no robbery." I may as well add here that, though he deserved to be caught, he was not, and Harry has never, to this day, set eyes either upon him or upon the coat.

When Harry arrived at Pentland, he found that no little anxiety had been felt about him.

"Has Harry come yet?" asked the sick man, at ten o'clock the evening previous.

"No, he hasn't," answered the nurse.

"It's strange what keeps him."

"Did he have any money of yours with him?"

"Yes, I believe he had."

"Oh!" ejaculated Mrs. Chase, significantly.

"What do you mean by that?"

"I didn't say anything, did I?"

"I am afraid he may have been attacked and robbed on the road."

Mrs. Chase coughed.

"Don't you think so?"

"I'll tell you what I think, professor," said the nurse, proceeding to speak plainly, "I don't think you'll ever see anything of that boy ag'in."

"Why not?"

"It ain't safe to trust boys with money," she answered, sententiously.

"Oh, I'm not afraid of his honesty."

"You don't say! Maybe you haven't seen as much of boys as I have."

"I was once a boy myself," said the professor, smiling.

"Oh, you -- that's different."

"Why is it different? I wasn't any better than boys generally."

"I don't know anything about that; but you mark my words -- as like as not he's run away with your money. How much did he have?"

"I can't say exactly. Over a hundred dollars, I believe."

"Then he won't come back," said Mrs. Chase, decidedly.

Here the conference closed, as it was necessary for Mr. Henderson to take medicine.

"Has the boy returned?" asked the professor, the next morning.

"You don't expect him -- do you?"

"Certainly I expect him."

"Well, he ain't come, and I guess he won't come."

"I am sure that boy is honest," said Professor Henderson to himself. "If he isn't, I'll never trust a boy again."

Mrs. Chase was going downstairs with her patient's breakfast dishes, when she was nearly run into by our hero, who had just returned, and was eager to report to his employer.

"Do be keerful," she expostulated, when, to her surprise, she recognized Harry.

So he had come back, after all, and falsified her prediction. Such is human nature, that for an instant she was disappointed.

"Here's pretty work," she said, "stayin' out all night, and worryin' the professor out of his wits."

"I couldn't help it, Mrs. Chase."

"Why couldn't you help it, I'd like to know?"

"I'll tell you afterwards. I must go up now, and see the professor."

Mrs. Chase was so curious that she returned, with the dishes, to hear Harry's statement.

"Good morning," said Harry, entering the chamber.

"I'm sorry to have been so long away, but I couldn't help it. I hope you haven't worried much about my absence."

"I knew you would come back, but Mrs. Chase had her doubts," said Professor Henderson, pleasantly. "Now tell me what it was that detained you?"

"A highwayman," said Harry.

"A highwayman!" exclaimed both in concert.

"Yes, I'll tell you all about it. But first, I'll say that he stole only my money, and didn't suspect that I had a hundred and fifty dollars of yours with me. That's all safe. Here it is. I think you had better take care of that yourself, sir, hereafter."

The professor glanced significantly at Mr. Chase, as much as to say, "You see how unjust your suspicions were. I am right, after all."

"Tell us all about it, Harry."

Our hero obeyed instructions; but it is not necessary to repeat a familiar tale.

"Massy sakes!" ejaculated Betsy Chase. "Who ever heerd the like?"

"I congratulate you, Harry, on coming off with such flying colors. I will, at my own expense, provide you with a new overcoat, as a reward for bringing home my money safe. You shall not lose anything by your fidelity."



Chapter XXXIV. In Difficulty


We must now transfer the scene to the Walton homestead.

It looks very much the same as on the day when the reader was first introduced to it. There is not a single article of new furniture, nor is any of the family any better dressed. Poverty reigns with undisputed sway. Mr. Walton is reading a borrowed newspaper by the light of a candle -- for it is evening -- while Mrs. Walton is engaged in her never-ending task of mending old clothes, in the vain endeavor to make them look as well as new. It is so seldom that anyone of the family has new clothes, that the occasion is one long remembered and dated from.

"It seems strange we don't hear from Harry," said Mrs. Walton, looking up from her work.

"When was the last letter received?" asked Mr. Walton, laying down the paper.

"Over a week ago. He wrote that the professor was sick, and he was stopping at the hotel to take care of him."

"I remember. What was the name of the place?"

"Pentland."

"Perhaps his employer is recovered, and he is going about with him."

"Perhaps so; but I should think he would write. I am afraid he is sick himself. He may have caught the same fever."

"It is possible; but I think Harry would let us know in some way. At any rate, it isn't best to worry ourselves about uncertainties."

"I wonder if Harry's grown?" said Tom.

"Of course he's grown," said Mary.

"I wonder if he's grown as much as I have," said Tom, complacently.

"I don't believe you've grown a bit."

"Yes, I have; if you don't believe it, see how short my pants are."

Tom did, indeed, seem to be growing out of his pants, which were undeniably too short for him.

"You ought to have some new pants," said his mother, sighing; "but I don't see where the money is to come from."

"Nor I," said Mr. Walton, soberly. "Somehow I don't seem to get ahead at all. To-morrow my note for the cow comes due, and I haven't but two dollars to meet it."

"How large it the note?"

"With six months' interest, it amounts to forty-one dollars and twenty cents."

"The cow isn't worth that. She doesn't give as much milk as the one we lost."

"That's true. It was a hard bargain, but I could do no better."

"You say you won't be able to meet the payment. What will be the consequence?"

"I suppose Squire Green will take back the cow."

"Perhaps you can get another somewhere else, on better terms."

"I am afraid my credit won't be very good. I agreed to forfeit ten dollars to Squire Green, if I couldn't pay at the end of six months."

"Will he insist on that condition?"

"I am afraid he will. He is a hard man."

"Then," said Mrs. Walton, indignantly, "he won't deserve to prosper."

"Worldly prosperity doesn't always go by merit. Plenty of mean men prosper."

Before Mrs. Walton had time to reply, a knock was heard at the door.

"Go to the door, Tom," said his father.

Tom obeyed, and shortly reappeared, followed by a small man with a thin figure and wrinkled face, whose deep-set, crafty eyes peered about him curiously as he entered the room.


"Good evening, Squire Green," said Mr. Walton, politely, guessing his errand.

"Good evenin', Mrs. Walton. The air's kinder frosty. I ain't so young as I was once, and it chills my blood."

"Come up to the fire, Squire Green," said Mrs. Walton, who wanted the old man to be comfortable, though she neither liked nor respected him.

The old man sat down and spread his hands before the fire.

"Anything new stirring, Squire?" asked Hiram Walton.

"Nothin' that I know on. I was lookin' over my papers to-night, neighbor, and I come across that note you give for the cow. Forty dollars with interest, which makes the whole come to forty-one dollars and twenty cents. To-morrow's the day for payin'. I suppose you'll be ready?" and the old man peered at Hiram Walton with his little keen eyes.

"Now for it," thought Hiram. "I'm sorry to say, Squire Green," he answered, "that I can't pay the note. Times have been hard, and my family expenses have taken all I could earn."

The squire was not much disappointed, for now he was entitled to exact the forfeit of ten dollars.

"The contrack provides that if you can't meet the note you shall pay ten dollars," he said. "I 'spose you can do that."

"Squire Green, I haven't got but two dollars laid by."

"Two dollars!" repeated the squire, frowning. "That ain't honest. You knew the note was comin' due, and you'd oughter have provided ten dollars, at least."

"I've done as much as I could. I've wanted to meet the note, but I couldn't make money, and I earned all I could."

"You hain't been equinomical," said the squire, testily. "Folks can't expect to lay up money ef they spend it fast as it comes in"; and he thumped on the floor with his cane.

"I should like to have you tell us how we can economize any more than we have," said Mrs. Walton, with spirit. "Just look around you, and see if you think we have been extravagant in buying clothes. I am sure I have to darn and mend till I am actually ashamed."

"There's other ways of wastin' money," said the squire. "If you think we live extravagantly, come in any day to dinner, and we will convince you to the contrary," said Mrs. Walton, warmly.

"Tain't none of my business, as long as you pay me what you owe me," said the squire. "All I want is my money, and I'd orter have it."

"It doesn't seem right that my husband should forfeit ten dollars and lose the cow."

"That was the contrack, Mrs. Walton. Your husband 'greed to it, and -- "

"That doesn't make it just."

"Tain't no more'n a fair price for the use of the cow six months. Ef you'll pay the ten dollars to-morrow, I'll let you have the cow six months longer on the same contrack."

"I don't see any possibility of my paying you the money, Squire Green. I haven't got it."

"Why don't you borrer somewhere?"

"I might as well owe you as another man, Besides, I don't know anybody that would lend me the money."

"You haven't tried, have you?"

"No."

"Then you'd better. I thought I might as well come round and remind you of the note as you might forget it."

"Not much danger," said Hiram Walton. "I've had it on my mind ever since I gave it."

"Well, I'll come round to-morrow night, and I hope you'll be ready. Good night."

No very cordial good night followed Squire Green as he hobbled out of the cottage -- for he was lame -- not -- I am sure the reader will agree with me -- did he deserve any. He was a mean, miserly, grasping man, who had no regard for the feelings or comfort of anyone else; whose master passion was a selfish love of accumulating money. His money did him little good, however, for he was as mean with himself as with others, and grudged himself even the necessaries of life, because, if purchased, it must be at the expense of his hoards. The time would come when he and his money must part, but he did not think of that.



Chapter XXXV. Settled


There was a general silence after Squire Green's departure. Hiram Walton looked gloomy, and the rest of the family also.

"What an awful mean man the squire is!" Tom broke out, indignantly.

"You're right, for once," said Mary.

In general, such remarks were rebuked by the father or mother; but the truth of Tom's observation was so clear, that for once he was not reproved.

"Squire Green's money does him very little good," said Hiram Walton. "He spends very little of it on himself, and it certainly doesn't obtain him respect in the village. Rich as he is, and poor as I am, I would rather stand in my shoes than his."

"I should think so," said his wife. "Money isn't everything."

"No; but it is a good deal I have suffered too much from the want of it, to despise it."

"Well, Hiram," said Mrs. Walton, who felt that it would not do to look too persistently upon the dark side, "you know that the song says, 'There's a good time coming.'"

"I've waited for it a long time, wife," said the farmer, soberly.

"Wait a little longer," said Mrs. Walton, quoting the refrain of the song.

He smiled faintly.

"Very well, I'll wait a little longer; but if I have to wait too long, I shall get discouraged."

"Children, it's time to go to bed," said Mrs. Walton.

"Mayn't I sit up a little longer?" pleaded Mary.

"'Wait a little longer,' mother," said Tom, laughing, as he quoted his mother's words against her.

"Ten minutes, only, then."

Before the ten minutes were over, there was great and unexpected joy in the little house. Suddenly the outer door opened, and, without the slightest warning to anyone, Harry walked in. He was immediately surrounded by the delighted family, and in less time than I am taking to describe it he had shaken hands with his father, kissed his mother and sister, and given Tom a bearlike hug, which nearly suffocated him.

"Where did you come from, Harry?" asked Mary.

"Dropped down from the sky," said Harry, laughing.

"Has the professor been giving exhibitions up there?" asked Tom.

"I've discharge the professor," said Harry, gayly. "I'm my own man now."

"And you've come home to stay, I hope," said his mother.

"Not long, mother," said Harry. "I can only stay a few days."

"What a bully overcoat you've got on!" said Tom.

"The professor gave it to me."

"Hasn't he got one for me, too?"

Harry took off his overcoat, and Tom was struck with fresh admiration as he surveyed his brother's inside suit.

"I guess you spent all you money on clothes," he said.

"I hope not," said Mr. Walton, whom experience had made prudent.

"Not quite all," said Harry, cheerfully. "How much money do you think I have brought home?"

"Ten dollars," said Tom.

"More."

"Fifteen."

"More."

"Twenty," said Mary.

"More."

"Twenty-five."

"I won't keep you guessing all night. What do you say to fifty dollars?"

"Oh, what a lot of money!" said Mary.

"You have done well, my son," said Mr. Walton. "You must have been very economical."

"I tried to be, father. But I didn't say fifty dollars was all I had."

"You haven't got more?" said his mother, incredulously.

"I've got a hundred dollars, mother," said Harry.

"Here are fifty dollars for you, father. It'll pay your note to Squire Green, and a little over. Here are thirty dollars, mother, of which you must use for ten for yourself, ten for Mary, and ten for Tom. I want you all to have some new clothes, to remember me by."

"But Harry, you will have nothing left for yourself."

"Yes, I shall. I have kept twenty dollars, which will be enough till I can earn some more."

"I don't see how you could save so much money, Harry," said his father.

"It was partly luck, father, and partly hard work. I'll tell you all about it."

He sat down before the fire and they listened to his narrative.

"Well, Harry," said Mr. Walton, "I am very glad to find that you are more fortunate than your father. I have had a hard struggle; but I will not complain if my children can prosper."

The cloud that Squire Green had brought with him had vanished, and all was sunshine and happiness.

It was agreed that no hint should be given to Squire Green that his note was to be paid. He did not even hear of Harry's arrival, and was quite unconscious of any change in the circumstances of the family, when he entered the cottage the next evening.

"Well, neighbor," he said, "I've brought along that ere note. I hope you've raised the money to pay it."

"Where do you think I could raise money, Squire?" asked Hiram Walton.

"I thought mebbe some of the neighbors would lent it to you."

"Money isn't very plenty with any of them, Squire, except with you."

"I calc'late better than they. Hev you got the ten dollars that you agreed to pay ef you couldn't meet the note?"

"Yes," said Hiram, "I raised the ten dollars."

"All right," said the squire, briskly, "I thought you could. As long as you pay that, you can keep the cow six months more, one a new contrack."

"Don't you think, Squire, it's rather hard on a poor man, to make him forfeit ten dollars because he can't meet his note?"

"A contrack's a contrack," said the squire. "It's the only way to do business."

"I think you are taking advantage of me, Squire."

"No, I ain't. You needn't hev come to me ef you didn't want to. I didn't ask you to buy the cow. I'll trouble you for that ten dollars, neighbor, as I'm in a hurry."

"On the whole, Squire, I think I'll settle up the note. That'll be cheaper than paying the forfeit."

"What! Pay forty-one dollars and twenty cents!" ejaculated the squire, incredulously.

"Yes; it's more than the cow's worth, but as I agreed to pay it I suppose I must."

"I thought you didn't hev the money," said the squire, his lower jaw falling; for he would have preferred the ten dollars' forfeit, and a renewal of the usurious contract.

"I didn't have it when you were in last night; but I've raised it since."

"You said you couldn't borrow it."

"I didn't borrow it."

"Then where did it come from?"

"My son Harry has got home, Squire. He has supplied me with the money."

"You don't say! Where is he? Been a-doin' well, has he?"

"Harry!"

Harry entered the room, and nodded rather coldly to the squire, who was disposed to patronize him, now that he was well dressed, and appeared to be doing well.

"I'm glad to see ye, Harry. So you've made money, have ye?"

"A little."

"Hev you come home to stay?"

"No sir; I shall only stay a few days."

"What hev ye been doin'"

"I am going to be a printer."

"You don't say! Is it a good business?"

"I think it will be," said Harry. "I can tell better by and by."

"Well, I'm glad you're doin' so well. Neighbor Walton, when you want another cow I'll do as well by you as anybody. I'll give you credit for another on the same terms."

"If I conclude to buy any, Squire, I may come round."

"Well, good night, all. Harry, you must come round and see me before you go back."

Harry thanked him, but did not propose to accept the invitation. He felt that the squire was no true friend, either to himself or to his family, and he should feel no pleasure in his society. It was not in his nature to be hypocritical, and he expressed no pleasure at the squire's affability and politeness.

<eob>

The Soldier Boy

Or

Tom Somers In The Army: A Story Of The Great Rebellion

By

Oliver Optic



Chapter I.

The Battle Of Pinchbrook.


"Fort Sumter has surrendered, mother!" shouted Thomas Somers, as he rushed into the room where his mother was quietly reading her Bible.

It was Sunday, and the exciting news had been circulated about the usually quiet village of Pinchbrook Harbor. Men's lips were compressed, and their teeth shut tight together. They were indignant, for traitors had fired upon the flag of the United States. Men, women, and children were roused by the indignity offered to the national emblem. The cannon balls that struck the walls of Sumter seemed at the same time to strike the souls of the whole population of the North, and never was there such a great awakening since the Pilgrim Fathers first planted their feet upon the rock of Plymouth.

"Fort Sumter has surrendered!" shouted the indignant young patriot again, as his mother looked up from the blessed volume.

"You don't say so!" exclaimed Mrs. Somers, as she closed the Bible, and removed her spectacles.

"Yes, mother. The infernal rebels hammered away at the fort for two days, and at last we had to give in."

"There'll be terrible times afore long," replied the old lady, shaking her head with prophetic earnestness.

"The President has called for seventy-five thousand volunteers, and I tell you there'll be music before long!" continued the youth, so excited that he paced the room with rapid strides.

"What's the matter, Thomas?" asked a feeble old gentleman, entering the room at this moment.

"Fort Sumter has surrendered, gran'ther," repeated Thomas, at the top of his lungs, for the aged man was quite deaf; "and the President has called for seventy-five thousand men to go down and fight the traitors."

"Sho!" exclaimed the old man, halting, and gazing with earnestness into the face of the boy.

"It's a fact, gran'ther."

"Well, I'm too old to go," muttered gran'ther Greene; "but I wa'n't older'n you are when I shouldered my firelock in 1812. I'm too old and stiff to go now."

"How old were you, gran'ther, when you went to the war?" asked Thomas, with more moderation than he had exhibited before.

"Only sixteen, Thomas; but I was as tall as I am now," replied the patriarch, dropping slowly and cautiously into the old-fashioned high-back chair, by the side of the cooking stove.

"Well, I'm sixteen, and I mean to go."

"You, Thomas! You are crazy! You shan't do any thing of the kind," interposed Mrs. Somers. "There's men enough to go to the war, without such boys as you are."

"You ain't quite stout enough to make a soldier, Thomas. You ain't so big as I was, when I went off to York state," added gran'ther Greene.

"I should like to go any how," said Thomas, as he seated himself in a corner of the room, and began to think thoughts big enough for a full-grown man.

"Fort Sumter has surrendered," shouted John Somers, rushing into the house as much excited as his brother had been.

"We've heard all about it, John," replied his mother.

"The President has called for seventy-five thousand men, and in my opinion the rebels will get an awful licking before they are a fortnight older. I should like to go and help do it."

The exciting news was discussed among the members of the Somers family, as it was in thousands of other families, on that eventful Sunday. Thomas and John could think of nothing, speak of nothing, but Fort Sumter, and the terrible castigation which the rebels would receive from the insulted and outraged North. They were loyal even to enthusiasm; and when they retired to their chamber at night, they ventured to express to each other their desire to join the great army which was to avenge the insult offered to the flag of the Union.

They were twin brothers, sixteen years of age; but they both thought they were old enough and strong enough to be soldiers. Their mother, however, had promptly disapproved of such suggestions, and they had not deemed it prudent to discuss the idea in her presence.

On Monday, the excitement instead of subsiding, was fanned to a fever heat; Pinchbrook Harbor was in a glow of patriotism. Men neglected their usual occupations, and talked of the affairs of the nation. Every person who could procure a flag hung it out at his window, or hoisted it in his yard, or on his house. The governor had called out a portion of the state militia, and already the tramp of armed men was heard in the neighboring city of Boston.

Thomas Somers was employed in a store in the village, and during the forenoon he mechanically performed the duties of his position; but he could think of nothing but the exciting topic of the day. His blood was boiling with indignation against those who had trailed our hallowed flag in the dust. He wanted to do something to redeem the honor of his country -- something to wipe out the traitors who had dared to conspire against her peace. On his way home to dinner, he met Fred Pemberton, who lived only a short distance from his own house.

"What do you think now, Fred?" said Thomas.

"What do I think? I think just as I always did -- the North is wrong, and the South is right," replied Fred.

"Who fired upon Fort Sumter? That's the question," said Thomas, his eyes flashing with indignation.

"Why didn't they give up the fort, then?"

"Give up the fort! Shall the United States cave in before the little State of South Carolina. Not by a two chalks!"

"I think the North has been teasing and vexing the South till the Southerns can't stand it any longer. There'll be war now."

"I hope there will! By gracious, I hope so!"

"I hope the South will beat!"

"Do you? Do you, Fred Pemberton?" demanded Tom, so excited he could not stand still.

"Yes, I do. The South has the rights of it. If we had let their niggers alone, there wouldn't have been any trouble."

"You are as blind as a bat, Fred. Don't you see this isn't a quarrel between the North and the South, but between the government and the rebels?"

"I don't see it. If the North had let the South alone, there wouldn't have been any fuss. I hope the North will get whipped, and I know she will."

"Fred, you are a traitor to your country!"

"No, I'm not!"

"Yes, you are; and if I had my way, I'd ride you on a rail out of town."

"No, you wouldn't."

"Yes, I would. I always thought you were a decent fellow; but you are a dirty, low-lived traitor."

"Better be careful what you say, Tom Somers!" retorted the young secessionist, angrily.

"A fellow that won't stand by his country ain't fit to live. You are an out-and-out traitor."

"Don't call me that again, Tom Somers," replied Fred, doubling up his fist.

"I say you are a traitor."

"Take that, then."

Tom did take it, and it was a pretty hard blow on the side of his head. Perhaps it was fortunate for our young patriot that an opportunity was thus afforded him to evaporate some of his enthusiasm in the cause of his country, for there is no knowing what might have been the consequence if it had remained longer pent up in his soul. Of course, he struck back; and a contest, on a small scale, between the loyalty of the North and the treason of the South commenced. How long it might have continued, or what might have been the result, cannot now be considered; for the approach of a chaise interrupted the battle, and the forces of secession were reenforced by a full-grown man.

The gentleman stepped out of his chaise with his whip in his hand, and proceeded to lay it about the legs and body of the representative of the Union side. This was more than Tom Somers could stand, and he retreated in good order from the spot, till he had placed himself out of the reach of the whip.

"What do you mean, you young scoundrel?" demanded the gentleman who had interfered.

Tom looked at him, and discovered that it was Squire Pemberton, the father of his late opponent.

"He hit me first," said Tom.

"He called me a traitor," added Fred. "I won't be called a traitor by him, or any other fellow."

"What do you mean by calling my son a traitor, you villain?"

"I meant just what I said. He is a traitor. He said he hoped the South would beat."

"Suppose he did. I hope so too," added Squire Pemberton.

The squire thought, evidently, that this ought to settle the question. If he hoped so, that was enough.

"Then you are a traitor, too. That's all I've got to say," replied Tom, boldly.

"You scoundrel! How dare you use such a word to me!" roared the squire, as he moved towards the blunt-spoken little patriot.

For strategic reasons, Tom deemed it prudent to fall back; but as he did so, he picked up a couple of good-sized stones.

"I said you were a traitor, and I say so again," said Tom.

"Two can play at that game," added Fred, as he picked up a stone and threw it at Tom.

The Union force returned the fire with the most determined energy, until one of the missiles struck the horse attached to the chaise. The animal, evidently having no sympathy with either party in this miniature contest, and without considering how much damage he might do the rebel cause, started off at a furious pace when the stone struck him. He dashed down the hill at a fearful rate, and bounded away over the plain that led to the Harbor.

Squire Pemberton and his son had more interest in the fate of the runaway horse than they had in the issue of the contest, and both started at the top of their speed in pursuit. But they might as well have chased a flash of lightning, or a locomotive going at the rate of fifty miles an hour.

Tom Somers came down from the bank which he had ascended to secure a good position. He had done rather more than he intended to do; but on the whole he did not much regret it. He watched the course of the spirited animal, as he dashed madly on to destruction. The career of the horse was short; for in the act of turning a corner, half a mile from the spot where Tom stood, he upset the chaise, and was himself thrown down, and, being entangled in the harness, was unable to rise before a stout man had him by the head.

"I wish that chaise had been the southern confederacy," said Tom to himself, philosophically, when he saw the catastrophe in the distance. "Well, it served you right, old Secesh; and I'll bet there ain't many folks in Pinchbrook Harbor that will be willing to comfort the mourners."

With this consoling assurance, Tom continued on his way home. At dinner, he gave the family a faithful account of the transaction.

"You didn't do right, Thomas," said his mother.

"He hit me first."

"You called him a traitor."

"He is a traitor, and so is his father."

"I declare, the boys are as full of fight as an egg is of meat," added gran'ther Greene.

"You haven't seen the last of it yet, Thomas," said the prudent mother.

"No matter, Tom; I'll stand by you," added John.

After dinner, the two boys walked down to the Harbor together.



Chapter II.

The Somers Family.


The town of Pinchbrook is not a great distance from Boston, with which it is connected by railroad. If any of our young readers are of a geographical turn of mind, and are disposed to ascertain the exact locality of the place, we will save them any unnecessary trouble, for it is not laid down on any map with which we are familiar. We live in times of war, and probably our young friends have already learned the meaning of "military necessity." Our story is essentially a military story, and there are certain military secrets connected with it which might be traced out if we should inform our inquisitive readers exactly where Pinchbrook is situated.

Squire Pemberton, we doubt not, is very anxious to find out certain persons connected with some irregular proceedings in and around his house on the evening of Monday, April 16th. Fidelity to the truth of history compels us to narrate these proceedings in our humble volume; but we should exceedingly regret thereby to get any of our friends into a scrape by informing the squire that they were active participants in the scenes of that eventful night, or to say any thing which would enable him, a lawyer, to trace out the authors of the mischief through these pages. Therefore we cannot say where Pinchbrook is, or even give a hint which would enable our readers to fix definitely its locality.

Pinchbrook is a town of about three thousand inhabitants, engaged, as the school books would say, in agriculture, manufactures, commerce, and the fisheries, which, rendered into still plainer English, means that some of the people are farmers; that wooden pails, mackerel kegs, boots and shoes, are made; that the inhabitants buy groceries, and sell fish, kegs, pails, and similar wares; and that there are about twenty vessels owned in the place, the principal part of which are fishermen.

We have not the agricultural and commercial statistics of the place at hand; but the larger territorial part of the town was devoted to the farming interest, and was rather sparsely populated, while the principal village, called Pinchbrook Harbor, was more densely peopled, contained two stores, four churches, one wharf, a blacksmith shop, and several shoe and bucket manufactories.

We are willing to acknowledge that Pinchbrook is rather a singular name. The antiquarians have not yet had an opportunity to determine its origin; but our private opinion is that the word is a corruption of Punch-brook. Perhaps, at some remote period in the history of the town, before the Sons of Temperance obtained a foothold in the place, a villainous mixture, known to topers under the general appellation of "punch," may have been largely consumed by the Pinchbrookers. Though not a very aged person ourself, we have heard allusions to festive occasions where, metaphorically, the punch was said to "flow in streams." Possibly, from "streams" came "brooks," -- hence, "Punchbrook," -- which, under the strange mutations of time, has become "Pinchbrook." But we are not learned in these matters, and we hope that nothing we have said will bias the minds of antiquarians, and prevent them from devoting that attention to the origin of the word which its importance demands.

The Somers family, which we have already partially introduced, occupied a small cottage not quite a mile from Pinchbrook Harbor. Captain Somers, the head of the family, had been, and was still, for aught his wife and children knew, master of the schooner Gazelle. To purchase this vessel, he had heavily mortgaged his house and lands in Pinchbrook to Squire Pemberton. But his voyages had not been uniformly successful, though the captain believed that his earthly possessions, after discharging all his liabilities, would amount to about five thousand dollars.

The mortgage note would become due in June, and Captain Somers had been making a strong effort to realize upon his property, so as to enable him to pay off the obligation at maturity. Captain Somers had a brother who was familiarly known in the family as uncle Wyman. He had spent his life, from the age of eighteen, in the South, and at the time of which we write, he was a merchant in Norfolk.

Captain Somers and his brother had been interested together in certain mercantile transactions, and uncle Wyman being the business man, had the proceeds of these ventures in his own hands.

On the 10th of April, only two days before the bombardment of Fort Sumter, Captain Somers had sailed in the Gazelle, with an assorted cargo, for Norfolk. Before leaving home he had assured his wife that he should not return without effecting a settlement with Wyman, who had postponed it so many times, that the honest sailor began to fear his brother did not mean to deal justly with him. Nothing had been heard of the Gazelle since her departure from Boston.

Uncle Wyman was known to be a northern man with southern principles, while his brother, though not in the habit of saying much about politics, was fully committed on the side of the government, and was willing to sustain the President in the use of all the coercion that might be necessary to enforce obedience to the laws. The threatening aspect of affairs at the South had made Captain Somers more than ever anxious to have his accounts adjusted, as all his earthly possessions, except the schooner, were in the hands of his brother; and the fact that uncle Wyman was so strong an advocate of Southern rights, had caused him to make the declaration that he would not return without a settlement.

The financial affairs of the Somers family, therefore, were not in a very prosperous condition, and the solvency of the house depended entirely upon the adjustment with uncle Wyman. The mortgage note which Squire Pemberton held would be due in June, and as the creditor was not an indulgent man, there was a prospect that even the little cottage and the little farm might be wrested from them.

The family at home consisted of Mrs. Somers and three children. The two oldest daughters were married to two honest, hard-working fishermen at the Harbor. Thomas and John were twins, sixteen years of age. The former had a place in one of the stores at the village, and the latter occasionally went a fishing trip with his brothers-in-law. Both of the boys had been brought up to work, and there was need enough now that they should contribute what they could to the support of the family. The youngest child, Jane, was but eleven years of age, and went to school. Mrs. Somers's brother, a feeble old man, a soldier in the war of 1812, and a pensioner of the government, had been a member of the family for twenty years; and was familiarly known in town as "Gran'ther Green."

Having thus made our readers acquainted with Pinchbrook and the Somers family, we are prepared to continue our story.

Thomas and John walked down to the Harbor together after dinner. The latter had listened with interest and approbation to his brother's account of the "Battle of Pinchbrook," as he facetiously called it; and perhaps he thought Thomas might need his assistance before he reached the store, for Fred and his father would not probably be willing to let the matter rest where they had left it.

We are sorry not to be able to approve all the acts of the hero of this volume; but John, without asking our opinion, fully indorsed the action of his brother.

"Fred is a traitor, and so is his father," said he, as they passed out at the front gate of the little cottage.

"That's so, Jack; and it made my blood boil to hear them talk," replied Thomas. "And I couldn't help calling things by their right names."

"Bully for you, Tom!" added John, as he turned round, and glanced at the house to assure himself they were out of the hearing of their mother. "Between you and me, Tom, there will be music in Pinchbrook to-night."

He lowered his voice, and spoke in tones big with mystery and heavy with importance.

"What do you mean?" asked Thomas, his interest excited by the words and manner of his brother.

"There is fun ahead."

"Tell me what it's all about."

"You won't say a word -- will you?"

"Of course I won't."

"Not to mother, I mean, most of all."

"Certainly not."

"Squire Pemberton has been talking too loud for his own good."

"I know that; he was in the store this forenoon, and Jeff Davis himself is no bigger traitor than he is."

"Some of the people are going to make him a call to-night."

"What for?"

"What do you suppose? Can't you see through a millstone, Tom, when there is a hole in it?"

"I don't know what you mean."

"You can come with us if you like, and then you will know all about it," added John, mysteriously.

"But what are you going to do?"

"We are going to make him hoist the American flag on his house, or hang it out of his window."

"Well, suppose he won't."

"Then we'll hang him where the flag ought to be. We'll pull the house down over his head."

"I'm with you, Jack," replied Thomas, with enthusiasm.

"We won't have a traitor in Pinchbrook. If we can't cure him, we'll ride him on a rail out of the town."

"I don't know as you and I ought to get into this scrape," added Thomas, thoughtfully.

"Why not?"

"You know the squire has a mortgage on our house, and he may get ugly."

"Let him, if he likes. I'm not going to tolerate a traitor because he has a mortgage on my father's house. Besides, that is a fair business transaction; the squire gets his interest."

"Mother is afraid of him, as she is of the evil spirit."

"Women are always timid," said John, sagely.

"By George! there comes the very man himself!" exclaimed Thomas, as he discovered a horse and chaise slowly approaching.

"So it is; that old chaise looks rather the worse for the wear. It looks as though it had been through the wars."

The vehicle did bear very evident marks of hard usage. One of the shafts was broken, the dasher wrenched off, and the top stove in. The horse was covered with mud, and limped badly from the effects of his fall. The broken shaft and the harness were now plentifully adorned with ropes and old straps. In fact, the catastrophe had utterly ruined all claim which the chaise ever might have had to be considered a "hahnsome kerridge."

"There'll be fun nearer home, I reckon," said John, as he obtained his first view of the sour visage of the squire.

"Can't help it," added Thomas.

"Keep a stiff upper lip, Tom."

"I intend to do so."

"Don't say a word about to-night, Tom."

"Of course not."

When the chaise had approached near enough to enable the squire to recognize the author of his misfortunes, he stopped the horse, and got out of the vehicle, with the whip in his hand.

"Now, you young scoundrel, I will teach you to insult me and my son, and destroy my property. Stay in the chaise, Fred, and hold the horse," he added to his son.

But there was not much need of holding the horse now, for he was too lame to run fast or far. Thomas and John came to a halt; and if the squire had been a prudent man, he might have seen by the flash of their eyes, that he was about to engage in an unsafe operation.

"I am going to horsewhip you within an inch of your life, you villain, you!" roared the squire, brandishing the whip.

"No, you are not," replied Thomas, coolly.

"If you drop the weight of that lash on my brother, I'll smash your head," added John.

The squire paused, and glanced at the wiry form of the young sailor. Better thoughts, or at least wiser ones, came to his aid.

"I can bring you to your senses in another way," said he, dropping his whip, and getting into the chaise again. "You will hear from me before the week is out."

"Let him go; don't say a word, Tom," added John.

"He will prosecute me, I suppose he means by that."

"Let him prosecute and be hanged! I'll bet by to-morrow morning he will think better of it. At any rate, he will find out what the people of Pinchbrook think of him."

The boys resumed their walk, and soon reached the store, where they found the group of idlers, that always frequent shops in the country, busily engaged in discussing the affair in which Thomas had been the principal actor. As the boys entered, the hero of the Pinchbrook Battle was saluted with a volley of applause, and his conduct fully approved and commended, for a copperhead in that day was an abomination to the people.



Chapter III.

Taming A Traitor.


With the exception of Squire Pemberton, Pinchbrook was a thoroughly loyal town; and the people felt that it was a scandal and a disgrace to have even a single traitor within its border. The squire took no pains to conceal his treasonable sentiments, though the whole town was in a blaze of patriotic excitement. On the contrary, he had gone out of his way, and taken a great deal of pains, to condemn the government and the people of the North.

Squire Pemberton was a wealthy man, and he had always been a person of great influence in the place. He had occupied all the principal official positions in town and county. He had come to regard himself, as his townsmen were for the most part willing to regard him, as the social and political oracle of the place. What he thought in town meeting was generally the sense of his fellow-citizens, and when he expressed himself in words, his word was law.

When, on Sunday morning, with Fort Sumter in ruins, with the national flag trodden under the feet of traitors, with the government insulted and threatened, Squire Pemberton ventured to speak in tones of condemnation of the free North, the people of Pinchbrook listened coldly, at first, to the sayings of their oracle; and when he began to abuse the loyal spirit of the North, some ventured to dissent from him. The oracle was not in the habit of having men dissent, and it made him angry. His treason became more treasonable, his condemnation more bitter. Plain, honest men, to whatever party they might have belonged, were disgusted with the great man of Pinchbrook; and some of them ventured to express their disapprobation of his course in very decided terms. Some were disposed to be indulgent because the Squire had a sister in Georgia who had married a planter. But there was not found a single person, outside of his own family, who was mean enough to uphold him in his treacherous denunciation of the government.

The squire was too self-sufficient and opinionated to be influenced by the advice of friends or the warning of those who had suddenly become his enemies. He had so often carried the town to his own views, that, perhaps, he expected to manufacture a public sentiment in Pinchbrook that would place the town on the side of the rebels. All day Sunday, and all day Monday, he rode about the Harbor preaching treason. He tried to convince the people that the South had all the right, and the North all the wrong; but he had never found them so obstinate and incredulous before.

Towards night one of the ministers ventured to suggest to him that he was sowing the wind, and would reap the whirlwind. The good man even hinted that he had roused a storm of indignation in the town which he might find it difficult to allay.

The squire laughed at the minister, and told him he was not afraid of any thing. He intended to speak his honest sentiments, as every citizen had a right to do; and he would like to see any man, or any body of men, who would dare to meddle with him.

"I am afraid you will see them, Squire Pemberton," added the minister.

"Let them come where they please and when they please."

"What will you do? What is your single arm against scores of strong men?"

"Nothing, perhaps, but I don't fear them. I am true to my convictions; why need I fear?"

"I think your convictions, as you call them, are deluding you. Do you think Benedict Arnold's convictions, if he had any, would have saved his neck from the halter?"

"Do you mean to compare me to Benedict Arnold, sir?"

"I came to you, as a friend, to warn you of impending danger; and, as your friend, I am compelled to say that I don't see much difference between your position and that of Benedict Arnold."

"Do you mean to insult me?"

"Not at all, sir. I was only expressing my honest conviction. Instead of placing yourself on the side of your government, on the side of law and order, you are going about Pinchbrook Harbor denouncing the legitimate government of your country, and pleading the cause of rebels and traitors."

"Am I not at liberty to say what I please of the government?"

"In ordinary times, you are. Just now, the country is in a state of war, and he who is not for the flag is against it. You may criticize the government as its friend, but not as its foe. When armed men conspire against the peace of the land, he who pleads their cause is a traitor -- nay, sir, don't be angry; these are my convictions."

"Political parsons have been the ruin of the country," sneered the squire. "That is my conviction."

"Squire Pemberton, I beg you not to be rash. If you must cherish these pernicious views, I entreat you, keep them to yourself. You may think what you please, but the utterance of treason makes a traitor."

"I shall proclaim my views from the housetop," replied the squire, angrily, as he abruptly turned away from the minister.

The squire continued obdurate to the last. Neither the persuasions of his friends nor the threats of his enemies had any effect in silencing his tongue; and as late as sundown on that day of the Great Awakening he was pouring treachery and treason into the ears of a neighbor who happened to pass his house. Half an hour later in the day, there was a great gathering of men and boys at the bridge on the outskirts of the village. They were singing Hail Columbia and the Star-spangled Banner. Thomas and John Somers were there.

Presently the assemblage began to move up the road which led to Squire Pemberton's house, singing patriotic songs as they marched. It was a multitude of persons for Pinchbrook; and no doubt the obnoxious oracle thought so when he saw the sea of heads that surrounded his dwelling. If this was a mob, it was certainly a very orderly mob, for the crowd thus far had done nothing worse than to sing the national airs.

The arrangements had all been made before the multitude started from the place of rendezvous. Three gentlemen, the principal of whom was Captain Barney, had been appointed a committee to wait upon the squire, and politely request him to display the American flag on his premises.

In the road, in front of the house, a large fire had been kindled, which threw a broad, bright glare on the house and the surrounding grounds. It was as light as day in the vicinity when the committee walked up to the front door of the house and rang the bell. The squire answered the summons himself.

"Squire Pemberton," said Captain Barney, "your fellow-citizens, about two hundred in number, have called upon you with a simple and reasonable request."

"What is it?" demanded the squire.

"That you hoist the Stars and Stripes on your house."

"I won't do it!" roared the victim, as he slammed the door in the faces of the committee.

"That is insolence," said Captain Barney, quietly. "We will go in."

The captain led the way; but the door had been locked upon them. The shoulders of three stout men pressed against it, and the bolt yielded.

"What do you mean, you villains?" thundered the squire, as he confronted the committee in the entry.

"You were so impolite as to close the door in our faces before we had finished our story," replied the immovable old sea captain.

"How dare you break in my door?" growled the squire.

"We shall do worse than that, squire, if you don't treat us respectfully."

"A man's house is his castle," added the squire, a little more moderately.

"That's very good law, but there isn't a house in Pinchbrook that is big enough or strong enough to shield a traitor from the indignation of his fellow-citizens. We do not purpose to harm you or your property, if you behave like a reasonable man."

"You shall suffer for this outrage," gasped the squire, whose rage was increased by the cool and civil manner of Captain Barney.

"When you closed the door in my face, I had intimated that your fellow-citizens wish you to display the national flag."

"I refuse to do it, sir."

"Consider, squire, what you say. The people have made up their minds not to tolerate a traitor within the corporate limits of the town of Pinchbrook."

"I am no traitor."

"That is precisely what we wish you to demonstrate to your fellow-citizens assembled outside to witness an exhibition of your patriotism."

"I will not do it on compulsion."

"Then, sir, we shall be obliged to resort to disagreeable measures."

"What do you mean by that, sir?" asked the squire, who was evidently alarmed by the threat. "Do you mean to proceed to violence?"

"We do, Squire Pemberton," answered Captain Barney, decidedly.

"O my country!" sighed the victim, "has it come to this? The laws will no longer protect her citizens."

"That's very fine, sir. Do you expect the laws to protect you while you are aiding and abetting those who are trying to destroy them? Is there any law to protect a traitor in his treason? But we waste time, Squire Pemberton. Will you display the American flag?"

"Suppose I refuse?"

"We will pull your house down over your head. We will give you a coat of tar and feathers, and remove you beyond the limits of the town. If you ever come back, we will hang you to the nearest tree."

"Good Heaven! Is it possible that my fellow-citizens are assassins -- incendiaries!"

"Your answer, squire."

"For mercy's sake, husband, do what they ask," interposed his wife, who had been an anxious listener in the adjoining room.

"I must do it," groaned the squire, speaking the truth almost for the first time in forty-eight hours. "Alas! where is our boasted liberty of speech!"

"Fudge! squire," replied Captain Barney, contemptuously. "If your friend Jeff Davis should come to Massachusetts to-morrow, to preach a crusade against the North, and to raise an army to destroy the free institutions of the country, I suppose you think it would be an outrage upon free speech to put him down. We don't think so. Up with the flag, squire."

"Fred, you may hang the flag out at the front window up stairs," said the squire to his son.

"All right, squire. Now a few words more, and we bid you good night. You may think what you please, but if you utter another word of treason in Pinchbrook during the term of your natural life, the party outside will carry out the rest of the programme."

By this time Fred Pemberton had fastened the flag to one of his mother's clothes poles, and suspended it out of the window over the porch. It was hailed with three tremendous cheers by the multitude who were in waiting to discipline the squire, and exorcise the evil spirit of treason and secession.

The work of the evening was finished, not wholly to the satisfaction, perhaps, of a portion of the younger members of the assemblage, who would gladly have joined in the work of pillage and destruction, but much to the gratification of the older and steadier portion of the crowd, who were averse to violent proceedings.



Chapter IV.

The Committee Come Out, And Tom Goes In.


While the committee which the loyal citizens of Pinchbrook had appointed to conduct their case with Squire Pemberton were in the house, engaged in bringing the traitor to terms, the younger members of the assemblage were very impatient to know how matters were progressing. Thomas Somers was particularly anxious to have the affair brought to a crisis. In vain he and a few other of the young loyalists attempted to obtain a view of the interior of the house, where the exciting interview was in progress.

Captain Barney, on shore as well as at sea, was a thorough disciplinarian. Of course, he was aware that his proceedings were technically illegal; that in forcing himself into the house of the squire he was breaking the law of the land; but it seemed to him to be one of those cases where prompt action was necessary, and the law was too tardy to be of any service. He was, however, determined that the business should be done with as little violence as possible, and he had instructed the citizens at the bridge to do no needless injury to the property or the feelings of the squire or his family.

When he entered the house, he had stationed three men at the door to prevent any of the people from following him. He had also directed them not to enter the yard or grounds of the house until he gave the signal. These directions proved a great hardship to the boys in the crowd, and they were completely disgusted when they saw the flag thrown loose from the front window.

The mansion of Squire Pemberton was an old-fashioned dwelling, about a hundred feet from the road. In front of it was a green lawn, adorned with several large buttonwood trees. There was no fence to enclose what was called the front yard. The crowd was assembled on this lawn, and agreeably to the directions of the leader, or chairman of the committee, none of them passed into the yard in the rear and at the end of the house, which was separated from the lawn by a picket fence.

Boys are instinctively curious to know what is going on, and the "living room" of the squire, in which the exciting conversation was taking place, was in the rear of the house. The windows on the front were dark and uncommunicative. The boys were restless and impatient; if there was to be any fun, they wanted to see it. Thomas was as impatient as his fellows, and being more enterprising than the others, he determined, while obeying the instructions of Captain Barney in the spirit, to disobey them in the letter.

He had been a sufferer to the extent of two great wales on the calves of his legs by the treason of the squire, and no doubt he thought he ought to be regarded as an exception to those who were called on to observe the instructions of the chairman of the committee. Leaving the group of inquiring minds near the front door of the house, he walked down the driveway till he came to a rail fence, through which he crawled, and entered the field adjoining the garden of the squire. His fellow-citizens, men and boys, were too intently watching the house to heed him, and no one noticed his enterprising movement.

From the field, he entered the garden, and made his way to the rear of the house. But even here, he was doomed to disappointment, for Mrs. Pemberton had drawn her curtains. Our hero was not, however, to be utterly defeated, and as the curtains had not been fitted by an accomplished upholsterer, there were openings on either side, through which he might command a full view of the interior of the room.

Thomas proceeded slowly and cautiously to obtain a position which would enable him to gratify his curiosity, and witness the humiliation of the haughty squire. Beneath the window which, he had chosen to look through, there was a cellar door, from which a pile of seaweed, placed upon it to keep the frost out of the cellar, had just been removed. The adventurous inquirer crept up the slippery boards, and gained the coveted position. He could not only see the committee and the squire, but he could hear all they said. He was perfectly delighted with the manner in which the captain put the question to the squire; and when the latter ordered Fred to hang out the flag, he was a little disposed to imitate the masculine occupants of the hen-house, a short distance from his perch; but Tom, as we have before intimated, had a very tolerable idea of the principles of strategy, and had the self-possession to hold his tongue, and permit the triumphant scene within to pass without a crow or a cheer.

The battle had been fought and the victory won; and though Tom felt that he was one of the victors, he deemed it prudent, for strategical reasons, to commence a retreat. The cellar doors, as we have before hinted, were very slippery, having been thoroughly soaked with moisture while covered with the seaweed. When the hero of this unauthorized reconnoissance wheeled about to commence his retreat, his feet incontinently slipped up upon the inclined surface of the doors, and he came down heavily upon the rotten boards. This, in itself, would have been but an inconsiderable disaster, and he might still have withdrawn from the inconvenient locality, if circumstances had not conspired against him, as circumstances sometimes will, when they ought to be conciliatory and accommodating. The force with which Tom fell upon the decayed boards was too much for them, and the unlucky adventurer became another victim to the treachery of rotten wood, which has hurled so many thousands from time into eternity.

But Tom was not hurled so far as that on the present occasion, though for all practical purposes, for the succeeding half hour, he might as well have been a hundred fathoms under water, or beneath the wreck of a twenty-ton locomotive at the bottom of the river. That cellar door was a bad place to fall through, which may be accounted for on the supposition that it was not made to fall through. In his downward progress, Tom had unluckily struck his head against the side of the house; and when he landed at the bottom of the stairs, he was utterly oblivious to all distinctions between treason and loyalty. Tom was not killed, I need not inform the ingenious reader, or this would otherwise have been the last chapter of the story; but the poor fellow did not know whether he was dead or alive.

In fact, he had not sense enough left to consider the question at all; for there he lay, in the gloom of the traitor's dark cellar, silent and motionless -- a solemn warning to all our young readers of the folly and wickedness of indulging an illegal and sinful curiosity. It may seem cruel and inhuman in us to forsake poor Tom in this sad plight; but we must, nevertheless, go up stairs, in order that the sufferer may be duly and properly relieved in due and proper season.

When the committee of three, appointed by the indignant loyalists of Pinchbrook, had completed their mission in the house of the squire, like sensible men they proposed to leave; and they so expressed themselves, through their spokesman, to the unwilling host. They put their hats on, and moved into the front entry, whither they were followed by the discomfited traitor. They had scarcely left the room before a tremendous crash greeted the ears of that portion of the family which remained in the apartment. This was the precise moment at which poor Tom Somers found himself on the bottom of the cellar; or, to be entirely accurate, when he lost himself on the bottom of the cellar.

Mrs. Pemberton heard the crash, and she very naturally concluded that the hour of retribution had actually come; that the terrible mob had commenced the work of destruction. To her "fear-amazed" mind it seemed as though the whole side of the house had fallen in, and, for a moment, she confidently expected the chimneys would presently go by the board, and the roof come thundering down upon the devoted heads of her outraged family. Perhaps, at that terrible moment, she wished her husband had been like other women's husbands, a true and loyal man, cheering the old flag, and hurling harmless anathemas at the graceless rebels.

But the chimney did not go by the board, nor the roof come thundering down upon her head. There was not even a sound of destruction to be heard, and the sides of the house seemed to be firm and decided in their intention to maintain their perpendicular position. A few minutes later, when the committee announced to the multitude the success of their undertaking, and Fred had displayed the flag from the window, peal upon peal of stunning huzzas saluted her ears, and the awful peril of the preceding moments appeared to be averted. The squire, having closed and barricaded the broken door as well as he could, returned to the room, with curses deep and bitter upon his lips. He was not in the habit of swearing, but the magnitude of the occasion seemed to justify the innovation, and he swore hugely, roundly, awfully. He paced the room, ground his teeth, and stamped upon the floor.

"Father, did you hear that terrible racket just now?" asked Mrs. Pemberton. "I thought the side of the house had fallen in."

"What racket?" demanded the squire, pausing in his excited walk.

"I am sure they have broken something."

"It sounded as though it was down cellar," added Susan, the daughter.

"What was it?" asked the father.

"I don't know. It sounded like breaking boards. Do go down cellar, and find out what it was."

"The scoundrels!" roared the squire, as he rushed up and down the room again with the fury of a madman. "I'll teach them to break into my house!"

"Be calm, father," interposed Mrs. Pemberton, who, like most New England mothers, called her husband by the title which belonged exclusively to the children.

"Calm? How can I be calm? Don't you hear the ruffians shout and yell?"

"They are only cheering the flag."

The squire muttered a malediction upon the flag, which would probably have procured for him a coat of tar and feathers, if the mob had heard it. Mrs. Pemberton was silent, for she had never seen her husband so moved before. She permitted him to pace the room in his frenzy till his anger had, in some measure, subsided.

"I wish you would go down cellar and find out what that noise was," said Mrs. Pemberton, as soon as she dared to speak again. "Perhaps some of them are down there now. Who knows but they will set the house afire."

Squire Pemberton was startled by this suggestion, and, seizing the lamp, he rushed down cellar to prevent so dire a calamity.



Chapter V.

The Attic Chamber.


Squire Pemberton rushed down cellar. He was very much excited, and forgot that he had been troubled with the rheumatism during the preceding winter. When he opened the cellar door, he was considerably relieved to find that no brilliant light saluted his expectant gaze. It was as cold and dark in the cellar as it had been when he sorted over the last of his Warren Russets, a few days before.

It was certain, therefore, that the house was not on fire; and, invigorated by this thought, he descended the stairs. A strong current of fresh, cold air extinguished the light he carried. As this was contrary to his usual experience when he went down cellar in the evening after an apple or a mug of cider, it assured him that there was a screw loose somewhere. Returning to the room above, he procured a lantern, and proceeded to the cellar again to renew his investigations.

The squire felt the cold blast of the April air, and immediately made his way to the cellar door, holding the lantern up as high as his head, to ascertain the nature of the mischief which the fanatical abolitionists had perpetrated. He saw that the cellar door was broken through. The rotten boards lay upon the steps, and with another malediction upon the mob, he placed the lantern upon a barrel, and proceeded to repair the damage. As he stepped forward, he stumbled against the body of the enterprising hero of this volume, who lay as calm and still as a sleeping child.

The squire started back, not a little alarmed at the sight of the motionless body. He felt as though a terrible retribution had fallen upon somebody, who had been killed in the act of attempting to destroy his property. Seizing his lantern, he retreated to the cellar stairs by which he had descended, and stood there for a moment, his tongue paralyzed, and his knees smiting each other, in the agony of terror.

We do not know what he was afraid of, but we suppose that instinctive dread which some people manifest in the presence of death, had completely overcome him. Certainly there was nothing to be afraid of, for a dead man is not half so likely to do a person an injury as a living one. But in a few minutes Squire Pemberton in some measure recovered his self-possession.

"There is a dead man down here!" he called up the staircase, in quaking tones.

"Mercy on us!" exclaimed Mrs. Pemberton. "Who is he?"

"I don't know," replied the squire.

"Look and see who it is, father," added Mrs. Pemberton. "Perhaps he isn't dead."

"Stone dead," persisted the squire. "He fell into the cellar and broke his neck."

"Go and see who it is -- will you?"

"Well, you come down and hold the light," said the squire, who was not quite willing to say that he was scared out of his wits.

Mrs. Pemberton descended the stairs, followed by Susan and Fred, who had just returned from the front window, where he had exhibited the flag, which the crowd outside were still cheering.

"Who can it be?" continued the old lady, as she slowly and cautiously walked forward to the scene of the catastrophe.

"I don't know," replied the squire, in whom the presence of his family had spurred up a semblance of courage; for if a man ever is brave, it is in the presence of his wife and children. "If it is one of the ruffians who came here to destroy my house, I am glad he has lost his life in the attempt. It is a righteous retribution upon him for his wickedness."

Mrs. Pemberton took the lantern, and the squire, still excited and terrified, bent over the prostrate form of the young marauder. The victim lay upon his face, and the squire had to turn him over to obtain a view of his countenance.

"I declare it is one of the Somers boys!" exclaimed Mrs. Pemberton, as her husband brought the face of Thomas to her view.

"The young villain!" ejaculated the squire. "It is lucky he was killed, or the house would have been in flames before this time. He is a desperate young scoundrel."

"But he isn't dead, father!" said Mrs. Pemberton, as she knelt upon the cold ground, and felt the pulse of the insensible boy. "He is only stunned."

"I am sorry for it. If it had killed him, it would have served him right," added the squire, who had suddenly become as bold as a lion -- as bold as two lions.

"Come, father, let's carry him up stairs, and put him to bed."

"Do you think I am going to do anything for this young scoundrel!" exclaimed the squire, indignantly. "Why, he stoned Fred and me to-day, and stoned the horse, and made him run away and break the chaise all to pieces."

"But we mustn't leave him here in this situation. He may die."

"Let him die."

"But what will folks say?"

The more humane wife evidently understood the weak point of the squire, for nothing but slavery and the Southern Confederacy could have induced him to set at defiance the public sentiment of Pinchbrook.

"Well, carry him up stairs then; but he never will get out of my house till he has been severely punished for his crimes."

The squire and Fred took hold of the senseless form of poor Tom, and carried it up stairs, where it was placed upon the sofa in the sitting room. Mrs. Pemberton had the reputation of being "an excellent hand in sickness," and she immediately applied herself to the duty of restoring the sufferer to consciousness.

"Don't you think you had better go after the doctor, father?" asked the good woman. "Some of his bones may be broken, or he may be injured inwardly."

"I shall not go for any doctor," snarled the squire. "Do you think I will trust myself out doors while that howling mob is hanging round the house?"

"Fred can go," suggested Susan.

"He can, but he shall not," growled the squire, throwing himself into his arm chair in the corner, with an appearance of indifference and unconcern, which were far from representing the actual state of his mind.

Mrs. Pemberton said no more, but she and Susan went to work upon the sufferer with camphor and hartshorn in good earnest, and in a short time they had the satisfaction of seeing him open his eyes. They continued the treatment for some time longer, with the most satisfactory result, till Tom astonished them by jumping off the sofa, and standing up in the middle of the room. He rubbed his forehead, hunched up his left shoulder, and felt of his shins.

"Are you hurt, Thomas?" asked Mrs. Pemberton, with more of tenderness in her tones than the squire deemed proper for the occasion.

"No, marm, I guess not," replied Tom. "My shoulder feels a little stiff, and I think I barked one of my shins; but I shall be as good as new by to-morrow."

But there was an ugly bump on the side of his head, which he had not yet discovered, but which Susan pointed out to him. He acknowledged the bump, but declared it was only a little sore and would be all right by the next day.

"I feel pretty well," continued Tom, "and I guess I'll go home now."

"I think you won't, young man," interposed Squire Pemberton.

Tom looked at him, and for the first time since he had come to himself, he remembered in what manner he had received his injuries. He immediately came to the conclusion that he had got into a bad scrape. He was in the house of, and in the presence of, his great enemy. The events of the day passed in rapid succession through his mind, and he could not help thinking that he was destined to be the first victim in Pinchbrook to the war spirit which had just been awakened all over the country.

The squire thought he would not go home, which was as much as to say he would not let him go home. Tom's wits were a little confused, after the hard knock he had received upon the head, and all he could do was to stand and look at the oracle of Pinchbrook, and wait for further developments.

"Young man," said the squire, sternly, and in tones that were intended to make a deep impression upon the mind of the young man, "your time has come."

The squire paused, and looked at the culprit to ascertain the effect of the startling announcement; but Tom seemed to be perfectly cool, and was not annihilated by the suggestive remark of the great man of Pinchbrook.

"You have become a midnight marauder," added the squire, poetically.

"It isn't seven o'clock yet," said Tom pointing to the great wooden clock in the corner of the room.

"You joined a mob to pillage and destroy the property of a peaceable citizen. You broke in -- "

"No, sir; the cellar door broke in," interposed the culprit.

"You broke into my house to set it afire!" continued the squire, in a rage.

"No, sir, I did not. I only went round there to see the fun," replied Tom, pointing to the rear of the house; "and the cellar door broke down and let me in. I did not mean to do you or your house any harm; and I didn't do any, except breaking the cellar door, and I will have that mended."

"Don't tell me, you young villain! You meant to burn my house."

"No, I didn't mean any thing of the kind," replied Tom, stoutly. "I was going off when the door broke down. The boards were rotten, and I should think a man like you ought to have better cellar doors than those are."

The squire didn't relish this criticism, especially from the source whence it came. There was a want of humility on the part of the culprit which the magnate of Pinchbrook thought would be exceedingly becoming in a young man in his situation. The absence of it made him more angry than before. He stormed and hurled denunciations at the offender; he rehearsed the mischief he had done during the day, and alluded in strong terms to that which he intended to perpetrate in the "dead watches of the night" -- which was the poetical rendering of half-past six in the evening; for the squire was fond of effective phrases.

Tom ventured to hint that a man who would not stand by his country when her flag was insulted and "trailed in the dust" -- Tom had read the daily papers -- ought to be brought to his senses by such expedients as his fellow-citizens might suggest. Of course this remark only increased the squire's wrath, and he proceeded to pronounce sentence upon the unlucky youth, which was that he should be taken to the finished room in the attic, and confined there under bolts and bars till the inquisitor should further declare and execute his intentions.

Mrs. Pemberton and Susan remonstrated against this sentence, prudently suggesting the consequences which might result from detaining the boy. But the squire declared he should not go till he had at least horsewhipped him; and if there was any justice left in the land, he would send him to the county jail in the morning.

Tom wanted to resist the execution of his sentence, but he was still weak from the effects of his fall, and he could not expect to vanquish both the squire and his son; so, with an earnest protest, he permitted himself to be led to the attic chamber. The squire thrust him into the room, and after carefully securing the door, left our hero to meditate upon the reverse of fortune which had overtaken him.



Chapter VI.

The Way Is Prepared.


"Where do you suppose Thomas is?" said Mrs. Somers, as she glanced at the clock, which indicated half-past nine.

"I don't know," replied John. "He can't be a great ways off. I saw him in front of the squire's house when the committee went in."

"The boy's gone down to the Harbor again with the rest of the folks, talking about the war," added gran'ther Greene, as he rose from his chair, and hobbled into his chamber adjoining the kitchen.

At ten o'clock, the mother began to be a little uneasy; and at eleven, even John had some fears that all was not well with his brother. Neither of them was able to suggest anything that could possibly have happened to the absentee. There had been no battle fought, and so nobody could have been killed. There had been no violence used in the transactions of the evening further than breaking in the front door of Squire Pemberton, so that it was not easy to believe that any accident had happened to him.

John had given a glowing account of the proceedings at the house of the squire and the family had been much interested and excited by the stirring narrative. His mother was perfectly satisfied, as no one had been injured, and hoped the great man of Pinchbrook would be brought to his senses. All these topics had been fully discussed during the evening. John had informed his mother that Captain Benson, who had formerly commanded the Pinchbrook Riflemen, intended to raise a company for the war. He mentioned the names of half a dozen young men who had expressed their desire to join. The family had suggested that this and that man would go, and thus the long evening passed away.

"I don't see what has become of Thomas," said Mrs. Somers, when the clock struck eleven, as she rose from her chair and looked out of the window.

"Well, I don't see, either," replied John. "I don't believe there is anything going on at this time of night."

"I hope nothing has happened to him," continued the anxious mother, as she went to the door and looked out, hoping, perhaps, to discover him in the gloom of the night, or to hear his familiar step.

"What could have happened to him?" asked John, who did not believe his brother was fool enough to fall overboard, or permit any serious accident to happen to him.

"I don't know. I can't see what has got the boy. He always comes home before nine o'clock. Have you heard him say anything that will give you an idea where he is?"

"He hasn't said anything to me."

"Try, and see if you can't think of something," persisted the anxious mother.

"He hasn't talked of anything but the war since yesterday morning."

"What did he say?"

"I don't know, now," answered John, musing. "He said he should like to join the army, and go down and fight the rebels."

Mrs. Somers had heard as much from him, but she had given no particular attention to his remarks on this subject, for they seemed wild and visionary. John's words, under the present circumstances, appeared to be full of importance; and taking her stocking, she seated herself before the stove, and resumed her knitting. She was silent now, for her heart was heavy with the premonitions of impending trouble.

"I will take a walk down to the Harbor, mother, and see if I can find anything of him. There may be something going on there that I don't know about. He may be at the store, talking about the war with Captain Barney and the rest of the folks."

Mrs. Somers offered no objection to this plan, and John put on his cap, and left the house. The poor mother brooded upon her trouble for another hour, and with every new moment, the trouble seemed more real. The clock struck twelve before John returned; and more than once during his absence, as she plied her needles, she had wiped away a tear that hung among the furrows of her care-worn cheek. She had been thinking of her husband, as well as of her son. He was, or soon would be, in the midst of the traitors, and she trembled for him. Uncle Wyman was a secessionist; and, beyond this, she had not much confidence in his integrity, and if Captain Somers came home at all, his property would all be swept away, and he would be a beggar.

The events of that day were not calculated to conciliate Squire Pemberton towards them, and the farm and the cottage would pass away from them. All these things had been considered and reconsidered by the devoted mother. Poverty and want seemed to stare her in the face; and to add to all these troubles, Thomas did not come home, and, as fond mothers will, she anticipated the worst.

John entered the kitchen, and carelessly flung his cap upon the table. Mrs. Somers looked at him, and waited patiently to hear any intelligence he might bring. But John threw himself into a chair, looking more gloomy than before he left the house. He did not speak, and therefore he had no good news to tell.

"You didn't see anything of him -- did you?" asked Mrs. Somers; but it was a useless question, for she had already interpreted the meaning of his downcast looks.

"No, mother; there isn't a man, woman, or child stirring in the village; and I didn't see a light in a single house."

"What do you suppose can have become of him?"

"I'm sure I don't know. Tom is old enough and smart enough to take care of himself."

"It's very strange."

"So it is. I haven't any idea what has become of him."

"Did you look around Squire Pemberton's house, where he was seen last?"

"I looked about on both sides of the road, going and coming from the Harbor. I whistled all the way, and if he had been any where round, he would have whistled back, as he always does."

"What do you suppose has become of him?" demanded the poor mother, worried beyond expression at the mysterious disappearance of her son.

"I can't tell, mother."

"Don't you think we had better call up the neighbors, and have something done about it?"

"I don't know," replied John, hardly less anxious than his mother.

"I don't suppose they would be able to find him if we did," added Mrs. Somers, wiping away the tears from her face.

"I can't think anything has happened to him, mother. If he had been on the water, or anything of that kind, I should feel worse about it."

"If I only knew where he was, I shouldn't feel so bad about it," said she; and her position, certainly, was a reasonable one.

"What's the matter, sister?" called gran'ther Greene, from his chamber. "Hasn't that boy got home yet?"

"No, he hasn't come yet, and I am worried to death about him," replied Mrs. Somers, opening the door of her brother's room.

"What o'clock is it?"

"After twelve. Thomas never stayed out so late in his life before. What do you suppose has become of him?"

"Law sake! I haven't the leastest idea," answered the old man. "Thomas is a smart boy, and knows enough to keep out of trouble."

"That's what I say," added John, who had unlimited confidence in his brother's ability to take care of himself.

"I'll tell you what I think, John," said Mrs. Somers, throwing herself into her chair with an air of desperation.

But she did not tell John what she thought: on the contrary, she sat rocking herself in silence, as though her thought was too big and too momentous for utterance.

"Well, what do you think, mother?" asked John, when he had waited a reasonable time for her to express her opinion on the exciting topic.

Mrs. Somers rocked herself more violently than before, and made no reply.

"What were you going to say?"

"I think the boy has gone off to Boston, and gone into the army," replied she, desperately, as though she had fully made up her mind to commit herself to this belief.

"Do you think so, mother?"

"I feel almost sure of it."

"I don't think so, mother. Tom wouldn't have gone off without saying something to me about it."

"If he wouldn't say it to me, he wouldn't be likely to say it to you, John. It don't look a bit like Thomas to go off and leave his mother in this way," moaned the poor woman, wiping away a deluge of tears that now poured from her eyes.

"I don't believe he has done any such thing, mother," protested John.

"I feel almost certain about it, now. If the boy wanted to go, and couldn't stay at home, he ought to have told me so."

"He did say he wanted to go."

"I didn't think he really meant it. I want my boys to love their country, and be ready to fight for it. Much as I should hate to part with them, if they are needed, they may go; but I don't like to have them run away and leave me in this mean way. I shouldn't feel half so bad if I knew Thomas was in the army now, as I do to think he ran away from home, just as though he had done some mean thing. I am willing he should go, and he wouldn't be a son of mine if he wasn't ready to go and fight for his country, and die for her too, if there was any need of it. I didn't think Thomas would serve me in this way."

"I don't believe he has."

"I know he's gone. I like his spunk, but if he had only come to me and said he must go, I wouldn't have said a word; but to go off without bidding us good by -- it's too bad, and I didn't think Thomas would do such a thing."

Mrs. Somers rose from her chair, and paced the room in the highest state of agitation and excitement. The rockers were not adequate to the duty required of them, and nothing less than the whole floor of the kitchen was sufficient for the proper venting of her emotion.

"Do you mean to say, mother, that you would have given him leave to go, even if he had teased you for a month?" asked John.

"Certainly I should," replied his mother, stopping short in the middle of the floor. "I'm ready and willing to have my boys fight for their country, but I don't want them to sneak off as though they had been robbing a hen-roost, and without even saying good by to me."

"If Tom were here, do you mean to say you would let him go?" demanded John, earnestly.

"Certainly I do; I mean so. But I don't think there is any need of boys like him going, when there are men enough to do the fighting."

"You told Tom he shouldn't go."

"Well, I didn't think he really meant it. If he had -- What's that, John?" asked she, suddenly, as a noise at the window attracted her attention.

"Only the cat, mother."

"If Thomas or you had asked me in earnest, and there was need of your going, I wouldn't have kept either of you at home. I would go to the poorhouse first. My father and my brother both fought for their country, and my sons shall when their country wants them."

"Then you are willing Tom should go?"

"I am, but not to have him sneak off like a sheep-stealer."

"Three cheers for you, mother!" shouted Thomas, as he threw up the window at which he had been standing for some ten minutes listening to this interesting conversation.

"Where have you been, Thomas?" exclaimed the delighted mother.

"Open the door, Jack, and let me in, and I will tell you all about it," replied the absentee.

"Come in; the door isn't locked," said John.

He came in; and what he had to tell will interest the reader as well as his mother and his brother.



Chapter VII.

A Midnight Adventure.


Tom Somers was an enterprising young man, as our readers have already discovered; and when the door of the finished room in the attic of Squire Pemberton's house was fastened upon him, he was not at all disposed to submit to the fate which appeared to be in store for him. The idea of becoming a victim to the squire's malice was not to be entertained, and he threw himself upon the bed to devise some means by which he might make his escape.

The prospect was not encouraging, for there was only one window in the chamber, and the distance to the ground was suggestive of broken limbs, if not of a broken neck. Tom had read the Life of Baron Trenck, and of Stephen Burroughs, but the experience of neither of these worthies seemed to be available on the present occasion.

As the family had not yet retired, it would not be safe to commence operations for some hours. The stale, commonplace method of tying the sheets and blankets together, and thus forming a rope by which he could descend to the ground, occurred to him; but he had not much confidence in the project. He lay quietly on the bed till he heard the clocks on the churches at the Harbor strike twelve. It was time then, if ever, for the family to be asleep, and he decided to attempt an escape by another means which had been suggested to him. If it failed, he could then resort to the old-fashioned way of going down on the rope made of sheets and blankets.

The apartment in which Tom was confined was not what people in the country call an "upright chamber." The sides of the room were about four feet in height; and a section of the apartment would have formed one half of an irregular octagon. In each side of the chamber there was a small door, opening into the space near the eaves of the house, which was used to store old trunks, old boxes, the disused spinning-wheel, and other lumber of this description. Tom had been in the attic before, and he remembered these doors, through one of which he now proposed to make his escape.

When the clock struck twelve, he cautiously rose from the bed, and pulled off his boots, which a proper respect for his host or the bed had not prompted him to do before. The house was old, and the floors had a tendency to creak beneath his tread. With the utmost care, he crawled on his hands and knees to one of the doors of the lumber hole, which he succeeded in opening without much noise.

Making his way in among the old boxes, trunks, and spinning-wheels, he was fully embarked in his difficult venture. The dust which he stirred up in his progress produced an almost irresistible desire to sneeze, which Lord Dundreary might have been happy to indulge, but which might have been fatal to the execution of Tom Somers's purpose. He rubbed his nose, and held his handkerchief over the intractable member, and succeeded in overcoming its dangerous tendency. His movements were necessarily very slow, for he was in constant dread lest some antiquated relic of the past should tumble over, and thus disturb the slumbers of the family who occupied the chambers below.

But in spite of the perils and difficulties that environed his path, there was something exciting and exhilarating in the undertaking. It was a real adventure, and, as such, Tom enjoyed it. As he worked his way through the labyrinth of antiquities, he could not but picture to himself the surprise and chagrin of Squire Pemberton, when he should come up to the attic chamber to wreak his vengeance upon him. He could see the magnate of Pinchbrook start, compress his lips and clinch his fists, when he found the bird had flown.

"Better not crow till I get out of the woods," said he to himself, while his imagination was still busy upon the agreeable picture.

After a series of trials and difficulties which our space does not permit us to describe in full, Tom emerged from the repository of antiquities, and stood in the open space in front of the finished chamber. With one boot in each hand, he felt his way to the stairs, and descended to the entry over the front door. All obstacles now seemed to be overcome, for he had nothing to do but go down stairs and walk out.

It often happens, amid the uncertainties of this unstable world, that we encounter the greatest trials and difficulties precisely where we expect to find none. As Tom walked along the entry, with one hand on the rail that protected the staircase to guide him, he struck his foot against the pole upon which Fred Pemberton had suspended the flag out of the window. It was very careless of the squire, when he took the flag in, to leave the stick in that unsafe position, for one of his own family might have stumbled against it, and broken a leg or an arm, or possibly a neck; and if it might have been a "cause of offence" to one of the Pembertons, it certainly laid a grievous burden upon the shoulders of poor Tom Somers.

When the pole fell, it made a tremendous racket, as all poles will when they fall just at the moment when they ought to stand up, and be decent and orderly. This catastrophe had the effect to quicken the steps of the young man. He reached the stairs, and had commenced a rapid descent, when the door of the squire's room, which was on the lower floor, opened, and Tom found himself flanked in that direction.

"Who's there? What's that?" demanded the squire, in hurried, nervous tones.

Tom was so impolite as to make no reply to these pressing interrogatories, but quickly retreated in the direction from which he had come.

"Wife, light the lamp, quick," said the squire, in the hall below.

Just then a door opened on the other side of the entry where Tom stood, and he caught a faint glimpse of a figure robed in white. Though it was the solemn hour of midnight, and Tom, I am sorry to say, had read the Three Spaniards, and Mysteries of Udolpho, he rejected the suggestion that the "sheeted form" might be a ghost.

"Who's there?" called the squire again.

A romantic little scream from the figure in white assured Tom that Miss Susan was the enemy immediately on his front. Then he caught the glimmer of the light below, which Mrs. Pemberton had procured, and the race seemed to be up. Concealment was no longer practicable, and he seized upon the happy suggestion that the window opening upon the portico over the front door was available as a means of egress.

Springing to the window, he raised it with a prompt and vigorous hand, and before the squire could ascend the stairs, he was upon the roof of the portico. Throwing his boots down, he grasped the gutter, and "hung off." He was now on terra firma, and all his trials appeared to have reached a happy termination; but here again he was doomed to disappointment.

"Bow, wow, wow-er, woo, row!" barked and growled the squire's big bull dog, when he came to realize that some unusual occurrences were transpiring.

The animal was a savage brute, and was kept chained in the barn during the day, and turned loose when the squire made his last visit to the cattle about nine in the evening. Tom was thoroughly alarmed when this new enemy confronted him; but fortunately he had the self-possession to stand his ground, and not attempt to run away, otherwise the dog would probably have torn him in pieces.

"Come here, Tige! Poor fellow! Come here! He's a good fellow! Don't you know me, Tige?" said Tom, whose only hope seemed to be in conciliation and compromise.

If Tige knew him, he appeared to be very unwilling to acknowledge the acquaintance under the present suspicious circumstances, and at this unseemly hour. The brute barked, snarled, howled, and growled, and manifested as strong an indisposition to compromise as a South Carolina fire-eater. He placed himself in front of the hero of the night's adventure, as resolute and as intractable as though he had known all the facts in the case, and intended to carry out to the letter the wishes of his master.

Tom slowly retreated towards the garden fence, the dog still following him up. He had tried coaxing and conciliation, and they had failed. As he cautiously backed from the house, his feet struck against a heavy cart stake, which seemed to suggest his next resort. He was well aware that any quick movement on his part would cause the dog to spring upon him. Placing his toe under the stake, he raised it with his foot, till he could reach it with his hand, keeping his gaze fixed upon the eyes of the dog, which glared like fiery orbs in the gloom of the hour.

Tige saw the stick, and he appeared to have a wholesome respect for it -- a sentiment inspired by sundry beatings, intended to cure a love of mutton on the hoof, or beef on the shelf. The brute retreated a few paces; but at this moment Squire Pemberton appeared at the front door, with a lantern in his hand. He understood the "situation" at a glance.

"Take him, Tige! Stu' boy!" shouted the squire.

The dog snarled an encouraging reply to this suggestion, and moved up towards the fugitive. Tom's courage was equal to the occasion, and he levelled a blow at the head of the bull dog, which, if it had hit him fairly, must have smashed in his skull. As it was, the blow was a heavy one, and Tige retreated; but the shouts of the squire rallied him, and he rushed forward to the onslaught again.

Tom, as we have before had occasion to suggest, was a master of strategy, and instead of another stroke at the head of his savage foe, with only one chance in ten of hitting the mark he commenced swinging it vigorously to the right and left, as a mower does his scythe. His object was to hit the legs of the dog -- a plan which was not entirely original with him, for he had seen it adopted with signal success by a fisherman at the Harbor. The consequence of this change of tactics was soon apparent, for Tige got a rap on the fore leg, which caused him to yelp with pain, and retire from the field. While the dog moved off in good order in one direction, Tom effected an equally admirable retreat in the other direction.

On reaching the road, he pulled on his boots, which he had picked up after the discomfiture of his canine antagonist. Squire Pemberton still stood at the door trying to bring Tige to a sense of his duty in the trying emergency; but the brute had more regard for his own shins than he had for the mandate of his master, and the victor was permitted to bear away his laurels without further opposition.

When he reached his father's house, supposing the front door was locked, he went to the kitchen window, where he had heard the patriotic remarks of his mother. Tom told his story in substance as we have related it.

"Do you mean what you have said, mother?" inquired he, when he had finished his narrative.

Mrs. Somers bit her lip in silence for a moment.

"Certainly I do, Thomas," said she, desperately.

It was half-past one when the boys retired, but it was another hour before Tom's excited brain would permit him to sleep. His head was full of a big thought.



Chapter VIII.

Signing The Papers.


Thomas went to sleep at last, and, worn out by the fatigue and excitement of the day, he slept long and soundly. His mother did not call him till eight o'clock, and it was nine before he reached the store of his employer, where the recital of the adventure of the preceding night proved to be a sufficient excuse for his non-appearance at the usual hour.

In the course of the week Captain Benson had procured the necessary authority to raise a company for three years or for the war. When he exhibited his papers, he found twenty persons ready to put down their names. A recruiting office was opened at the store, and every day added to the list of brave and self-denying men who were ready to go forward and fight the battles of liberty and union. The excitement in Pinchbrook was fanned by the news which each day brought of the zeal and madness of the traitors.

Thomas had made up his mind, even before his mother had been surprised into giving her consent, that he should go to the war. At the first opportunity, therefore, he wrote his name upon the paper, very much to the astonishment of Captain Benson and his employer.

"How old are you, Tom?" asked the captain.

"I'm in my seventeenth year," replied the soldier boy.

"You are not old enough."

"I'm three months older than Sam Thompson; and you didn't even ask him how old he was."

"He is larger and heavier than you are!"

"I can't help that. I'm older than he is, and I think I can do as much in the way of fighting as he can."

"I don't doubt that," added the captain, laughing. "Your affair with Squire Pemberton shows that you have pluck enough for anything. I should be very glad to have you go; but what does your father say?"

"He hasn't said anything. He isn't at home. He went away before Sumter was fired upon by the rebels."

"True -- I remember. What does your mother say?"

"O, she is willing."

"Are you sure, Tom?"

"Of course, I am. Suppose you write something by which she can give her consent, and she will sign it."

Captain Benson drew up the document, and when Tom went home to dinner, he presented it to his mother for her signature.

"I hope you won't back out, mother," said he, as she put on her spectacles, and proceeded to ascertain the contents of the document.

"Back out of what, Thomas?"

"I've signed the muster roll, and I belong to Captain Benson's company now."

"You!" exclaimed Mrs. Somers, lowering the paper, and gazing earnestly into the face of the young man, to discover whether he was in earnest.

"Yes, mother; you said you were willing, and I have signed the papers; but Captain Benson wants your consent in writing, so that there shall be no mistake about it."

The mother read the paper in silence and sadness, for the thought of having her noble boy exposed to the perils of the camp and the march, the skirmish and the battle, was terrible, and nothing but the most exalted patriotism could induce a mother to give a son to his country.

"I don't want to sign this paper, Thomas," said she, when she had finished reading it.

"Have you forgot what you said the other night, mother?"

"No, I haven't forgot it, and I feel now just as I did then. If there is any real need of your going, I am willing you should go."

"Need? Of course there is need of soldiers. The President wasn't joking when he called for seventy-five thousand men."

"But there are enough to go without you."

"That's just what everybody might say, and then there wouldn't be anybody to go."

"But you are young, and not very strong."

"I'm old enough, and strong enough. When I can get a day to myself, I don't think it's any great hardship to carry father's heavy fowling-piece from sunrise to sunset; and I guess I can stand it to carry a musket as long as any of them."

"You are only a boy."

"I shall be a man soon enough."

"When you have gone, John will want to go too."

"No, mother, I don't want to go into the army," said John, with a sly wink at his brother. "I shall never be a soldier if I can help it."

"What am I going to do, if you all go off and leave me?" added Mrs. Somers, trying hard to keep down a tear which was struggling for birth in her fountain of sorrows.

"I don't think you will want for anything, mother. I'm sure I wouldn't leave you, if I thought you would. I don't get but two dollars and a half a week in the store, and I shall have eleven dollars a month in the army, and it won't cost me any thing for board or clothes. I will send every dollar I get home to you."

"You are a good boy, Thomas," replied Mrs. Somers, unable any longer to restrain the tear.

"I know you and John both will do every thing you can for me. If your father was only at home, I should feel different about it."

"He would believe in my fighting for my country, if he were here."

"I know he would," said Mrs. Somers, as she took the pen which Thomas handed her, and seated herself at the table. "If you are determined to go, I suppose you will go, whether I am willing or not."

"No, mother, I will not," added Thomas, decidedly. "I shouldn't have signed the muster roll if you hadn't said you were willing. And if you say now that you won't consent, I will take my name off the paper."

"But you want to go -- don't you?"

"I do; there's no mistake about that: but I won't go if you are not willing."

Mrs. Somers wrote her name upon the paper. It was a slow and difficult operation to her, and during the time she was thus occupied, the rest of the family watched her in silent anxiety. Perhaps, if she had not committed herself on the eventful night when she fully believed that Thomas had run away and joined the army, she might have offered more and stronger objections than she now urged. But there was a vein of patriotism in her nature, which she had inherited from her father, who had fought at Bunker Hill, Brandywine, and Germantown, and which had been exemplified in the life of her brother; and this, more than any other consideration, induced her to sign the paper.

Thousands of loving and devoted mothers have given their sons to their country in the same holy enthusiasm that inspired her. She was not a solitary instance of this noble sacrifice, and if both her sons had been men, instead of boys, she would not have interposed a single objection to their departure upon a mission so glorious as that to which Thomas had now devoted himself.

"There's my name, Thomas," said his mother, as she took off her spectacles. "I've done it, and you have my free consent. You've always been a good boy, and I hope you will always be a good soldier."

"I shall always try to do my duty, mother; and if ever I turn my back to a rebel, I hope you'll disown me."

"Good, Tom!" exclaimed John, who had been deeply interested in the event of the hour.

"Well, Thomas, I'd rather face two rebels than that bull dog you fit with t'other night," added gran'ther Greene. "You are as bold as a lion, Thomas."

"Do you think I can stand it, gran'ther?" added Tom, with a smile.

"Stand it? Well, Thomas, it's a hard life to be a soldier, and I know something about it. When we marched from -- "

"Dinner's ready," interposed Mrs. Somers, for gran'ther Greene had marched that march so many times that every member of the family knew it by heart.

"There's one good thing about it, Tom," said John: "you have got a first-rate captain."

"I'm thankful you are going with Captain Benson, for if there ever was a Christian in Pinchbrook, he is the man," added Mrs. Somers.

"And all the company will be your own friends and neighbors," said gran'ther Greene; "and that's something, I can tell you. I know something about this business. When we marched from -- "

"Have some more beans, brother?" asked Mrs. Somers. "You will be among your friends, Thomas, as gran'ther says."

"That's a great thing, I can tell you," added the veteran. "Soldiers should stick together like brothers, and feel that they are fighting for each other, as well as for the country. Then, when you're sick, you want friends. When we marched from Sackett's Harbor, there was a young feller -- "

"Have some more tea, brother?"

"Part of a cup, Nancy," replied the old man, who never took offence even when the choicest stories of his military experience were nipped in the bud.

After dinner, Thomas hastened back to the store. That day seemed to him like an epoch in his existence, as indeed it was. He felt that he belonged to his country now, and that the honor of that old flag, which had been insulted by traitors, was committed to his keeping. He was taking up the work where his grandfather had left it. He was going forth to fight for his country, and the thought inspired him with a noble and generous enthusiasm, before which all the aspirations of his youth vanished.

As he passed the house of Squire Pemberton, he bestowed a pitying reflection upon the old traitor; but his mind was so full of the great event which was dawning upon him, that he did not even think of the exciting incidents which had occurred there. He had neither seen nor heard any thing of the squire since he had escaped from the attic chamber.

Just beyond the squire's house he met Captain Barney, who was riding up to the town hall.

"What's this I hear of you, Tom?" demanded the captain, as he reined in his horse. "They say you have joined the company."

"Yes, sir. I have."

"Bravo! my boy. Good on your head! You ought to go out as a brigadier general. What does your mother say?"

"I have her written consent in my pocket."

"All right. God bless you, my boy!" said the old salt, as he started his horse.

"Thank you, sir. There's only one thing that troubles me."

"Eh? What's that, my boy?" demanded Captain Barney as he reined up the horse again.

"I suppose you have heard of my scrape at Squire Pemberton's the other night."

"Yes; and shiver my timbers if I didn't want to keelhaul the old traitor when I heard of it."

"I don't care anything about the scrape, sir; only I'm afraid the squire will bother my mother when I'm gone," said Thomas, with some diffidence.

"If he does, he'll settle the matter with Jack Barney," replied the captain, decidedly.

"My father may never come back, you know, and if he does he will be a beggar. He owes the squire a note, which will be due in June."

"I'll pay it myself!" roared Captain Barney. "Go and fight for your country, Tom, like a man. I'll call and see your mother once a week, or every day in the week, if you say so. She shall not want for any thing as long as I have a shot in the locker."

"Thank you, Captain Barney; thank you, sir."

"I'll take care of your mother, my lad, and I'll take care of the squire. He shall not foreclose that mortgage, Tom. Don't bother your head about any of those things. You're a good boy, Tom, and I'll keep every thing all right at home."

"Thank you, sir," repeated the soldier boy, as Captain Barney started his horse again.

The captain was a retired shipmaster, of ample means, and Tom knew that he was not only able, but willing, to do all he had promised. His heart was lighter; a load had been removed from his mind.



Chapter IX.

The Departure.


At the time of which we write, recruiting officers were not very particular in regard to the age of those whom they received into the volunteer army. If the young man seemed to have the requisite physical qualifications, it was of little consequence what his age was; and Tom Somers was tall enough and stout enough to make a very good soldier.

Captain Benson examined the certificate brought to him by the young recruit, not, however, because it was deemed a necessary legal form, but because he was acquainted with his father and mother, and would not willingly have done any thing to displease them. The matter, therefore, was disposed of to the satisfaction of all the parties concerned, and Tom actually commenced his career as a soldier boy. He immediately resigned his situation in the store, for the company now numbered forty men, not half a dozen of whom had any knowledge whatever of military drill.

As the volunteers of the Pinchbrook company could ill afford to lose the time devoted to drill before they should be mustered into the service of the United States, the town voted to pay each man fifteen dollars a month for three months. This generous and patriotic action of the town rejoiced the heart of Tom Somers, for his mother actually needed the pittance he had earned at the store. Mrs. Somers had heard nothing from her husband; but the destruction of the Gosport Navy Yard, and the seizure of several northern vessels in the harbor of Norfolk, left her little to hope for in that direction. Suddenly an impregnable wall seemed to rise up between the North and the South, and she not only feared that Captain Somers had lost all his worldly possessions, but that he would hardly be able to escape himself from the fiery furnace of secession and treason.

To her, therefore, the future looked dark and forbidding. She foresaw that she and her family would be subjected to the pressure of want, or at least be dependent upon the kindness of friends for support. She had freely stated her fears to her children, and fully exhibited the insufficiency of the family resources. The vote of the town was a perfect godsend to Tom, and a fat legacy from a rich relative would not have kindled a stronger feeling of gratitude in his soul.

For the next five weeks, Tom was employed forenoon, afternoon, and evening, in the drill, and he soon made himself proficient. The company was recruited nearly up to its maximum number, and was then attached to the  -- th regiment, which had just been formed and ordered to Fort Warren.

On the 27th day of May, the company, escorted by the patriotic citizens of Pinchbrook, marched to Boston, and Tom took a sorrowful farewell of his mother, his brother and sisters, and a score of anxious friends.

"Now don't let the rebels hit you in the backbone, Thomas," said gran'ther Green, as he shook the hand of the soldier boy.

"No, gran'ther; if I can't fight, I won't run away," replied Tom.

"You've got good blood in your veins, my boy: don't disgrace it. I don't know as you'll ever see me again, but God bless you, Thomas;" and the old man turned away to hide the tears which began to course down his wrinkled cheek.

"Be a good boy, Thomas," added his mother.

"I will, mother."

"And remember what I've been telling you. I'm not half so much afraid of your being killed by a bullet, as I am of your being ruined by bad men."

"You needn't fear any thing of that kind, mother."

"I shall pray that you may be saved from your friends as well as from your enemies. We shall see you again before you go off, I hope."

"Yes, mother; we shall not be sent south yet."

"Don't forget to read your Testament, Thomas," said Mrs. Somers.

"I won't, mother," replied the soldier boy, as he again shook hands with all the members of the family, kissed his mother and his sisters, and hitching up his knapsack, took his place in the ranks.

His heart seemed to be clear up in his throat. During the tender scene he had just passed through, he had manfully resisted his inclination to weep, but he could no longer restrain the tears. Suddenly they came like a flood bursting the gates that confined it, and he choked and sobbed like a little girl. He leaned upon his musket, covering his face with his arm.

"It's a hard case," said private Hapgood, who stood next to him in the ranks.

"I didn't think it would take me down like this," sobbed Tom.

"Don't blubber, Tom. Let's go off game," added Ben Lethbridge, who stood on the other side of him.

"I can't help it, Ben."

"Yes, you can -- dry up! Soldiers don't cry, Tom."

"Yes, they do, my boy," said Hapgood, who was a little old man, nearly ten years beyond the period of exemption from military duty. "I don't blame Tom for crying, and, in my opinion, he'll fight all the better for it."

"Perhaps he will, old un; but I don't think much of a soldier that blubbers like a baby. I hope he won't run away when he sees the rebels coming," sneered Ben.

"If he does, he'll have a chance to see how thick the heels of your boots are," answered the old man.

"What do you mean by that, old un?" demanded Ben.

"Attention -- company! Shoulder -- arms! Forward -- march!" said the captain; and the discussion was prevented from proceeding any further.

The band, which was at the head of the citizens' column, struck up an inspiring march, and Tom dried his tears. The escort moved off, followed by the company. They passed the little cottage of Captain Somers, and Tom saw the whole family except John, who was in the escort, standing at the front gate. The old soldier swung his hat, Tom's sisters and his mother waved their handkerchiefs; but when they saw the soldier boy, they had to use them for another purpose. Tom felt another upward pressure in the region of the throat; but this time he choked down his rising emotions, and saved himself from the ridicule of his more callous companion on the left.

In violation of military discipline, he turned his head to take one last, fond look at the home he was leaving behind. It might be the last time he should ever gaze on that loved spot, now a thousand times more dear than ever before. Never had he realized the meaning of home; never before had he felt how closely his heart's tendrils were entwined about that hallowed place. Again, in spite of his firmness and fortitude, and in spite of the sneers of Ben Lethbridge, he felt the hot tears sliding down his cheek.

When he reached the brow of the hill which would soon hide the little cottage from his view, perhaps forever, he gazed behind him again, to take his last look at the familiar spot. His mother and sister still stood at the front gate watching the receding column in which the son and the brother was marching away to peril and perhaps death.

"God bless my mother! God bless them all!" were the involuntary ejaculations of the soldier boy, as he turned away from the hallowed scene.

But the memory of that blessed place, sanctified by the presence of those loving and devoted ones, was shrined in the temple of his heart, ever to go with him in camp and march, in the perils of battle and siege, to keep him true to his God, true to himself, and true to those whom he had left behind him. That last look at home and those that make it home, like the last fond gaze we bestow on the loved and the lost, was treasured up in the garner of the heart's choicest memories, to be recalled in the solemn stillness of the midnight vigil, amid the horrors of the battle-field when the angry strife of arms had ceased, and in the gloom of the soldier's sick bed when no mother's hand was near to lave the fevered brow.

The moment when he obtained his last view of the home of his childhood seemed like the most eventful period of his existence. His heart grew big in his bosom, and yet not big enough to contain all he felt. He wept again, and his tears seemed to come from deeper down than his eyes. He did not hear the inspiring strains of the band, or the cheers that greeted the company as they went forth to do and die for their country's imperilled cause.

"Blubbering again, Tom?" sneered Ben Lethbridge. "I thought you was more of a man than that, Tom Somers."

"I can't help it, Ben," replied Tom, vainly struggling to subdue his emotions.

"Better go back, then. We don't want a great baby in the ranks."

"It's nateral, Ben," said old Hapgood. "He'll get over it when he sees the rebels."

"Don't believe he will. I didn't think you were such a great calf, Tom."

"Shet up, now, Ben," interposed Hapgood. "I'll bet my life he'll stand fire as well as you will. I've been about in the world some, and I reckon I've as good an idee of this business as you have. Tom's got a heart under his ribs."

"I'll bet he runs away at the first fire."

"I'll bet he won't."

"I know I won't!" exclaimed Tom, with energy, as he drew his coat sleeve across his eyes.

"It isn't the cock that crows the loudest that will fight the best," added the old man. "I'll bet Tom will be able to tell you the latest news from the front, where the battle's the hottest. I fit my way up to the city of Mexico long er old Scott, and I've heard boys crow afore today."

"Look here, old un! If you mean to call me a coward, why don't you say so, right up and down?" growled Ben.

"Time'll tell, my boy. You don't know what gunpowder smells like yet. If you'd been with the fust Pennsylvany, where I was, you'd a-known sunthin about war. Now, shet up, Ben; and don't you worry Tom any more."

But Tom was no longer in a condition to be worried. Though still sad at the thought of the home and friends he had left behind, he had reduced his emotions to proper subjection, and before the column reached Boston, he had even regained his wonted cheerfulness. The procession halted upon the wharf, where the company was to embark on a steamer for Fort Warren. As the boat which was to convey them to the fort had not yet arrived, the men were permitted to mingle with their friends on the wharf, and, of course, Tom immediately sought out his brother. He found him engaged in a spirited conversation with Captain Benson.

"What is it, Jack?" asked the soldier boy.

"I want to join this company, and the captain won't let me," replied John.

"You, Jack!"

"Yes, I."

"Did mother say so?"

"No, but she won't care."

"Did you ask her?"

"No; I didn't think of going till after I started from home."

"Don't think of it, Jack. It would be an awful blow to mother to have both of us go."

For half an hour Tom argued the matter with John; but the military enthusiasm of the latter had been so aroused by the march and its attendant circumstances, that he could not restrain his inclination.

"If I don't join this company, I shall some other," said John.

"I shall have to go home again, if you do; for I won't have mother left alone. We haven't been mustered in yet. Besides, I thought you wanted to go into the navy."

"I do; but I'm bound to go somehow," replied John.

But what neither Tom nor Captain Benson could do, was accomplished by Captain Barney, who declared John should go home with him if he had to take him by the collar. The ardent young patriot yielded as gracefully as he could to this persuasion.

The steamer having arrived, the soldiers shook hands with their friends again, went on board, and, amid the hearty cheers of the citizens of Pinchbrook, were borne down the bay.



Chapter X.

Company K.


Tom Somers felt that he was now a soldier indeed. While the company remained in Pinchbrook, he had slept every night in his own bed, and taken his meals in the kitchen of the little cottage. He fully realized that he had bade a long farewell to all the comforts and luxuries of home. That day, for the first time, he was to partake of soldiers' fare, and that night, for the first time, he was to sleep upon a soldier's bed. These thoughts did not make him repine, for before he signed the muster roll, he had carefully considered, with the best information he could obtain, what hardships and privations he would be called to endure. He had made up his mind to bear all things without a murmur for the blessed land of his birth, which now called upon her sons to defend her from the parricidal blow of the traitor.

Tom had not only made up his mind to bear all these things, but to bear them patiently and cheerfully. He had a little theory of his own, that rather more than half of the discomforts of this mortal life exist only in the imagination. If he only thought that every thing was all right, it went a great way towards making it all right -- a very comforting and satisfactory philosophy, which reduced the thermometer from ninety down to seventy degrees on a hot day in summer, and raised it from ten to forty degrees on a cold day in winter; which filled his stomach when it was empty, alleviated the toothache or the headache, and changed snarling babies into new-fledged angels. I commend Tom's philosophy to the attention and imitation of all my young friends, assured that nothing will keep them so happy and comfortable as a cheerful and contented disposition.

"Tom Somers," said a voice near him, cutting short the consoling meditation in which he was engaged.

His name was pronounced in a low and cautious tone, but the voice sounded familiar to him, and he turned to ascertain who had addressed him. He did not discover any person who appeared to be the owner of the voice, and was leaving the position he had taken on the forward deck of the steamer, when his name was repeated, in the same low and cautious tone.

"Who is it? Where are you?" said Tom, looking all about him, among the groups of soldiers who were gathered on various parts of the deck, discussing the present and the future.

"Here, Tom," replied the voice, which sounded more familiar every time he heard it.

He turned his eye in the direction from which the sound proceeded, and there, coiled up behind a heap of barrels and boxes, and concealed by a sail-cloth which had been thrown over the goods to protect them from an expected shower, he discovered Fred Pemberton.

"What in the name of creation are you doing there, Fred?" exclaimed Tom, laughing at the ludicrous attitude of the embryo secessionist.

"Hush! Don't say a word, Tom. Sit down here where I can talk with you," added Fred.

"What are you doing here?"

"I'll tell if you will keep quiet a moment. Is the company full?"

"What company?"

"Captain Benson's, of course."

"No."

"I want to join."

"You!" ejaculated Tom.

"Come, come, Tom, no blackguarding now. You and I used to be good friends."

"I've nothing against you, Fred -- that is, if you're not a traitor."

"I want to join the company."

"Is your father willing?"

"Of course he isn't; but that needn't make any difference."

"But you don't believe in our cause, Fred. We don't want a traitor in the ranks."

"Hang the cause! I want to go with the company."

"Hang the cause? Well, I reckon that's a good recommendation."

"I'm all right on that."

"Are you willing to take the oath of allegiance, and swear to sustain the flag of your country?"

"Of course I am. I only followed the old man's lead; but I have got enough of it. Do you think Captain Benson will take me into the company?"

"Perhaps he will."

"Ask him -- will you? You needn't say I'm here, you know."

"But what will your father say?"

"I don't care what he says."

Tom thought, if Fred didn't care, he needn't, and going aft, he found the captain, and proposed to him the question.

"Take him -- yes. We'll teach him loyalty and patriotism, and before his time is out, we will make him an abolitionist," replied Captain Benson. "What will his father say?"

"His father doesn't know anything about it. Fred ran away, and followed the company into the city."

"Squire Pemberton is a traitor, and I believe the army will be the best school in the world for his son," added the captain. "It will be better for him to be with us than to be at home. If it was the son of any other man in Pinchbrook, I wouldn't take him without the consent of his father; as it is, I feel perfectly justified in accepting him."

Tom hastened to the forward deck to report the success of his mission. The result was, that Fred came out of his hiding-place, and exhibited himself to the astonished members of the Pinchbrook company. When he announced his intention to go to the war, and, with a pardonable flourish, his desire to serve his country, he was saluted with a volley of cheers. Captain Benson soon appeared on the forward deck, and the name of the new recruit was placed on the enlistment paper.

Fred was seventeen years of age, and was taller and stouter than Tom Somers. No questions were asked in regard to his age or his physical ability to endure the hardships of a campaign.

The steamer arrived at Fort Warren, and the company landed. After waiting a short time on the wharf, the color company of the  -- th regiment, to which they were attached, came down and escorted them to the parade ground within the fort. It was a desolate and gloomy-looking place to Tom, who had always lived among green fields, and the beautiful surroundings of a New England rural district.

If the fort itself looked dreary, how much more so were the casemates in which the company was quartered! But Tom's philosophy was proof against the unpleasant impression, and his joke was as loud and hearty as that of any of his companions. The men were divided off into messes, and they had an abundance of work to do in bringing up the company's luggage, and making their new habitation as comfortable and pleasant as the circumstances would permit.

The next day the Pinchbrook boys were designated as Company K, and placed in the regimental line. The limits of this volume do not permit me to detail the every-day life of the soldier boy while at Fort Warren, however interesting and instructive it might be to our friends. A large portion of the forenoon was devoted to squad and company drill, and of the afternoon to battalion drill. The colonel, though a very diminutive man in stature, was an enthusiast in military matters, and had the reputation of being one of the most thorough and skilful officers in the state. Tom Somers, who, since he joined the company, had felt ashamed of himself because he was no bigger, became quite reconciled to his low corporeal estate when he found that the colonel of the regiment was no taller and no heavier than himself. And when he heard the high praise bestowed upon the colonel's military skill and martial energy, he came to the conclusion that it does not require a big man to make a good soldier. With a feeling of satisfaction he recalled the fact that Napoleon Bonaparte, when he commanded the army of Italy, was scarcely a bigger man than the colonel or himself.

The colonel was a strict disciplinarian, and he soon diffused his energy throughout the regiment. It made rapid progress in its military education. Tom was deeply interested in the details of his new profession, and used his best endeavors to do his duty promptly and faithfully. This was not the case with all the boys in the company from Pinchbrook, and I am sorry to say that some of them, including the brave and chivalric Ben Lethbridge, had to sit upon the stool of repentance in the guard room on several occasions.

Fred Pemberton was clothed in the uniform of the United States volunteers, and we must do him the justice to say that he performed his duty to the entire satisfaction of his officers. Fred was a good fellow, and barring his treason, which he had derived from his father, was highly esteemed by those who knew him. The only stain that had ever rested upon his character was removed, and he and Tom were as good friends as ever they had been. His motive in joining the army, however, could not be applauded. He thought all his friends were going off to the South upon a kind of frolic, spiced with a little of peril and hardship to make it the more exciting, and he did not like the idea of being left behind. To the sentiment of patriotism, as developed in the soul of Tom Somers and many of his companions, he was an entire stranger. He was going to the war to participate in the adventures of the  -- th regiment, rather than to fight for the flag which had been insulted and dishonored by treason.

Every day the steamers brought crowds of visitors to the fort to see their friends in the regiments quartered there, or to witness the drills and parades which were constantly succeeding each other. Among them came many of the people of Pinchbrook, and Tom was delighted by a visit from his whole family. His mother found him so comfortable and contented that she returned with half the heavy burden on her soul removed.

While the Pinchbrook boys were generally rejoiced to see their friends from home, there was one in the company who was in constant dread lest he should recognize a too familiar face in the crowds which the steamers daily poured into the fort. Fred Pemberton did not wish to see his nearest friends; but after he had been in the company some ten days, just as the boys had been dismissed from the forenoon drill, he discovered at a distance the patriarchal form of his father.

"My pipe's out, Tom," said Fred, as he rushed into the casemate where a group of his companions were resting from the fatigues of the morning.

"What's the matter now, Fred?"

"The old man has just come into the fort."

"Has he?"

"Yes -- what shall I do?"

"Keep a stiff upper lip, Fred, and we will put you through all right," said Sergeant Porter.

"What shall I do?" demanded Fred, who, whatever his views in regard to the justice or injustice of coercion, did not wish to be taken from the company.

"Come with me," said the sergeant, as he led the way into an adjoining casemate. "No; nobody else will come," added he, motioning back other members of the mess who was disposed to follow.

In the casemate to which Sergeant Porter conducted Fred, there was a pile of boxes, in which the muskets of one of the regiments had been packed. The fugitive from his father's anxious search was directed to get into one of these boxes, from which the sergeant removed the gun rests. He obeyed; his confederate put on the lid so as to permit him to receive a plentiful supply of air, and other boxes were placed upon that containing the runaway.

Squire Pemberton presented himself before Captain Benson, and demanded his son. Fred was sent for, but could not be found. Sergeant Porter kept out of the way, and not another man in the company knew anything about him. The boys were very willing to assist the indignant father in his search, but all their efforts were unavailing. The squire examined every casemate, and every nook and corner upon the island, but without effect.

"I want my son, sir," said the squire, angrily, to the captain. "I require you to produce him."

"I don't know where he is," replied Captain Benson.

"You have concealed him, sir."

"I have not."

The squire appealed to the colonel, but obtained no satisfaction, and was obliged to leave without accomplishing his purpose. As soon as he had gone, Fred appeared, and the boys laughed for a week over the affair.



Chapter XI.

In Washington.


On the 17th of June, the regiment left Port Warren, and after being conveyed by steamer to Boston, marched to Camp Cameron. Here the "little colonel" displayed his energy and military skill to much greater advantage than when within the narrow confines of the fort. The men were not only carefully and persistently drilled, but they were educated, as far as the circumstances would permit, for the arduous duties of a campaign.

Tom Somers had already begun to feel a soldier's pride in his new situation; and though he found that being a soldier boy was not always the easiest and the pleasantest thing in the world, he bore his trials with philosophical patience and fortitude, and made the most of whatever joys the circumstances placed within his reach.

Others grumbled, but he did not. He declared that he had enlisted for the war, and meant to take things as they came. It was not exactly agreeable to stand on guard for two hours, on a cold, rainy night; but grumbling would not make it any the more agreeable, and only made the grumbler discontented and unhappy. It did not look like "the pomp and circumstance of war," and no doubt most of the boys in the Pinchbrook company would have been better satisfied in their own houses in "the village by the sea." But most of these men had left their happy homes under the inspiration of the highest and truest motives. They were going forth to fight the battles of their imperilled country, and this reflection filled them with a heroism which the petty trials and discomforts of the camp could not impair.

While the regiment was at Camp Cameron, the state colors and a standard, procured by the liberality of its friends, were presented; and the patriotic speeches delivered on this occasion made a deep impression upon the mind and heart of the soldier boy. To him they were real -- perhaps more real than to those who uttered the burning words. He was in a situation to feel the full force of the great sacrifice which the soldier makes for his country. He devoted himself, heart and soul, to the cause; and what was but an idle sentiment in the mind of the flowery speech-makers, was truth and soberness to him who was to meet the foe at the cannon's mouth and at the bayonet's point.

"We are off on the 29th," said old Hapgood, one evening, as he entered the barrack where Tom was writing a letter to his mother.

"Good! I am glad to hear it. I was just telling my mother that I hoped we should not have to stay much longer in this place," replied Tom.

"I think we are having an easy time of it here," added the veteran. "When you find out what hunger and fatigue mean, you will learn to be contented with such a place as this."

"I'm contented enough; but I want to get into the field, and have something done."

"Time enough, my boy. I used to feel just so, Tom, when I went to Mexico; but after a while I got so I didn't care what we did or where we went."

Tom added a postscript to his letter, informing his mother of the time fixed for the departure of the regiment. The intelligence in this instance proved to be correct, for on the appointed day the little colonel marched his command into the city, where it was duly embarked on the cars for New York. It was a day of excitement, for the streets of the city were thronged with people, whose cheers and applause were the benison with which the regiment went forth to do and to die for the nation. Tom was delighted with this warm reception, but more by meeting his mother and his brother and sisters at the station. It was a joyous and yet a sad meeting. Mrs. Somers wept; and what mother would not weep to see her son go forth to encounter the perils of the battle-field, and the greater perils of the camp?

It was a sad parting; and many a mother's heart was torn with anguish on that day, when she pressed her noble boy to her bosom, for the last time, as she gave him to his country. Cold, stern men, who had never wept before, wept then -- the flesh that was in their stony hearts yielded its unwilling tribute to nature and affection.

"All aboard!" shouted the officers, when the train was ready to depart.

"God bless you, my boy!" sobbed Mrs. Somers, as she kissed her son. "Be good and true, and don't forget to read your Testament."

"Good by, mother," was all that Tom could say, as he grasped his musket, which John had been holding for him, and rushed into the car.

The train moved off amid the cheers of the thousands who had gathered to witness their departure. At this moment, more than ever before, the soldier boy realized what he had done when he entered the service. He listened to the shouts of the multitude, but he was sad and silent. He sank into his seat, and gave himself up to the anguish of the hour. On and on dashed the train, and his thoughts still dwelt upon the home and the mother he had left behind him.

Our readers can better imagine than we can describe the feelings of the soldier boy during that long night. The regiment arrived in New York at half-past ten in the forenoon of the following day, and was escorted up Broadway by the Sons of Massachusetts. At the Park, it was warmly welcomed by the President of the Sons, and as the little colonel was a better soldier than a speech-maker, the response was made by the surgeon. By this time, Tom was able to enter into the spirit of the occasion, and the flattering ovation bestowed upon the regiment was a source of personal pride and satisfaction. The little colonel's command was declared to be the best drilled and most soldierly body of men which had yet departed for the battle-fields of the republic.

The great city was full of wonders to the soldier boy, and during the few hours he remained there, he was in a constant whirl of excitement. If the mission before him had been less grand and sublime, he could have wished to spend a few days in exploring the wonders of the great metropolis; but the stupendous events that loomed up in the future, prophetic even to the inexperienced eye of youth, engrossed all his thoughts. He partook of the bountiful collation in the Park, and was content to march on to scenes more thrilling and exciting than the tumult of the busy city.

The regiment took a steamer, at half-past four for Elizabethport, and thence proceeded by railroad to Washington, by the way of Harrisburg. Some portions of the journey were performed under the most trying circumstances. The men were crowded, like sheep, into unsuitable cars, so that not only were they subjected to many needless discomforts, but their very lives were endangered. On the way, two men were crowded out of a car, and, for a time, were supposed to have been killed.

On the 2d of July, they arrived at Washington, and Tom had an opportunity to see the "city of magnificent distances," of which he had heard so much. The regiment marched from the station, through Pennsylvania Avenue, to their camp ground in the rear of the White House. They were received with enthusiasm by the people, but the miserable uniforms with which they had been supplied, now faded and dilapidated, with the finishing touch of destruction given to them by the perilous journey they had made, gave the politicians their first lesson on the worthlessness of "shoddy."

The regiment entered the grounds of the White House, and as it passed up the avenue, President Lincoln appeared in front of his mansion. The boys greeted him with a volley of stunning cheers, which the President acknowledged by a series of bows, which were not half so ungraceful as one might have expected after reading the descriptions of him contained in the newspapers.

To Tom Somers the President was a great institution, and he could scarcely believe that he was looking upon the chief magistrate of this great nation. He was filled with boyish wonder and astonishment; but, after all, he was forced to admit that the President, though a tall specimen of humanity, looked very much like the rest of mankind -- to borrow a phrase from one of his illustrious predecessors.

Tom was too tired to wonder long at the grandeur of the Capitol, and the simple magnificence of the President. The tents were pitched, and the weary men were allowed a season of rest. In a couple of days, however, our soldier boy was "as good as new."

"Come, Tom, it is about time for you too see something of the city," said Ben Lethbridge, one afternoon, after the regiment had become fairly settled in its new quarters.

"I should like to take a tramp. There are lots of congressmen here, and I should like to know what they look like," replied Tom. "I haven't been outside the lines since we came here."

"I have; and I'm going again! Fred and I mean to have a good time to-day. Will you go?"

"Have you got a pass?"

"A pass! What a stupid! What do you want of a pass? You can't get one. They won't give any."

"Then we can't go, of course."

"Bah! What a great calf you are! Don't you want to cry again?"

"Ben, you needn't say cry to me again as long as you live," added Tom. "If you do, I'll give you something to cry for."

Tom did not like the style of remark which the other had adopted. He was angry, and, as he spoke, his fist involuntarily clinched, and his eye looked fierce and determined.

"Come, come, Tom; don't bristle up so. If you are a man, just show that you are, and come along with us."

"I say, Ben, I want to know who's a baby or a calf, you or I, before we go, I won't stand any more of your lip."

"Will you go with us?" demanded Ben, who was rather disposed to dodge the issue.

"What do you mean by calling me a calf and a baby? And this isn't the first time you've done it."

"Don't you know that every man in the regiment has been all over the city, and without any pass? When I ask you to go, you begin to talk about a pass."

"I choose to obey orders," replied Tom.

"O, you daresn't go with us."

"Come along!" said Tom, who had not yet learned to bear the taunts of his companion.

"Get your pail."

Tom got his pail, and was immediately joined by Fred and Ben, each of whom was also supplied with a pail. There was no water to be had within the camp ground, and the men were obliged to bring it in pails from the hydrants in the street. A pail, therefore, was quite as good as a written document to enable them to pass the guard.

The party thus provided had no difficulty in passing the sentinels. At a convenient place outside the line, they concealed the pails, and, for three hours, roamed at will over the city.

"Now, Tom, you wanted to see the congressmen?" said Ben, after they had "done" the city pretty thoroughly.

"Yes, but I have seen them at the Capitol."

"But don't you want to get nearer to them, and hear them talk?"

"Well, I should like to."

"Come with us, then."

Ben led the way down the avenue, and entered a building not far from the railroad station. After passing through a long, narrow entry, they ascended a flight of stairs, at the head of which the conductor gave two raps. The door was opened by a negro, and they were invited to enter. At a table in the middle of the room was seated a foppish-looking man who held in his hand a silver box. As he turned it, Tom saw that it contained a pack of cards.

"Where are your congressmen?" asked the soldier boy, whose eyes had been opened by the appearance of the cards.

"They will be here pretty soon," replied Ben.

The foppish man looked at his watch, and declared they would come in the course of five or ten minutes. He then took the cards out of the box, and, after shuffling them, returned them to their place. Fred placed a "quarter" on the table; the gambler put another by its side, and drew out a card from the silver case. Tom did not understand the game; but his companion put the quarters in his pocket.

"See that, Tom!" said he. "Got any money?"

"If I have I shall keep it."

"Put down a quarter, and make another."

"No, sir! I'm no gambler!" replied Tom, with emphasis.

"Quite respectable, I assure you," added the blackleg at the table.

"I'm going," said Tom, decidedly.

"Baby!" sneered Ben. "Afraid to play!"

"I won't play! I'm going."

The negro opened the door, and he passed out. Contrary to his expectation, he was followed by Fred and Ben.

"Baby is afraid of cards!" sneered Ben, as they passed through the long entry.

"Afraid of cards, but not afraid of you," replied Tom, as he planted a heavy blow between the eyes of his companion.

Ben Lethbridge returned the blow, and it cost him another, and there was a prospect of quite a lively skirmish in the entry; but Fred Pemberton interposed his good offices, and effected a compromise, which, like most of the political compromises, was only the postponement of the conflict.

"I told you not to call me 'baby,' again," said Tom, as they passed out of the building. "I will convince you before I am done that I'm not a baby."

Ben found it convenient to offer no reply to this plain statement of facts, and the three soldiers made their way back to the camp, and, having obtained their pails and filled them with water at the hydrants, they passed the guard without a question.



Chapter XII.

On To Richmond.


It so happened that Ben Lethbridge, probably satisfied that it was not the fist of a baby which had partially blackened both of his eyes, and produced a heavy pain under his left ear, did not demand the satisfaction which was needed to heal his wounded honor. The matter was duly discussed in the tent of Tom's mess; but our soldier boy, while he professed to be entirely satisfied, was willing to meet Ben at such time and place as he desired, and finish up the affair.

The other party was magnanimous, and declared that he too was satisfied; and old Hapgood thought they had better proceed no further with the affair, for both of them might be arrested for disorderly conduct.

"I am satisfied, Ben; but if you ever call me a baby or a calf again, it will all have to be settled over again," said Tom, as he laid aside his musket, which he had been cleaning during the conversation.

"I don't want to quarrel with you, Tom," replied Ben, "but I wish you would be a little more like the rest of the fellows."

"What do you mean by that? I am like the rest of the fellows."

"You wouldn't play cards."

"Yes, I will play cards, but I won't gamble; and there isn't many fellows in the company that will."

"That's so," added Hapgood. "I know all about that business. When I went to Mexico, I lost my money as fast as I got it, playing cards. Don't gamble, boys."

"I won't, for one," said Tom, with emphasis.

"Are you going to set up for a soldier-saint, too?" sneered Ben, turning to the old man.

"I'm no saint, but I've larned better than to gamble."

"I think you'd better stop drinking too," added Ben.

"Come, Ben, you are meaner than dirt," said Tom, indignantly.

Old Hapgood was a confirmed toper. The people in Pinchbrook said he was a good man, but, they used to add, with a shrug of the shoulders, "pity he drinks." It was a sad pity, but he seemed to have no power over his appetite. The allusion of Ben to his besetting sin was cruel and mortifying, for the old man had certainly tried to reform, and since the regiment left Boston, he had not tasted the intoxicating cup. He had declared before the mess that he had stopped drinking; so his resolution was known to all his companions, though none of them had much confidence in his ability to carry it out.

"I didn't speak to you, Tom Somers," said Ben, sharply.

"You said a mean thing in my presence."

"By and by we shall be having a prayer meeting in our tent every night."

"If you are invited I hope you will come," added Tom, "for if prayers will do any body any good, they won't hurt you."

"If you will take care of yourself, and let me alone, it's all I ask of you."

"I'm agreed."

This was about the last of the skirmishing between Tom and Ben. The latter was a little disposed to be bully; and from the time the company left Pinchbrook, he had been in the habit of calling Tom a baby, and other opprobrious terms, till the subject of his sneers could endure them no longer. Tom had come to the conclusion that he could obtain respectful treatment only by the course he had adopted. Perhaps, if he had possessed the requisite patience, he might have attained the same result by a less repulsive and more noble policy.

The regiment remained in Washington about a fortnight. The capital was no longer considered to be in danger. A large body of troops had been massed in and around the city, and the rebels' boast that they would soon capture Washington was no longer heeded. Fear and anxiety had given place to hope and expectation. "On to Richmond!" was the cry sounded by the newspapers, and repeated by the people. The army of newly-fledged soldiers was burning with eagerness to be led against the rebels. "On to Richmond!" shouted citizens and soldiers, statesmen and politicians. Some cursed and some deprecated the cautious slowness of the old general who had never been defeated.

"On to Richmond!" cried the boys in Tom's regiment, and none more earnestly than he.

"Don't hurry old Scott. He knows what he is about. I know something about this business, for I've seen old Scott where the bullets flew thicker'n snow flakes at Christmas," was the oft-repeated reply of Hapgood, the veteran of Company K.

The movement which had been so long desired and expected was made at last, and the regiment struck its tents, and proceeded over Long Bridge into Virginia. The first camp was at Shuter's Hill, near Alexandria.

"Now we are in for it," said Tom Somers, when the mess gathered in their tent after the camp was formed. "I hope we shall not remain here long."

"Don't be in a hurry, my brave boy," said old Hapgood. "We may stop here a month."

"I hope not."

"Don't hope anything about it, Tom. Take things as they come."

But the impatience of the soldier boy was soon relieved; for at daylight on the morning of the 16th of July, the regiment was routed out, the tents were struck, and at nine o'clock they took up the line of march to the southward. It was "on to Richmond," in earnest, now, and merrily marched the men, who little knew what trials and sufferings, what scenes of blood and death, lay in their path.

The little colonel's command had been put in Franklin's brigade, which formed a part of Heintzelman's division; but little did Tom or his fellow-soldiers know of anything but their own regiment. The "sacred soil" of Virginia seemed to be covered with Federal soldiers, and whichever way he turned, columns of troops might be seen, all obedient to the one grand impulse of the loyal nation -- "On to Richmond."

The great wagons, gun carriages, and caissons rolling slowly along, the rattling drums, with here and there the inspiring strains of a band, the general officers, with their staffs, were full of interest and excitement to the soldier boy; and though the business before him was stern and terrible, yet it seemed like some great pageant, moving grandly along to celebrate, rather than win, a glorious triumph.

The novelty of the movement, however, soon wore away, and it required only a few hours to convince the inexperienced soldiers in our regiment that it was no idle pageant in which they were engaged. The short intervals of rest which were occasionally allowed were moments to be appreciated. All day long they toiled upon their weary way, praying for the night to come, with its coveted hours of repose. The night did come, but it brought no rest to the weary and footsore soldiers.

Tom was terribly fatigued. His knapsack, which had been light upon his buoyant frame in the morning, now seemed to weigh two hundred pounds, while his musket had grown proportionally heavy. Hour after hour, in the darkness of that gloomy night, he trudged on, keeping his place in the ranks with a resolution which neither the long hours nor the weary miles could break down.

"I can't stand this much longer," whined Ben Lethbridge. "I shall drop pretty soon, and die by the roadside."

"No, you won't," added Hapgood. "Stick to it a little while longer; never say die."

"I can't stand it."

"Yes, you can. Only think you can, and you can," added the veteran.

"What do they think we are made of? We can't march all day and all night. I wish I was at home."

"I wish I hadn't come," said Fred Pemberton.

"Cheer up! cheer up, boys. Stick to it a little longer," said the veteran.

It was three o'clock the next morning before they were permitted to halt, when the boys rolled themselves up in their blankets, and dropped upon the ground. It was positive enjoyment to Tom, and he felt happy; for rest was happiness when the body was all worn out. A thought of the cottage and of his mother crossed his mind, and he dropped asleep to dream of the joys of home.

Short and sweet was that blessed time of rest; for at four o'clock, after only one brief hour of repose, the regiment was turned out again, and resumed its weary march to the southward. But that short interval of rest was a fountain of strength to Tom, and without a murmur he took his place by the side of his grumbling companions. Ben and Fred were disgusted with the army, and wanted to go back; but that was impossible.

Again, for weary hours, they toiled upon the march. They passed Fairfax, and encamped near the railroad station, where a full night's rest was allowed them. By the advice of Hapgood, Tom went to a brook, and washed his aching feet in cold water. The veteran campaigner gave him other useful hints, which were of great service to him. That night he had as good reason to bless the memory of the man who invented sleep as ever Sancho Panza had, and every hour was fully improved.

At six o'clock, the next morning, the regiment marched again. Tom's legs were stiff, but he felt so much better than on the preceding day, that he began to think that he could stand any thing. In the early part of the afternoon his ears were saluted by a new sound -- one which enabled him more fully than before to realize the nature of the mission upon which he had been sent. It was the roar of cannon. On that day was fought the battle of Blackburn's Ford; and when the regiment reached its halting-place at Centreville, the story of the fight was told by enthusiastic lips. Massachusetts men had stood firm and resolute before the artillery and musketry of the rebels, and every man who heard the story was proud that he hailed from the Old Bay State, and panted for the time when he might show himself worthy of his origin, and true to the traditions of the past.

The regiment lay in camp the two following days, and the men had an opportunity to recover in some measure from the fatigues of their first severe march. Visions of glory and victory were beginning to dawn upon them. They had listened to the cannon of the enemy, and they knew that the rebels were not many miles distant in front of them. A few days, perhaps a few hours, would elapse before the terrible conflict would commence. Some of those manly forms must soon sleep in the soldier's grave; some of those beating hearts must soon cease to beat forever; but still the brave and the true longed for the hour that would enable them to "strike home" for the nation's salvation.



Chapter XIII.

The Battle Of Bull Run.


"Tumble out! Tumble out!" shouted the sergeant, who was in the mess with the soldiers we have introduced. "Reveille! Don't you hear it?"

"But it isn't morning," growled Ben Lethbridge.

"I haven't been asleep more than an hour or two," snarled Fred Pemberton.

"Shut up your heads, and turn out!" said the sergeant.

It was the morning of the eventful twenty-first of July, and it was only two o'clock when the regiment was roused from its slumbers; but there was no great hardship in this fact, for most of the men had been sleeping the greater portion of the time during the preceding two days. Tom Somers was ready to take his place in the line in a few moments.

"Come, fellows, hurry up," said he to his tardy companions. "The time has come, and, I tell you, there'll be music before many hours."

"Where are we going, Tom? Have you any idea?" asked Fred.

"Going down to Manassas Junction, I suppose. That's where the rebels are."

"Do you suppose we shall get into a fight?" asked Ben.

"I don't know; I hope so."

"So do I," returned Ben, faintly; "but I don't like to be broke of my rest in this way."

Tom, full of excited anticipations in regard to the events of the day, laughed heartily at this reply, and left the tent. The regiment was formed in line, but there were two vacancies in the section to which he belonged. Fred and Ben had answered to their names at roll call. On some pretence they had asked permission to leave the line for a few moments, and that was the last that had been seen of them.

"Where do you suppose they are?" said Tom to Hapgood.

"I don't know. I hain't got much confidence in Ben's pluck, and I shouldn't wonder if he had run away."

"But that is desertion."

"That's just what you may call it; and I've seen men shot for it."

The regiment remained in line several hours before the order came to move. At daylight, while the men were still standing in the road, four soldiers, attended by a staff officer, conducted the two missing men of Company K into the presence of the regiment.

"These men say they belong to your regiment," said the officer, saluting the little colonel.

Captain Benson immediately claimed them, and Fred and Ben were ordered into the ranks.

"Cowards -- are you?" said the captain. "You shall take your places in the ranks, and at the right time we will settle this case."

"I enlisted without my father's consent, and you can't hold me if I don't choose to stay," replied Fred Pemberton.

"Next time you must ask your father before you come. It is too late to repent now."

"I'm going home."

"No, you're not. Sergeant, if either of those men attempt to leave the ranks again, shoot them!" said the captain.

Fred and Ben took their places in the ranks amid the laughter and jeers of the company.

"Who's the baby now?" said Bob Dornton.

"You have disgraced the company," added old Hapgood. "I didn't think you would run away before the battle commenced."

"I shall keep both eyes on you, my boys, and if you skulk again, I'll obey orders -- by the Lord Harry, I will!" said the sergeant, as he glanced at the lock of his musket. "Company K isn't going to be laughed at for your cowardice."

At six o'clock the order came for the brigade to march. It now consisted of only three regiments, for the time of one, composed of three months' men, had expired while at Centreville; and though requested and importuned to remain a few days longer, they basely withdrew, even while they were on the very verge of the battlefield. This regiment left, and carried with it the scorn and contempt of the loyal and true men, who were as ready to fight the battles of their country on one day as on another.

The men knew they were going to battle now, for the enemy was only a few miles distant. The soldier boy's heart was full of hope. He knew not what a battle was; he could form no adequate conception of the terrible scene which was soon to open upon his view. He prayed and trusted that he might be able to do his duty with courage and fidelity. To say that he had no doubts and fears would be to say that he was not human.

As the brigade toiled slowly along, he tried to picture the scene which was before him, and thus make himself familiar with its terrors before he was actually called to confront them. He endeavored to imagine the sounds of screaming shells and whistling bullets, that the reality, when it came, might not appall him. He thought of his companions dropping dead around him, of his friends mangled by bayonets and cannon shot; he painted the most terrible picture of a battle which his imagination could conjure up, hoping in this manner to be prepared for the worst.

The day was hot, and the sun poured down his scorching rays upon the devoted soldiers as they pursued their weary march. They were fatigued by continued exertion, and some of the weary ones, when the sun approached the meridian, began to hope the great battle would not take place on that day. Tom Somers, nearly worn out by the tedious march, and half famished after the scanty breakfast of hard bread he had eaten before daylight, began to feel that he was in no condition to face the storm of bullets which he had been imagining.

No orders came to halt at noon, though the crowded roads several times secured them a welcome rest: but on marched the weary soldiers, till the roar of cannon broke upon their ears; and as they moved farther on, the rattling volleys of musketry were heard, denoting that the battle had already commenced. These notes of strife were full of inspiration to the loyal and patriotic in the columns. A new life was breathed into them. They were enthusiastic in the good cause, and their souls immediately became so big that what had been body before seemed to become spirit now. They forgot their empty stomachs and their weary limbs. The music of battle, wild and terrible as it was to these untutored soldiers, charmed away the weariness of the body, and, to the quickstep of thundering cannon and crashing musketry, they pressed on with elastic tread to the horrors before them.

Tom felt that he had suddenly and miraculously been made over anew. He could not explain the reason, but his legs had ceased to ache, his feet to be sore, and his musket and his knapsack were deprived of their superfluous weight.

"God be with me in this battle!" he exclaimed to himself a dozen times. "God give me strength and courage!"

Animated by his trust in Him who will always sustain those who confide in him, the soldier boy pressed on, determined not to disgrace the name he bore. The terrible sounds became more and more distinct as the regiment advanced, and in about two hours after the battle had opened, the brigade arrived at the field of operations. One regiment was immediately detached and sent off in one direction, while the other two were ordered to support a battery on a hill, from which it was belching forth a furious storm of shells upon the rebels.

The little colonel's sword gleamed in the air, as he gave the order to march on the double-quick to the position assigned to him.

"Now, Tom, steady, and think of nothing but God and your country," said old Hapgood, as the regiment commenced its rapid march. "I know something about this business, and I can tell you we shall have hot work before we get through with it."

"Where are the rebels? I don't see any," asked Tom, who found that his ideas of the manner in which a battle is fought were very much at fault.

"You will see them very soon. They are in their breastworks. There! Look down there!" exclaimed the veteran as the regiment reached a spot which commanded a full view of the battle.

Tom looked upon the fearful scene. The roar of the artillery and the crash of the small arms were absolutely stunning. He saw men fall, and lie motionless on the ground, where they were trampled upon by the horses, and crushed beneath the wheels of cannon and caisson. But the cry was, that the army of the Union had won the field, and it inspired him with new zeal and new courage.

Scarcely had the remnant of the brigade reached the right of the battery, before they were ordered to charge down the valley, by Colonel Franklin, the acting brigadier. They were executing the command with a dash and vigor that would have been creditable to veterans, when they were ordered to cross the ravine, and support the Eire Zouaves. The movement was made, and Tom soon found himself in the thickest of the fight. Shot and shell were flying in every direction, and the bullets hissed like hailstones around him.

In spite of all his preparations for this awful scene, his heart rose up into his throat. His eyes were blinded by the volumes of rolling smoke, and his mind confused by the rapid succession of incidents that were transpiring around him. The pictures he had painted were sunlight and golden compared with the dread reality. Dead and dying men strewed the ground in every direction. Wounded horses were careering on a mad course of destruction, trampling the wounded and the dead beneath their feet. The hoarse shouts of the officers were heard above the roar of battle. The scene mocked all the attempts which the soldier boy had made to imagine its horrors.

In front of the regiment were the famous Eire Zouaves, no longer guided and controlled by the master genius of Ellsworth. They fought like tigers, furiously, madly; but all discipline had ceased among them, and they rushed wildly to the right and the left, totally heedless of their officers. They fought like demons, and as Tom saw them shoot down, hew down, or bayonet the hapless rebels who came within their reach, it seemed to him as though they had lost their humanity, and been transformed into fiends.

As soon as the regiment reached its position, the order was given to fire. Tom found this a happy relief; and when he had discharged his musket a few times, all thoughts of the horrors of the scene forsook him. He no longer saw the dead and the dying; he no longer heard the appalling roar of battle. He had become a part of the scene, instead of an idle spectator. He was sending the bolt of death into the midst of the enemies of his country.

"Bravo! Good boy, Tom," said old Hapgood, who seemed to be as much at ease as when he had counselled patience and resignation in the quiet of the tent. "Don't fire too high, Tom."

"I've got the idea," replied the soldier boy. "I begin to feel quite at home."

"O, you'll do; and I knew you would from the first."

The shouts of victory which had sounded over the field were full of inspiration to the men; but at the moment when the laurels seemed to be resting securely upon our banners, the rebel line moved forward with irresistible fury. Tom, at one instant, as he cast his eye along the line, found himself flanked on either side by his comrades; at the next there was a wild, indescribable tramp and roar, and he found himself alone. The regiment was scattered in every direction, and he did not see a single man whom he knew. There was a moving mass of Federal soldiers all around him. The Zouaves had been forced back, and the cry of victory had given place to the ominous sounds which betokened a defeat, if not a rout.

The rebels had been reenforced, and had hurled their fresh legions upon our exhausted troops, who could no longer roll back the masses that crowded upon them. The day was lost.

Tom, bewildered by this sudden and disastrous result, moved back with the crowds around him. Men had ceased to be brave and firm; they were fleeing in mortal terror before the victorious battalions that surged against them.

"It's all up with us, my lad," said a panting Zouave. "Run for your life. Come along with me."

Tom followed the Zouave towards the woods, the storm of bullets still raining destruction around them.



Chapter XIV.

After The Battle.


Tom Somers floated with the tide of humanity that was setting away from the scene of disaster and defeat. The panic that prevailed was even more fearful than the battle, for wounded and dying men were mercilessly trodden down by the feet of the horses, and run over by the wheels of the cannon and the baggage wagons. Though the battle was ended, the rebels still poured storms of shot and shell into the retreating, panic-stricken host.

Tom did not know where to go, for there were panic and death on all sides of him. The soldiers were flying in every direction, some of them into the very arms of their remorseless enemies. But the woods seemed to promise the most secure retreat from the fury of the Black Horse Cavalry, which was now sweeping over the battle-field. The Zouave ran in this direction, and our soldier boy followed him. Now that the excitement of the conflict was over, the enthusiasm which had buoyed him up began to subside. The day was lost; all hopes of glory had fled; and a total defeat and rout were not calculated to add much strength to his over-tasked limbs.

He was nearly used up, and it was hard work to run -- very hard work; and nothing but the instinct of self-preservation enabled him to keep the tall and wiry form of the Zouave in sight. They reached the ravine, where the water was about three feet deep. The shot, and shell, and bullets still fell in showers around them, and occasionally one of the luckless fugitives was struck down. They crossed the stream, and continued on their flight. An officer on horseback dashed by them, and bade them run with all their might, or they would be taken.

"For Heaven's sake, get me some water!" said a rebel, who was wounded in the leg, to a Zouave, who passed near him.

"You are a rebel, but I will do that for you," replied the Zouave; and he gave him a canteen filled with water.

The rebel drank a long, deep draught, and then levelled his musket at the head of his Samaritan enemy and fired. This transaction had occupied but a moment, and Tom saw the whole. His blood froze with horror at the unparalleled atrocity of the act. The Zouave, whom Tom had followed, uttered a terrible oath, and snatching the musket from the hands of the soldier boy, he rushed upon the soulless miscreant, and transfixed him upon the bayonet. Uttering fierce curses all the time, he plunged the bayonet again and again into the vitals of the rebel, till life was extinct.

"Boy, I used to be human once," said the Zouave, when he had executed this summary justice upon the rebel; "but I'm not human now. I'm all devil."

"What a wretch that rebel was!" exclaimed Tom, who seemed to breathe freer now that retribution had overtaken the viper.

"A wretch! Haven't you got any bigger word than that, boy? He was a fiend! But we mustn't stop here."

"I thought the rebels were human."

"Human? That isn't the first time to-day I've seen such a thing as that done. Come along, my boy; come along."

Tom followed the Zouave again; but he was too much exhausted to run any farther. Even the terrors of the Black Horse Cavalry could not inspire him with strength and courage to continue his flight at any swifter pace than a walk.

"I can go no farther," said he, at last.

"Yes, you can; pull up! pull up! You will be taken if you stop here."

"I can't help it. I can go no farther. I am used up."

"Pull up, pull up, my boy!"

"I can't."

"But I don't want to leave you here. They'll murder you -- cut your throat, like a dog."

"I will hide myself in the bushes till I get a little more strength."

"Try it a little longer. You are too good a fellow to be butchered like a calf," added the generous Zouave.

But it was no use to plead with him, for exhausted nature refused to support him, and he dropped upon the ground like a log.

"Poor fellow! I would carry you in my arms if I could."

"Save yourself if you can," replied Tom, faintly.

The kind-hearted fireman was sorry to leave him, but he knew that one who wore his uniform could expect no mercy from the rebels. They had been too terrible upon the battle-field to receive any consideration from those whom they had so severely punished. He was, therefore, unwilling to trust himself to the tender mercies of the cavalry, who were sweeping the fields to pick up prisoners; and after asking Tom's name and regiment, he reluctantly left him.

Tom had eaten nothing since daylight in the morning, which, added to the long march, and the intense excitement of his first battle-field, had apparently reduced him to the last extremity. Then, for the first time, he realized what it was to be a soldier. Then he thought of his happy home -- of his devoted mother. What must she not suffer when the telegraph should flash over the wires the intelligence of the terrible disaster which had overtaken the Union army! It would be many days, if not weeks or months, before she could know whether he was dead or alive. What anguish must she not endure!

He had but a moment for thoughts like these before he heard the sweep of the rebel cavalry, as they dashed down the road through the woods. He must not remain where he was, or the record of his earthly career would soon be closed. On his hands and knees he crawled away from the road, and rolled himself up behind a rotten log, just in season to escape the observation of the cavalrymen as they rode by the spot.

Here and there in the woods were the extended forms of Federals and rebels, who had dragged their wounded bodies away from the scene of mortal strife to breathe their last in this holy sanctuary of nature, or to escape from the death-dealing shot, and the mangling wheels that rumbled over the dead and the dying. Close by the soldier boy's retreat lay one who was moaning piteously for water. Tom had filled his canteen at a brook on the way, and he crawled up to the sufferer to lave his dying thirst. On reaching the wounded man, he found that he was a rebel, and the fate of the Zouave who had done a similar kindness only a short time before presented itself to his mind.

"Water! Water! For the love of God, give me a drop of water," moaned the dying soldier.

Tom thought of the Zouave again, and had almost steeled his heart against the piteous cry. He turned away.

"Water! Water! If you are a Christian give me some water," groaned the sufferer.

Our soldier boy could no longer resist the appeal. He felt that he could not be loved on earth or forgiven in heaven if he denied the petition of the dying rebel; but before he granted it, he assured himself that the sufferer had no dangerous weapon in his possession. The man was deadly pale; one of his arms hung useless by his side; and he was covered with blood. He was a terrible-looking object, and Tom felt sick and faint as he gazed upon him.

Placing his canteen at the lips of the poor wretch, he bade him drink. His frame quivered as he clutched the canteen with his remaining hand. The death damp was on his forehead; but his eye lighted up with new lustre as he drank the grateful beverage.

"God bless you! God bless you!" exclaimed he as he removed the canteen from his lips. "You are a Yankee," he added, as he fixed his glazing eyes upon Tom's uniform. "Are you wounded?"

"No; I am worn out. I have eaten nothing since daylight, and not much then. I am used up."

"Put your hand in my haversack. There is something there," gasped the dying man.

Tom bent over him to comply with the invitation; but, with a thrill of horror, he started back, as he listened to the death-rattle in the throat of the rebel, and saw his eyes fixed and lustreless in death. It was an awful scene to the inexperienced youth. Though he had seen hundreds fall in the battle of that day, death had not seemed so ghastly and horrible to him as now, when he stood face to face with the grim monster. For a few moments he forgot his own toil-worn limbs, his craving hunger, and his aching head.

He gazed upon the silent form before him, which had ceased to suffer, and he felt thankful that he had been able to mitigate even a single pang of the dying rebel. But not long could he gaze, awe-struck, at the ghastly spectacle before him, for he had a life to save. The words of the sufferer -- his last words -- offering him the contents of his haversack recurred to him; but Tom's sensibilities recoiled at the thought of eating bread taken from the body of a dead man, and he turned away.

"Why shouldn't I take it?" said he to himself. "It may save my life. With rest and food, I may escape. Pooh! I'll not be a fool!"

Bending over the dead man, he resolutely cut the haversack from his body, and then returned to the log whose friendly shelter had screened him from the eyes of the rebel horsemen. Seating himself upon the ground, he commenced exploring the haversack. It contained two "ash-cakes," a slice of bacon, and a small bottle. Tom's eyes glowed with delight as he gazed upon this rich feast, and, without waiting to say grace or consider the circumstances under which he obtained the materials for his feast, he began to eat. Ash-cake was a new institution to him. It was an Indian cake baked in the ashes, probably at the camp-fires of the rebels at Manassas. It tasted very much like his mother's johnny-cake, only he missed the fresh butter with which he had been wont to cover the article at home.

The soldier boy ate the bacon, and ate both of the cakes, though each of the latter was about the size of a saucer. It was a large meal, even for a growing boy; but every mouthful seemed to put a new sinew into his frame. While he was eating, he drew the cork from the bottle. It contained whiskey. Tom had heard that there was virtue in whiskey; that it was invigorating to a tired man, and he was tempted, under these extremely trying circumstances, to experiment upon the beverage. He would certainly have been excusable if he had done so; but our hero had a kind of horror of the article, which would not let him even taste it. He was afraid that he should acquire a habit which would go with him through life, and make him what Hapgood and others whom he knew were -- a torment to themselves, and a nuisance to their fellow-beings. Putting the cork in the bottle, he threw it upon the ground.

With his renewed strength came renewed hope; but he did not deem it prudent to wander about the woods at present: therefore he threw himself on the ground under the protecting log to obtain the repose he so much needed.

He thought of home, and wondered whether he should ever see the cottage of his parents again; and while he was thinking, overcome by the excitement and fatigue of the day, he dropped asleep. It was strange that he could do so, consciously environed by so many perils; but he had in a measure become callous to danger, and he slept long and deep.

When he awoke, it was dark and silent around him. The roar of battle had ceased, and the calm of death seemed to have settled upon the scene of strife. Tom's bones still ached; but he was wonderfully refreshed by the nap he had taken. He had no idea of the time, and could not tell whether he had slept one hour or six. He was strong enough to walk now, and the first consideration was to escape from the vicinity of the rebel camps; but he had no conception of where he was, or what direction would lead him to the Federal lines.

A kind Providence had watched over him thus far; had spared his life in the fury of battle; had fed him in the wilderness, like Elijah of old; and restored his wasted strength. He could only trust to Providence for guidance, and, using his best judgment in choosing the direction, he entered upon the difficult task of finding his way out of the woods. He had walked an hour or more, when, suddenly, three men sprung up in the path before him.

"Halt! Who comes there?" demanded one of them.

"Friend!" replied Tom; though he had a great many doubts in regard to the truth of his assertion.

"Advance, friend, and give the countersign!"

But the soldier boy had no countersign to give. He had fallen upon a rebel picket post, and was made a prisoner.



Chapter XV.

Tom A Prisoner.


Tom could not exactly understand how he happened to be made a prisoner. He had certainly moved with extreme caution, and he wondered that he had not received some intimation of the presence of the enemy before it was too late to retreat. But, as we have before hinted, Tom was a philosopher; and he did not despair even under the present reverse of circumstances, though he was greatly disconcerted.

"Who are you?" demanded one of the rebel soldiers, when they had duly possessed his body, which, however, was not a very chivalrous adventure, for the prisoner was unarmed, his gun having been thrown away by the friendly Zouave, after he had so terribly avenged his murdered companion.

"I'm a soldier," replied Tom, greatly perplexed by the trials of his difficult situation.

As yet he did not know whether he had fallen into the hands of friend or foe, for the night was cloudy and dark, and he could not see what uniform the pickets wore.

"What do you belong to?" demanded the spokesman of the picket trio.

"I belong to the army," answered Tom, with admirable simplicity.

Our soldier boy, as the reader already knows, had been well "brought up." He had been taught to tell the truth at all times; and he did so on the present occasion, very much to the confusion, no doubt, of the rebel soldiers, who had not been brought up under the droppings of the sanctuary in a New England village.

"B'long to the army -- do you?" repeated Secesh, who must have thought Tom a very candid person.

"Yes, sir, I belong to the army," added the prisoner.

"I s'pose you won't mind telling us what army you belong to, 'cause it mought make a difference in our calculations," added the spokesman.

Tom did not know but that it might make some difference in his calculations, and for this reason he was exceedingly unwilling to commit himself before he ascertained upon which side his questioners belonged.

"Can you tell me where I am?" asked Tom, resolved to use a little strategy in obtaining the desired information.

"May be I can," replied the picket.

"Will you do so?"

"Sartin, stranger -- you are in the woods," added Secesh; whereat his companions indulged in a wholesome chuckle, which assured Tom that they were human, and his hopes rose accordingly.

"Thank you," replied Tom, with infinite good nature.

"You say you belong to the army, and I say you are in the woods," said the soldier, repeating the double postulate, so that the essence of the joke should by no possibility fail to penetrate the cerebellum of his auditor.

Tom was perfectly willing to acknowledge that he was in the woods, both actually and metaphorically, and he was very much disturbed to know how he should get out of the woods -- a problem which has puzzled wiser heads than his, even in less perplexing emergencies. He was fearful that, if he declared himself to be a Union soldier, he should share the fate of others whom he had seen coolly bayoneted on that eventful day.

"Now, stranger, s'pose you tell me what army you b'long to; then I can tell you where you are," continued the soldier.

"What do you belong to?" asked Tom, though he did not put the question very confidently.

"I belong to the army;" and the two other pickets honored the reply with another chuckle. "You can't fool old Alabammy."

There was no further need of fooling "Old Alabammy," for the worthy old gentleman, symbolically represented by the rebel soldier, had kindly done it himself; and Tom then realized that he was in the hands of the enemy. It is true, the balance of the picket trio laughed heartily at the unfortunate slip of the tongue made by their companion, but Tom was in no condition to relish the joke, or he might perhaps have insinuated himself into the good graces of the jolly Secesh by repeating Pat's mysterious problem -- "Tell me how many cheeses there are in the bag, and I'll give ye the whole five;" for, though this is an old joke in the civilized parts of the world, it is not at all probable that it had been perpetrated in the benighted regions of Secessia.

The announcement of the fact that he was in the hands of the foe, as we have before intimated, left Tom in no condition to give or take a joke. His heart was suddenly deprived of some portion of its ordinary gravity, and rose up to the vicinity of his throat. He drew sundry deep and long breaths, indicative of his alarm; for though Tom was a brave boy, -- as these pages have already demonstrated, -- he had a terrible idea of the tender mercies of the rebels. His first impulse was to break away from his captors, and run the risk of being overtaken by a trio of musket balls; for death from the quick action of a bullet seemed preferable to the fate which his fears conjured up if he should be taken by the bloodthirsty rebels. But the chances were too decidedly against him, and he reluctantly brought his mind to the condition of philosophical submission.

"Well, stranger, which army do you b'long to?" said the spokesman of the picket trio, when he had fully recovered his self-possession.

"I belong to the United States army," replied Tom, desperately.

"That means the Yankee army, I s'pose."

"Yes, sir; you call it by that name."

"Then you are my prisoner."

"I surrender because I can't help myself."

"Hev you nary toothpick or bone-cracker in your pockets?"

"Any what?" replied Tom, whose dictionary seemed to be at fault.

"Nary pistol, knife, or any thing of that sort?"

"Nothing but my jackknife."

"Any plunder?"

"We piled up our knapsacks and haversacks before we went into the fight. Here is my canteen half full of water; I gave the other half to one of your soldiers, when he was dying of his wounds."

"Did ye?"

"Now will you be kind enough to tell me where I am?"

"You are inside the lines of our army, about three miles below Centreville," replied one of the pickets.

"What time is it?"

"Nigh upon nine o'clock, I should say. One of you fellers must take this prisoner to headquarters," he continued, speaking to his companions.

Tom was very agreeably surprised to find that his captors did not propose to hang, shoot, or bayonet him; and the Southern Confederacy rose a few degrees in his estimation. Certainly the men who had taken him were not fiends, and he began to hope that his situation as a prisoner would not be so terrible as his fancy had pictured it.

One of the men was deputed to conduct him to the officer of the guard; and he walked along by the side of the soldier through the woods, in the direction from which he had just come.

"Can you tell me how the battle went at last?" asked Tom, as they pursued their way through the forest.

"We whipped you all to pieces. Your army hasn't done running yet. We shall take Washington to-morrow, and Jeff Davis will be in the White House before the week is out."

"Have you taken many prisoners?" asked Tom, who could not dispute the position of the rebel soldier.

"About fifty thousand, I b'lieve," replied Secesh, with refreshing confidence.

Tom indulged in a low whistle, but his companion could not tell whether it was an expression of regret or incredulity. If they had stood on an equality, Tom would probably have suggested that the figures should be interpreted "over the left" -- an idiosyncrasy in language which he had imported from Pinchbrook, but which may not be wholly unintelligible to our young readers.

From his conductor he obtained some particulars of the battle and its result, which were afterwards more fully set forth in General Beauregard's official report, and which would have read better on the pages of Sinbad the Sailor than in the folios of a military despatch. But the Secesh soldier's "facts and figures" were comforting to Tom, who still had a stronger interest in the condition of the good cause, after the heavy blow it had received, than he had in his own individual welfare. Like too heavy a dose of poison, the magnitude of the stories refuted and defeated them. The soldier boy listened in respectful silence, but he was utterly incredulous. It was even possible that the Union army had won a victory, after all, though he was not very sanguine on this point.

He was ultimately conducted to the headquarters of the regiment to which his captors belonged, and then turned into a lot with about twenty others, who were strongly guarded. Tom joined his companions in misery, most of whom, worn out by the fatigues of the day, were sleeping soundly upon the ground. Only two or three of them were awake; but these were strangers to him, and he was unable to obtain any information from them concerning any of his friends in the regiment.

It began to rain shortly after Tom joined his fellow-prisoners; but there was no shelter for them. They had neither blankets nor great coats, yet this did not seem to disturb them. Our soldier boy threw himself upon the ground, but the nap he had taken under the side of the log set his eyes wide open for a time. He could only think of home, his mother and sisters, and John, by this time snugly coiled away in the bed where he had been wont to dream of the glories of war. He had cast his fears to the winds when he found that his captors did not intend to butcher him, and he could not help thinking that his situation might have been worse.

Those with whom he had spoken told him they had eaten nothing since morning; and in this respect he was far better off than his companions were. The only thing that troubled him was the thought of the anguish which his mother must suffer, when she heard of the battle. When the regiment should be gathered together again, he would be reported as "missing," and this would be a terrible word to her, for it meant killed, wounded, or a prisoner. If he could only assure her that he still lived and was uninjured, he would have been happy -- happy in spite of the drenching rain -- happy in spite of the prospective dungeon, and the hardships to which he might be subjected. He felt that he had faithfully performed his duty. When he began to be drowsy, he settled himself in the most comfortable place he could find on the ground, and thanked God that he had been spared his life through the perils of that awful day, and more fervently that he had been enabled to do his duty like a good soldier; and then, with the Giver of all Good, the Fountain of all Mercy, in his heart, he fell asleep.

He slept several hours, and waked up to find himself as thoroughly soaked as though he had just come out of the river. There was no help for it, and it was no use to grumble. After walking to and fro for half an hour, he lay down again, and, between sleeping and waking, finished the night; uncomfortably, it is true, and yet without any positive suffering. There were hundreds, if not thousands, who were enduring the agony of fearful wounds through that long night; who were lying alone and uncared for where they had fallen in the deadly strife; who were dying every hour, away from their homes and friends, and with no kind hand to minister to their necessities, with no sweet voice of a loved one to smooth their passage down to the dark, cold grave.

Tom thought of these, for he had seen them in his path, and he felt that he had no cause to complain -- that he ought to be cheerful and happy. At the dawn of the day he and his fellow-prisoners were marched to Sudley Church, where they were to be confined until they could be sent to Richmond. Here Tom found a captain belonging to his regiment; but neither could give any information to the other in regard to their friends.

"I shall not stay here long," said the captain, in a whisper, when they had become better acquainted. "I intend to leave to-night."

"Can't I go with you?" asked Tom.

"You can go, but we had better not go together."

Tom thought for a while, and determined upon an attempt to escape. During the day, he carefully examined the premises, and decided upon his mode of operations.



Chapter XVI.

A Perplexing Question.


Tom Somers, who had had some experience, in a small way, in the kind of business now before him, was filled with hope when he had adopted his plan. He was a resolute and energetic young man, and to resolve upon any thing was almost equivalent to doing it. There were a great many difficulties in the way of success, it is true; but, nothing daunted by these, he determined to persevere. The church in which the prisoners were confined was carefully guarded on the exterior, and the sentinels carried loaded muskets in their hands -- so that the affair before him was more hazardous and trying than that of escaping from the attic chamber of Squire Pemberton's house in Pinchbrook.

If he succeeded in making his way out of the church and eluding the guard which surrounded it, even then his trials would only have commenced; for there were many miles of hostile country between him and Washington, whither he supposed the Federal army had been driven. The captain who intended to escape at the same time gave him some information which would be of service to him in finding his way to the Potomac. He charged him particularly to follow the railroad, which would conduct him to Alexandria, in the vicinity of which he would probably find the regiment.

At dark the prisoners disposed of themselves as well as they could for the night. Tom saw the captain go through all the forms of preparing for a comfortable lodging, and he did the same himself. For hours he lay ruminating upon his purpose. When it was midnight, he thought it was time for him to commence the enterprise. He worked himself along on the floor till he reached the principal entrance. The door was open, as it had been all day, to enable the guards to obtain an occasional view of the prisoners.

The sentinels were evidently in no condition to discharge their duties with fidelity, for they had been marching and fighting for two or three days, and were nearly exhausted. Leaning against the door, Tom discovered a musket, which the careless guard had left there. On the floor in the entry lay two rebel soldiers. They had stretched themselves across the threshold of the door, so that no one could pass in or out of the church without stepping over them.

Tom carefully rose from his recumbent posture, and took possession of the musket. Then, with the utmost prudence, he stepped over the bodies of the sleeping soldiers; but with all his circumspection, he could not prevent one of his shoes from squeaking a little, and it required only a particle of noise to rouse the guard.

"Who goes there?" demanded one of them, springing to his feet.

"Is this the way you do your duty?" replied Tom, as sternly as though he had been a brigadier general.

"Who are you?" said the soldier, apparently impressed by the words and the tones of him who reproved his neglect.

"Who am I, you sleepy scum! I'll let you know who I am in about ten minutes," added Tom, as he passed out at the front door of the church.

"Give me back my gun -- won't you?" pleaded the confused sentinel.

"I'll give it back to you at the court-martial which will sit on your case to-morrow."

"Who goes there?" challenged one of the sentinels on the outside.

"Who goes there!" added Tom, in a sneering tone. "Have you waked up? Where were you five minutes ago, when I passed this post? There won't be a prisoner left here by morning. The long roll wouldn't wake up such a stupid set of fellows."

"Stop, sir!" said the astonished sentinel. "You can't pass this line."

"Can't I, you stupid fool? I have passed it while you were asleep."

"I haven't been asleep."

"Where have you been, then?" demanded Tom with terrible energy.

"Been here, sir."

"I'll court-martial the whole of you!"

"Stop, sir, or I'll fire at you!" added the soldier, as Tom moved on.

"Fire at me! Fire, if you dare, and I'll rid the army of one unfaithful man on the spot!" said the soldier boy, as he raised the musket to his shoulder.

"Don't fire, you fool!" interposed one of the men whom Tom had roused from his slumbers in the entry. "Don't you see he is an officer?"

"I'll teach you how to perform your duty!" added Tom, as he walked away.

The soldier, governed by the advice of his companion, offered no further objection to the departure of Tom; and he moved off as coolly as though he had just been regularly relieved from guard duty. He had walked but a short distance before he discovered the camp of a regiment or brigade, which, of course, it was necessary for him to avoid. Leaving the road, he jumped over the fence into a field -- his first object being to place a respectful distance between himself and the enemy.

The scene through which he had just passed, though he had preserved the appearance of coolness and self-possession, had been exceedingly trying to his nerves; and when the moment of pressing danger had passed, he found his heart up in his throat, and his strength almost wasted by the excitement. He felt as one feels when he has just escaped a peril which menaced him with instant death. It was singular that the soldier had not fired, but the fact that he did not convinced Tom that there is an amazing power in impudence.

For half an hour, he pursued his way with haste and diligence, but without knowing where he was going -- whether he was moving toward Richmond or Washington. As the musket which he had taken from the church was not only an encumbrance, but might betray him, he threw it away, though, thinking some means of defence might be useful, he retained the bayonet, and thrust it in his belt. Thus relieved of his burden, he walked till he came to a road. As there was no appearance of an enemy in any direction, he followed this road for some time, and finally it brought him to the object of his search -- the railroad.

But then came up the most perplexing question he had yet been called upon to decide. To that railroad, as to all others, there were, unfortunately, two ends -- one of which lay within the Federal lines, and the other within the rebel lines. If Tom had been an astronomer, which he was not, the night was too cloudy to enable him to consult the stars; besides, some railroads are so abominably crooked that the heavenly orbs would hardly have been safe pilots. He did not know which was north, nor which was south, and to go the wrong way would be to jump out of the frying pan into the fire.

Tom sat down by the side of the road, and tried to settle the difficult question; but the more he thought, the more perplexed he became -- which shows the folly of attempting to reason when there are no premises to reason from. He was, no doubt, an excellent logician; but bricks cannot be made without straw.

"Which way shall I go?" said Tom to himself, as he stood up and peered first one way and then the other through the gloom of the night.

But he could not see Washington in one direction, nor Richmond in the other, and he had not a single landmark to guide him in coming to a decision.

"I'll toss up!" exclaimed he, desperately, as he took off his cap and threw it up into the air. "Right side up, this way -- wrong side, that way; and may the fates or the angels turn it in the proper way."

He stooped down to pick up the cap, and ascertain which way it had come down. It came down right side up, and Tom immediately started off in the direction indicated. Although he had no confidence in the arbitrament of the cap, he felt relieved to find the question disposed of even in this doubtful manner.

He kept both eyes wide open as he advanced, for if he had taken the wrong way a few miles of travel would bring him to the main camp of the rebels in the vicinity of Manassas Junction. He pursued his lonely journey for some time without impediment, and without discovering any camp, either large or small. He gathered new confidence as he proceeded. After he had walked two or three hours upon the railroad, he thought it was about time for Fairfax station to heave in sight, if he had chosen the right way -- or for the rebel camps to appear if he had chosen the wrong way. With the first place he was familiar, as his regiment had encamped a short distance from it.

He was sorely perplexed by the non-appearance of either of these expected points. The country began to look wilder and less familiar as he proceeded. The region before him looked rugged and mountainous, and the dark outlines of several lofty peaks touched the sky in front of him. But with the feeling that every step he advanced placed a wider space between him and his captors at Sudley church, he continued on his way till the gray streaks of daylight appeared behind him.

This phenomenon promised to afford him a gleam of intelligence upon which to found a correct solution of his course. Tom knew that, in the ordinary course of events, the sun ought to rise in the east and set in the west. If he was going to the north, the sun would rise on his right hand -- if to the south, on his left hand. The streaks of light grew more and more distinct, and the clouds having rolled away, he satisfied himself where the sun would appear. Contrary to both wings of his theory, the place was neither on his right nor his left, for it was exactly behind him. But his position might be upon a bend of the railroad whose direction did not correspond with the general course of the road. For half an hour longer, therefore, he pursued his way, carefully noting every curve, until he was fully convinced that his course was nearer west than north. The sun rose precisely as had been laid down in the programme, and precisely where he expected it would rise.

It was clear enough that he was not moving to the south; and, satisfied that he was in no danger of stumbling upon Richmond, his courage increased, and he plodded on till he discovered a small village -- or what would be called such in Virginia -- though it contained only a few houses. As he still wore the uniform of the United States army, he did not deem it prudent to pass through this village; besides, he was terribly perplexed to know what station it could be, and what had become of Fairfax. Though he must have passed through the country before, it did not look natural to him.

Leaving the railroad, he took to the fields, intending to pass round the village, or conceal himself in the woods till he could go through it in safety. After walking diligently for so many hours, Tom was reminded that he had a stomach. His rations on the preceding day had not been very bountiful, and he was positively hungry. The organ which had reminded him of its existence was beginning to be imperative in its demands, and a new problem was presented for solution -- one which had not before received the attention which it deserved.

In the fields and forest he found a few berries; but all he could find made but a slight impression upon the neglected organ. If Tom was a philosopher, in his humble way, he was reasonable enough to admit that a man could not live without eating. At this point, therefore, the question of rations became a serious and solemn problem; and the longer it remained unsolved the more difficult and harassing it became.

After he had rested all the forenoon in a secluded spot, without interruption from man or beast, he decided to settle this question of rations once for all. If impudence had enabled him to pass a line of rebel sentries, it ought to furnish him with a dinner. Leaving his hiding place, he walked till he discovered a small house, at which he determined to apply for something to eat.



Chapter XVII.

Dinner And Danger.


The house at which Tom applied for food evidently did not belong to one of the "first families," or, if it did, the owner's fortunes had become sadly dilapidated. It was built of rough boards, with a huge stone chimney, which was erected on the outside of the structure. The humblest fisherman in Pinchbrook Harbor would have thought himself poorly accommodated in such a rough and rickety mansion.

If Tom's case had not been growing desperate, he would not have run the risk of showing himself to any person on the "sacred soil" who was "to the manor born;" but his stomach was becoming more and more imperative in its demands, and he knocked at the front door with many misgivings, especially as his exchequer contained less than a dollar of clear cash.

The inmates were either very deaf or very much indisposed to see visitors; and Tom, after he had knocked three times, began to think he had not run any great risk in coming to this house. As nobody replied to his summons, he took the liberty to open the door and enter. The establishment was even more primitive in its interior than its exterior, and the soldier boy could not help contrasting it with the neat houses of the poor in his native town.

The front door opened into a large room without the formality of an entry or hall. In one corner of the apartment stood a bed. At one side was a large fireplace, in which half a dozen sticks of green wood were hissing and sizzling in a vain attempt to make the contents of an iron pot, which hung over them, reach the boiling point. No person was to be seen or heard on the premises, though the fire and the pot were suggestive of humanity at no great distance from the spot.

A door on the back side of the room was open, and Tom looked out in search of the occupants of the house. In the garden he discovered the whole family, consisting of a man and his wife, a girl of twelve, and a boy of ten. The man was digging in the garden, and the rest of the troupe seemed to be superintending the operation. The head of the family was altogether the most interesting person to Tom, for he must either shake hands or fight with him. He did not look like a giant in intellect, and he certainly was not a giant in stature. With the bayonet still in his belt, Tom was not afraid of him.

"How are you, people?" said Tom, as he walked towards the family, who with one accord suspended all operations, and gave their whole attention to the stranger.

"How are ye, yourself?" replied the man, rather gruffly.

"Do you keep a hotel?" demanded Tom, who concealed the anxiety of his heart under a broad grin.

"I reckon I don't. What do you want here?"

"I want something to eat," replied Tom, proceeding to business with commendable straight-forwardness.

"We hain't got nothin' here," said the man, sourly. "That ain't what ye come fur, nuther."

"Must have something to eat. I'm not very particular, but I must have something."

"You can't hev it 'bout yere, no how. That ain't what ye come fur, nuther."

"If you know what I came for better than I do, suppose you tell me what it is," added Tom, who was a little mystified by the manner of the man.

"You air one of them soger fellers, and you want me to 'list; but I tell yer, ye can't do nothin' of the sort. I'll be dog derned if I'll go."

"I don't want you to go," protested Tom. "I'm half starved and all I want is something to eat."

"Yer don't reelly mean so."

"Yes, I do."

"Where d'yer come from?"

"From down below here. Have you seen any soldiers pass through this place?"

"I reckon I hev; but they hain't seen me; and I reckon they won't see me very soon;" and the man chuckled at his own cleverness in keeping clear of recruiting officers.

"I don't want you, and if you will give me something to eat, you will get rid of me very quick."

"Betsey, you kin feed the feller, if yer like, and I'll go over and see whar the hogs is."

The man dropped his shovel, and began to move off towards the woods, probably to see whether Tom would attempt to detain him. At the same time "Betsey" led the way into the house, and the visitor paid no further attention to the master.

"We hain't got much to eat in the house," said the woman, as they entered the room. "There's some biled pork and pertaters in the pot, and we've got some bread, sech as 'tis."

"It will do me very well. I'm hungry, and can eat any thing," replied Tom.

The woman placed a tin plate on the table, and dished up the contents of the kettle on the fire. She added some cold hoe cake to the dinner, and Tom thought it was a feast fit for a king. He took a seat at the table, and made himself entirely at home. The food was coarse, but it was good, and the hungry soldier boy did ample justice to the viands. The boy and girl who had followed him into the house, stood, one on each side of him, watching him in speechless astonishment.

"Where did yer come from?" asked the woman, when Tom had about half finished his dinner.

"From down below," replied Tom, rather indefinitely.

"Don't b'long in these yere parts, I reckon?"

"No, marm."

"Where are ye gwine?"

"Going to join my regiment."

"Where is yer rigiment?"

"That's more than I know, marm."

"How long yer been travelling?" persisted the woman, who was perhaps afraid that the guest would eat up the whole of the family's dinner, if she did not make some kind of a feint to attract his attention.

"Only a few days, marm."

"Kin yer till me what all thet noise was about day 'fore yesterday?"

"Yes, marm; it was a big battle."

"Gracious me! Yer don't say so! Whar was it?"

"Down below Centreville."

"Which beat?"

"The Confederates drove the Yankees off the field," answered Tom, suspending business long enough to glance at the woman, and see how the intelligence was received.

"Yer don't! Then they won't want my old man."

Tom was unable to determine whether his hostess was Union or "Secesh" from her words or her looks. He could not inform her whether they would want her old man or not. When he had eaten all he could, he proposed like an honest youth to pay for what he had eaten; but Betsey had the true idea of southern hospitality, and refused to receive money for the food eaten beneath her roof. She had a loaf of coarse bread, however, in which she permitted Tom to invest the sum of six cents.

"I am very much obliged to you, marm; and I shall be glad to do as much for you, any time," said Tom, as he went towards the front door.

As he was about to open it, his ears were startled by an imperative knock on the outside. He stepped back to one of the two windows on the front of the house, where he discovered an officer and two "grayback" soldiers. The ghost of his grandmother would not have been half so appalling a sight, and he retreated to the back door with a very undignified haste.

"Gracious me!" exclaimed the lady of the house. "Who kin thet be?"

"An officer and two soldiers," replied Tom, hastily.

"Then they are arter my old man!" said she, dropping into the only chair the room contained.

"Don't say I'm here, marm, and I'll help your husband, if they catch him. Tell them he has gone off to be absent a week."

"He'd be absent more'n thet if he knowed them fellers was arter him."

The woman moved towards the front door, and Tom through the back door; but as he was about to pass into the garden, he caught a glimpse of one of the graybacks in the rear of the house. For a moment his case seemed to be hopeless; but he retreated into the room again, just as the woman opened the front door to admit the officer. He could not escape from the house, and his only resource was to secure a hiding place within its walls. There were only two which seemed to be available; one of these was the bed, and the other the chimney. If any search was made, of course the soldiers would explore the bed first; and the chimney seemed the most practicable.

There was no time for consideration, for the woman had already opened the door, and was answering the questions of the Confederate officer; so Tom sprang into the fireplace, and, by the aid of the projecting stones, climbed up to a secure position. The chimney was large enough to accommodate half a dozen boys of Tom's size. The fire had gone out, and though the stones were rather warm in the fireplace, he was not uncomfortable.

The fears of the lady of the house proved to be well grounded this time, for the party had actually come in search of her "old man;" and what was more, the officer announced his intention not to leave without him.

"He's gone away fur a week, and he won't be hum before the fust of August, no how," said the woman resolutely, and adopting Tom's suggestion to the letter.

"All nonsense, woman! He is about here, somewhere, and we will find him."

"You may, if you kin."

The officer then went out at the back door, as Tom judged by his footsteps, and the woman asked one of the children what had become of the other soldier man. The boy said he was up chimney. She then told them not to tell the officer where he was.

"What shell I do?" said she, placing herself before the fireplace.

"Don't be alarmed. He will keep out of their way," replied Tom.

"But the officer man said he was gwine to stay 'bout yere till he gits hum," moaned the poor woman.

"He will not do any such thing. Your husband has the woods before him, and he won't let them catch him."

"Deary me! I'm 'feared they will."

"Where are they now?"

"They're gone out to look for him."

The officer and his men returned in a few moments, having satisfied themselves that the proprietor of the place was not on the premises.

"Now we'll search the house," said the officer; and Tom heard them walking about in the room.

Of course the militia man could not be found, and the officer used some very unbecoming language to express his disapprobation of the skulker, as he called him.

"Woman, if you don't tell me where your husband is, I'll have you arrested," said he, angrily.

"I don't know myself. He's gone off over the mountains to git some things. Thet's all I know about it, and if yer want to arrest me, yer kin."

But the officer concluded that she would be a poor substitute for an able bodied man, and he compromised the matter by leaving one of the privates, instructing him not to let the woman or the children leave the house, and to remain till the skulker returned.

This was not very pleasant information for Tom who perceived that he was likely to be shut up in the chimney for the rest of the day, and perhaps be smoked or roasted out at supper time. Climbing up to the top of his prison house, he looked over, and saw the officer and one private disappear in the woods which lay between the house and the railroad. Looking over the other way, he saw the coveted recruit approaching the house from beyond the garden.



Chapter XVIII.

The Rebel Soldier.


Tom Somers was not very well satisfied with his situation, for the soldier who had been left in possession of the house was armed with a musket, and the prospect of escaping before night was not very flattering. The patriarch of the family, who had such a horror of recruiting officers, was approaching, and in a few moments there would be an exciting scene in the vicinity.

Independent of his promise made to the woman to help her husband, if she would not betray him, Tom deemed it his duty to prevent the so-called Confederate States of America from obtaining even a single additional recruit for the armies of rebellion and treason. Without having any personal feeling in the matter, therefore, he was disposed to do all he could to assist his host in "avoiding the draft." What would have been treason in New England was loyalty in Virginia.

The unfortunate subject of the Virginia militia law was unconsciously approaching the trap which had been set for him. He had, no doubt, come to the conclusion, by this time, that the hungry soldier boy was not a recruiting officer, or even the corporal of a guard sent to apprehend him, and he was returning with confidence to partake of his noonday meal. Tom, from his perch at the top of the chimney, watched him as he ambled along over the rough path with his eyes fixed upon the ground. There was something rather exciting in the situation of affairs, and he soon found himself deeply interested in the issue.

The unhappy citizen owing service to the Confederate States climbed over the zigzag fence that enclosed his garden, and continued to approach the rude dwelling which the law had defined to be his castle. Tom did not dare to speak in tones loud enough to be heard by the innocent victim of the officer's conspiracy, for they would have betrayed his presence to the enemy. Sitting upon the top stones of the chimney, he gesticulated violently, hoping to attract his attention; but the man did not look up, and consequently could not see the signals.

He had approached within ten rods of the back door of the house, when Tom, fearing his footsteps might attract the attention of the soldier, ventured to give a low whistle. As this was not heeded, he repeated the signal when the man was within two or three rods of the house; but even this was not noticed, and throwing his head forward, so that the sound of his voice should not descend the chimney, he spoke.

"Halloo!" said he.

The man suddenly stopped, and looked up. Tom made signals with his hands for him to leave; but this mute language appeared not to be intelligible to him.

"Consarn yer picter, what are yer doin' up thar?" said the proprietor of the castle, in tones which seemed to Tom as loud as the roar of the cannon at Bull Run.

"Hush! Hush!" replied Tom, gesticulating with all his might, and using all his ingenuity to invent signs that would convey to the militiaman the idea that he was in imminent danger.

"You be scotched!" snarled the man. "What are yer doin'? What ails yer?"

"They are after you!" added Tom, in a hoarse whisper.

The fellow most provokingly refused to hear him, and Tom thought his skull was amazingly thick, and his perceptions amazingly blunt.

"Now you come down from thar," said he, as he picked up a couple of stones. "You act like a monkey, and I s'pose yer be one. Now make tracks down that chimley."

But instead of doing this, Tom retreated into his shell, as a snail does when the moment of peril arrives. The soldier in the house was not deaf; and if he had been, he could hardly have helped hearing the stentorian tones of his victim. Instead of going out the back door, like a sensible man, he passed out at the front door, and in a moment more Tom heard his voice just beneath him.

"Halt!" shouted the soldier, as he brought his musket to his shoulder. "Your name is Joe Burnap."

"That's my name, but I don't want nothin' o' you," replied the embarrassed militiaman, as he dropped the stones with which he had intended to assault Tom's citadel.

"I want something of you," replied the soldier. "You must go with me. Advance, and give yourself up."

"What fur?" asked poor Joe.

"We want you for the army. You are an enrolled militiaman. You must go with me."

"Ill be dog derned if I do," answered Joe Burnap, desperately.

"If you attempt to run away, I'll shoot you. You shall go with me, dead or alive, and hang me if I care much which."

Joe evidently did care. He did not want to go with the soldier; his southern blood had not been fired by the wrongs of his country; and he was equally averse to being shot in cold blood by this minion of the Confederacy. His position was exceedingly embarrassing, for he could neither run, fight, nor compromise. While matters were in this interesting and critical condition, Tom ventured to raise his head over the top of the chimney to obtain a better view of the belligerents. Joe stood where he had last seen him, and the soldier was standing within three feet of the foot of the chimney.

"What ye going to do, Joe Burnap?" demanded the latter, after waiting a reasonable time for the other to make up his mind.

"What am I gwine to do?" repeated Joe, vacantly, as he glanced to the right and the left, apparently in the hope of obtaining some suggestion that would enable him to decide the momentous question.

"You needn't look round, Joe; you've got to come or be shot. Just take your choice between the two, and don't waste my time."

"I s'pose I can't help myself," replied Joe. "I'll tell ye what I'll do. I want to fix up things about hum a little, and I'll jine ye down to the Gap to-morrow."

"No you don't, Joe Burnap!" said the soldier, shaking his head.

"Then I'll jine ye to-night," suggested the strategist.

"My orders are not to return without you, and I shall obey them."

Mrs. Burnap, who had followed the soldier out of the house, stood behind him wringing her hands in an agony of grief. She protested with all a woman's eloquence against the proceedings of the soldier; but her tears and her homely rhetoric were equally unavailing. While the parties were confronting each other, the soldier dropped his piece, and listened to the arguments of Joe and his wife. When he turned for a moment to listen to the appeals of the woman, her husband improved the opportunity to commence a retreat. He moved off steadily for a few paces, when the enemy discovered the retrograde march, and again brought the gun to his shoulder.

"None of that, Joe," said the soldier, sternly. "Now march back again, or I'll shoot you;" and Tom heard the click of the hammer as he cocked the piece. "I've fooled long enough with you, and we'll end this business here. Come here, at once, or I'll put a bullet through your head."

"Don't shoot! Don't shoot! For mercy's sake don't shoot," cried Mrs. Burnap.

"I'll give him one minute to obey the order; if he don't do it then, I'll fire. That's all I've got to say."

Tom saw by the soldier's manner that he intended to execute his threat. He saw him brace up his nerves, and otherwise prepare himself for the bloody deed. But Tom did not think that Joe had the stubbornness or the courage, whichever it might be called, to run the risk of dodging the bullet. He foresaw, too, that, if Joe gave himself up, his hiding place would be exposed, and the soldier would have two prisoners to conduct back to his officer, instead of one. It was therefore high time for him to do something for his own protection, if not for that of his host.

The necessity of defending himself, or of doing something to cover his retreat in an emergency, had been anticipated by Tom, and he had made such preparations as the circumstances would admit. His first suggestion was to dart his bayonet down at the rebel soldier, as he had seen the fishermen of Pinchbrook harpoon a horse mackerel; but the chances of hitting the mark were too uncertain to permit him to risk the loss of his only weapon, and he rejected the plan. He adopted the method, however, in a modified, form, deciding to use the material of which the chimney was constructed, instead of the bayonet. The stones being laid in clay instead of mortar, were easily detached from the structure, and he had one in his hands ready for operations.

"Come here, Joe Burnap, or you are a dead man," repeated the soldier, who evidently had some scruples about depriving the infant Confederacy of an able-bodied recruit.

Tom Somers, being unembarrassed by any such scruples, lifted himself up from his hiding place, and hurled the stone upon the soldier, fully expecting to hit him on the head, and dash out his brains. The best laid calculations often miscarry, and Tom's did in part, for the missile, instead of striking the soldier upon the head, hit him on the right arm. The musket was discharged, either by the blow or by the act of its owner, and fell out of his hands upon the ground.

Now, a stone as big as a man's head, does not fall from the height of fifteen feet upon any vulnerable part of the human frame without inflicting some injury; and in strict conformity with this doctrine of probabilities, the stone which Tom hurled down upon the rebel, and which struck him upon the right arm, entirely disabled that useful member. The hero of this achievement was satisfied with the result, though it had not realized his anticipations. Concluding that the time had arrived for an effective charge, he leaped out of the chimney upon the roof of the house, descended to the eaves, and then jumped down upon the ground.

The soldier, in panic and pain, had not yet recovered from the surprise occasioned by this sudden and unexpected onslaught. Tom rushed up to him, and secured the musket before he had time to regain his self-possession.

"Who are you?" demanded the soldier, holding up the injured arm with his left hand.

"Your most obedient servant," replied Tom, facetiously, as he placed himself in the attitude of "charge bayonets." "Have you any dangerous weapons about your person?"

"Yes, I have," replied the soldier, resolutely, as he retreated a few steps, and attempted to thrust his left hand into the breast pocket of his coat.

"Hands down!" exclaimed Tom, pricking his arm with the bayonet attached to the musket. "Here, Joe Burnap!"

"What d' yer want?" replied the proprietor of the house, who was as completely "demoralized" by the scene as the rebel soldier himself.

"Put your hand into this man's pocket, and take out his pistol. If he resists, I'll punch him with this," added Tom, demonstrating the movement by a few vigorous thrusts with the bayonet.

With some hesitation Joe took a revolver from the pocket of the soldier, and handed it to Tom.

"Examine all his pockets. Take out everything he has in them," added Tom, cocking the revolver, and pointing it at the head of the prisoner.

Joe took from the pockets of the rebel a quantity of pistol cartridges, a knife, some letters, and a wallet.

"Who's this fur?" asked Joe, as he proceeded to open the wallet, and take therefrom a roll of Confederate "shin-plasters."

"Give it back to him."

"But this is money."

"Money!" sneered Tom. "A northern beggar wouldn't thank you for all he could carry of it. Give it back to him, and every thing else except the cartridges."

Joe reluctantly restored the wallet, the letters, and the knife, to the pockets from which he had taken them. Tom then directed him to secure the cartridge box of the soldier.

"You are my prisoner," said Tom; "but I believe in treating prisoners well. You may go into the house, and if your arm is much hurt, Mrs. Burnap may do what she can to help you."

The prisoner sullenly attended the woman into the house, and Tom followed as far as the front door.

"Now, what am I gwine to do?" said Joe. "You've got me into a right smart scrape."

"I thought I had got you out of one," replied Tom. "Do you intend to remain here?"

"Sartin not, now. I must clear."

"So must I; and we have no time to spare. Get what you can to eat, and come along."

In ten minutes more, Tom and Joe Burnap were travelling towards the mountains.



Chapter XIX.

Through The Gap.


Joe Burnap was perfectly familiar with the country, and Tom readily accepted him as a guide; and, as they had a common object in view, neither had good cause for mistrusting the other. They walked, without stopping to rest, till the sun set behind the mountains towards which they were travelling.

"I reckon we needn't hurry now," said Joe, as he seated himself on a rock.

"I don't think there is any danger of their catching us," replied Tom, as he seated himself beside his fellow-traveller. "Can you tell me where we are?"

"I reckon I can. There ain't a foot of land in these yere parts that I hain't had my foot on. I've toted plunder of all sorts through these woods more'n ten thousand times."

"Well, where are we?" asked Tom, whose doubts in regard to the locality had not yet been solved.

In the pressure of more exciting matters, he had not attempted to explain why he did not come to Fairfax station while following the railroad.

"If we keep on a little while longer, I reckon we shall come to Thoroughfare Gap," answered Joe.

"But where do you live? What town is your house in?" asked Tom, who had never heard of Thoroughfare Gap before.

"Haymarket is the nearest town to my house."

"What railroad is that over there?" asked Tom, who was no nearer the solution of the question than he had been in the beginning.

"That's the Manassas Gap Railroad, I reckon," replied Joe, who seemed to be astonished at the ignorance of his companion.

"Just so," added Tom, who now, for the first time, comprehended where he was.

When he left Sudley church, he walked at random till he came to the railroad; but he had struck the Manassas Gap Railroad instead of the main line, and it had led him away from the great body of the rebels, though it also conducted him away from Washington, where he desired to go. He was perplexed at the discovery, and at once began to debate the question whether it was advisable for him to proceed any farther in this direction.

"I suppose you are a Union man -- ain't you?" said Tom, after he had considered his situation for some time.

Instead of answering this question, Joe Burnap raised his eyes from the ground, and fixed his gaze intently upon Tom. He stared at him for a moment in doubt and silence, and then resumed his former attitude.

"You don't want to fight for the south," added Tom; "so I suppose you don't believe in the Southern Confederacy."

"I don't want to fight for nuther of 'em," replied Joe, after a moment of further consideration. "If they'll only let me alone, I don't keer which beats."

His position was certainly an independent one, and he appeared to be entirely impartial. The newspapers on either side would not have disturbed him. Patriotism -- love of country -- had not found a resting place in his soul. Tom had not, from the beginning, entertained a very high respect for the man; but now he despised him, and thought that a rebel was a gentleman compared with such a character. How a man could live in the United States, and not feel an interest in the stirring events which were transpiring around him, was beyond his comprehension. In one word, he so thoroughly despised Joe Burnap, that he resolved, at the first convenient opportunity, to get rid of him, for he did not feel safe in the company of such a person.

"Now which side do you fight fur?" asked Joe, after a long period of silence.

"For the Union side," replied Tom, promptly.

"What are yer doin' here, then?"

"I was in the battle below, and was taken prisoner, got away, and I want to get to Washington."

"I reckon this ain't the way to git thar," added Joe.

"I doubt whether I can get there any other way."

Just then, Tom would have given all the money he had in the world, and all that the government owed him, for a good map of Virginia -- or even for a knowledge of geography which would have enabled him to find his way by the safest route to Washington. But he had been a diligent scholar in school, and had faithfully improved the limited opportunities which had been afforded him. His mind could recall the map of Virginia which he had studied in school, but the picture was too faint to be of much practical benefit to him.

He had treasured up some information, derived from the newspapers, in regard to the Manassas Gap Railroad. He knew that it passed through the Blue Ridge, at the western base of which flowed the Shenandoah River: this emptied into the Potomac, which would certainly conduct him to Washington. In following these two rivers, he should have to describe nearly a circle, which was not an encouraging fact to a boy on foot, with no resources, and in an enemy's country.

If he returned by the way he came, the country was filled with rebel soldiers, and he could hardly expect to pass through their lines without being captured. Difficult and dangerous as the route by the Shenandoah appeared, he decided to adopt it.

Joe Burnap proposed that they should have supper and opened the bag which he had filled with such eatables as he could hastily procure on leaving home. They ate a hearty meal, and then resumed their walk for another hour.

"I reckon we'd better stop here," said Joe. "The Gap's only half a mile from here, and it's too arly in the night to go through thar yet. Thar's too many soldiers goin' that way."

"What time will you go through?" asked Tom.

"Not afore midnight."

"Then I'll turn in and take a nap. I didn't sleep any last night."

"I'm agreed," replied Joe, who seemed to be indifferent to every thing while he could keep out of the rebel army.

Tom coiled up his body in the softest place he could find, and went to sleep. Exhausted by fatigue and the want of rest, he did not wake for many hours. He came to his senses with a start, and jumped upon his feet. For a moment, he could not think where he was; but then came the recollection that he was in the country of his enemies -- a wanderer and a fugitive.

He looked about him in search of his travelling companion; but the fact that he could not see him in the night was no argument that he was not near him. He supposed Joe had chosen a place to sleep in the vicinity, and thinking he might not wake in season to pass through the Gap before daylight, he commenced a search for him. He beat about the place for half an hour, calling his companion by name; but he could not see him, and no sound responded to the call but the echoes of his own voice.

The independent Virginia farmer had anticipated Tom's intention to part company with him, and, by this time, perhaps, had passed through the Gap. The soldier boy was not quite ready to dispense with the services of his guide, inasmuch as he did not even know where the Gap was, or in what direction he must travel to reach it. While he was debating his prospects, an enterprising rooster, in the distance, sounded his morning call. This assured him that he must be near some travelled road, and, taking the direction from the fowl, he resumed his journey.

A short walk brought him out of the woods, and, in the gray light of the dawn, he discovered a house. As he did not care to make any new acquaintances, he avoided the house, and continued his travels till he arrived at a road. As it was too early in the morning for people to be stirring, he ventured to follow the highway, and soon perceived an opening in the mountains, which he doubted not was the Gap.

At sunrise he arrived at another house, which suddenly came into view as he rounded a bend in the road. Near it were several negroes engaged in various occupations. As he passed the house, the negroes all suspended operations, and stared at him till he was out of sight. He soon reached the Gap; but he had advanced only a short distance before he discovered a battery of light artillery stationed on a kind of bluff, and whose guns commanded the approaches in every direction.

Deeming it prudent to reconnoitre before he proceeded any farther, he also ascertained that the Gap was picketed by rebel infantry. Of course it was impossible to pass through under these circumstances, and he again took to the woods. The scanty supply of food which he had purchased from Mrs. Burnap was now produced, and he made an economical breakfast. Finding a secluded place, he stretched himself upon the ground, and went to sleep. Though he slept till the sun had passed the meridian, the day was a very long one.

When it was fairly dark, he resolved to attempt the passage of the Gap, for he was so tired of inaction that peril and hardship seemed preferable to doing nothing. Returning to the road, he pursued his way with due diligence through the narrowing defile of the mountains, till he suddenly came upon a sentinel, who challenged him. Before he started from his hiding place, Tom had carefully loaded the revolver which he had taken from the rebel soldier; and, as he walked along, he carried the weapon in his hand, ready for any emergency that might require its use.

The guard questioned him, and Tom replied that he had fought in the battle down below, and had a furlough to go home and see his father, who was very sick.

"Where's your furlough?" demanded the soldier.

"In my pocket."

"Let me see it."

"Here it is," replied Tom, producing an old letter which he happened to have in his pocket.

The sentinel took the paper, unfolded it, and turned it over two or three times. It was too dark for him to read it if he had been able to do so, for all the rebel soldiers are not gifted in this way.

"I reckon this won't do," he added, after patiently considering the matter. "Just you tote this paper up to the corporal thar, and if he says it's all right, you kin go on."

"But I can't stop to do all that. Here's my pass, and I want to go on. My father may die before I get home."

"What regiment do you b'long to?" asked the guard, who evidently did not wish to disoblige a fellow-soldier unnecessarily.

"The Second Virginia," replied Tom, at a venture.

"Where does your father live?" continued the sentinel.

"Just beyond the Gap, if he's living at all."

"What town?"

Tom was nonplussed, for he did not know the name of a single place on the route before him; and, of course, he did not dare to answer the question.

"About five or six miles from here," he answered.

"Is it Salem or White Plains?" demanded the soldier, whose cunning was inferior to his honesty.

"White Plains," added Tom, promptly accepting the suggestion.

"What's the matter with your father?"

"I don't know; he was taken suddenly."

"Pears like your uniform ain't exactly our sort," added the soldier.

"Mine was all used up, and I got one on the battle-field."

"I wouldn't do that. It's mean to rob a dead man of his clothes."

"Couldn't help it -- I was almost naked," replied Tom, who perfectly agreed with the rebel on this point.

"You kin go on, Old Virginny," said the soldier, whose kindly sympathy for Tom and his sick father was highly commendable.

The soldier boy thanked the sentinel for his permission, of which he immediately availed himself. Tom did not yet realize the force of the maxim that "all is fair in war," and his conscience gave a momentary twinge as he thought of the deception he had practised upon the honest and kind-hearted rebel. He was very thankful that he had not been compelled to put a bullet through his head; but perhaps he was more thankful that the man had not been obliged to do him a similar favor.

The fugitive walked, with an occasional rest, till daylight the next morning. He went through three or four small villages. After passing through the Gap, he had taken the railroad, as less likely to lead him through the more thickly settled parts of the country. Before him the mountains of the Blue Ridge rose like an impassable wall, and when the day dawned he was approaching Manassas Gap. He had walked twenty-five miles during the night, and prudence, as well as fatigue, required him to seek a place of rest.



Chapter XX.

Down The Shenandoah.


In that wild mountain region, Tom had no difficulty in finding a secluded spot, where there was no probability that he would be molested. He had been in a state of constant excitement during the night, for the country was full of soldiers. The mountaineers of Virginia were rushing to the standard of rebellion. They were a wild, rude set of men, and they made the night hideous with their debauchery. Tom succeeded in keeping out of the way of the straggling parties which were roaming here and there; but he was filled with dread and anxiety lest he should, at the next moment, stumble upon a camp, or a squad of these marauders.

The nook in the mountains which he had chosen as his resting place was a cleft in the rocks, concealed by the overhanging branches of trees. Here he made his bed, as the sun rose, and, worn out with fatigue and anxiety, he dropped asleep.

When he awoke, the sun was near the meridian. He rose and walked out a short distance from his lodging place, and listened for any sounds which might indicate the presence of an enemy. All was still; silence deep and profound reigned through the solitudes of the mountains. Tom returned to his place of concealment, and after eating the remainder of the food he had brought with him, he stretched himself upon the ground, and went to sleep again. He had nothing else to do, and he needed all the rest he could obtain. It was fortunate for him that he had self-possession enough to sleep -- to banish his nervous doubts and fears, and thus secure the repose which was indispensable to the success of his arduous enterprise.

It was after sundown when he finished his second nap. He had slept nearly all day, -- at least ten hours, -- and he was entirely refreshed and restored. He was rather stiff in some of his limbs when he got up; but he knew this would wear off after a little exercise. He had no supper with which to brace himself for the night's work; so he took a drink from the mountain stream, and made his way back to the railroad. But it was too early then to commence the passage of the Gap, and he sat for a couple of hours by the side of the road, before he ventured to resume his journey.

While he was passing through the narrow gorge in the mountains, he met several persons, on foot and on horseback; but as he was armed with a pistol, he did not turn out for them; but when a party of soldiers approached, he sought a hiding place by the side of the road until they were out of hearing. When he had passed through the Gap, he came to a road crossing the track, and after debating the question thoroughly, he decided to abandon the railroad, and pursued his course by the common highway towards the North.

Continuing his journey diligently for a time longer, he came to another road, branching off to the left from the one he had chosen, which required further consideration. But his conclusion was satisfactory, and he continued on the same road, which soon brought him to a more thickly settled country than that through which he had been travelling.

By this time Tom's stomach began to be rebellious again, and the question of rations began to assume a serious aspect. He was not suffering for food, but it was so much more comfortable to travel upon a full stomach than an empty one, that he could not pass a dwelling house without thinking of the contents of the cellar and closets. It was perfectly proper to forage on the enemy; but he could not eat raw chicken and geese, or the problem of rations would have been effectually settled by a demonstration on the hen-coops of the Shenandoah valley.

He came to a halt before a large mansion, which had the appearance of belonging to a wealthy person. Its larder and kitchen cupboards, he doubted not, were plentifully supplied with the luxuries of the season; and Tom thought he might as well obtain his provisions now, as wait till he was driven to desperation by hunger. He entered the front gate of the great house, and stepped upon the veranda in front of it. The windows reached down to the floor. He tried one of them, and found that it was not fastened. He carefully raised the sash and entered.

Tom was determined to put himself upon his impudence on the present occasion; but he satisfied himself that his revolver was in condition for instant use before he proceeded any farther. Passing from the front room to an apartment in the rear, he found a lamp and matches, and concluded that he would have some light on the subject, which was duly obtained. Leaving this room, he entered another, which proved to be the kitchen. A patient search revealed to him the lurking place of a cold roast chicken, some fried bacon, bread, and crackers.

Placing these things on the table, he seated himself to partake of the feast which the forethought of the occupants had provided for him. Tom began to be entirely at home, for having thrown himself on his impudence now; he did not permit any doubts or fears to disturb him; but the handle of his pistol protruded from between the buttons of his coat. He ate till he had satisfied himself, when he happened to think that the coffee pot he had seen in the closet might contain some cold coffee; and he brought it out. He was not disappointed, and even found sugar and milk. He poured out a bowl of the beverage, and, having prepared it to his taste, was about to conclude the feast in this genteel style, when he heard footsteps in the adjoining entry.

Tom determined not to be cheated out of his coffee, and instead of putting himself in a flurry, he took the bowl in one hand and the pistol in the other. The door opened, and a negro timidly entered the room.

"Well, sar!" said the servant, as he edged along the side of the room. "Hem! Well, sar!"

Tom took no notice of him, but continued to drink his coffee as coolly as though he had been in his mother's cottage at Pinchbrook.

"Hem! Well, sar!" repeated the negro, who evidently wished to have the interloper take some notice of him.

But the soldier boy refused to descend from his dignity or his impudence. He finished the bowl of coffee as deliberately as though the darkey had been somewhere else.

"Well, sar! Who's you, sar?"

"Eh, Blackee?"

"Who's you, sar?"

"Good chicken! Good bread! Good bacon!" added Tom. "Are the folks at home, Blackee?"

"No, sar; nobody but de women folks, sar. Who's you, sar?"

"It don't make much difference who I am. Where's your master?"

"Gone to Richmond, sar. He's member ob Congress."

"Then he's in poor business, Blackee," said Tom, as he took out his handkerchief, and proceeded to transfer the remnants of his supper to its capacious folds.

"Better luff dem tings alone, sar."

But Tom refused to "luff dem alone," and when he had placed them on the handkerchief, he made a bundle of them.

"Golly, sar! I'll tell my missus what's gwine on down here," added the servant, as he moved towards the door.

"See here, Blackee," interposed Tom, pointing his pistol at the negro; "if you move, I'll put one of these balls through your skull."

"De Lud sabe us, massa! Don't shoot dis nigger, massa."

"Hold your tongue then, and mind what I say."

"Yes, massa," whined the darkey, in the most abject tones.

"Now come with me, Blackee, and if you open your mouth, one of these pills shall go down your throat."

Tom flourished his pistol before the negro, and led the way to the window by which he had entered the house. Passing out upon the veranda, he cautiously conducted the terrified servant to the road; and when they had gone a short distance, he halted.

"Now, Blackee, what town is this?" demanded Tom.

"Leeds Manor, sar," replied the trembling negro.

"How far is it to the Shenandoah River?"

"Only two or tree miles, massa. Now let dis chile go home again."

"Not yet."

"Hab mercy on dis nigger dis time, and sabe him."

"I won't hurt you, if you behave yourself."

Tom questioned him for some time in regard to the river, and the towns upon its banks; and when he had obtained all the information in regard to the valley which the servant possessed, he resumed his journey, driving the negro before him.

"Spare dis chile, massa, for de sake ob de wife and chil'n," pleaded the unwilling guide.

"I tell you I won't hurt you if you behave yourself," replied Tom. "You'll have the whole place down upon me in half an hour, if I let you go now."

"No, massa; dis nigger won't say one word 'bout you, nor de tings you took from de house -- not one word, massa. Spare dis chile, and luff him go home."

But Tom compelled him to walk before him till they came to the river. The place was called Seaburn's Ford.

"Now, Blackee, if anybody wants me, tell them I've gone to Winchester," said Tom, when he had ordered his escort to halt.

"No, massa, I won't say one word," replied the servant.

"If you do, I'll shoot you the very next time I see you -- depend upon that. You can go now."

The negro was not slow to avail himself of this privilege, and ran off, evidently expecting a bullet from the revolver would overtake him before he had gone far, for he glanced fearfully over his shoulder, begging his captor not to shoot him.

Tom stood upon the bank of the Shenandoah. The negro had told him that he was about thirty miles from Harper's Ferry, which he knew was in possession of General Patterson's forces. Attached to a tree on the shore was a small flat-bottomed boat, which attracted the attention of the soldier boy. Tom was accustomed to boats, and the sight of this one suggested a change of programme, for it would be much easier to float down the stream, than to walk the thirty miles. This was a point which needed no argument; and unfastening the painter of the boat, he jumped in, and pushed off. Seating himself in the stern, with the paddle in his hand, he kept her head with the current, and swept down the rapid stream like a dreamy youth just starting upon the voyage of life.

Like the pilgrim on the sea of time, Tom was not familiar with the navigation of the Shenandoah, and he had neither chart nor compass to assist him. The current was very swift, and once in a while the bateau bumped upon a concealed rock, or bar of sand. Fortunately no serious accident occurred to him, though he found that the labor of managing the boat was scarcely less than that of walking.

There was one consolation about it; he was in no danger of missing the road, and he was not bothered by Confederate soldiers or inquisitive civilians. His light bark rushed on its way down the stream, without attracting the notice of any of the inhabitants, if any were abroad at that unseemly hour of the night. The difficulties of the navigation were overcome with more or less labor, and when the day dawned, Tom made up his mind that he had done a good night's work; and choosing a secluded nook by the side of the river, he hauled up his boat, intending to wait for the return of darkness.

The place he had chosen appeared to be far from any habitation, and he ate his breakfast in a very hopeful frame of mind. Though he was not very tired or very sleepy, yet for the want of something better to do, he felt compelled to go to sleep, hoping, as on the previous day, to dispose of the weary hours in this agreeable manner. His pastime, however, was soon interrupted by loud shouts and the tramp of men, not far from the spot where he lay. A hurried examination of the surroundings assured him that he had chosen a resting place near one of the fords of the river, over which a rebel regiment was then passing.



Chapter XXI.

The Problem Of Rations.


The ford over which the rebel regiment was passing was only a few rods distant from the place where Tom had concealed himself and his boat. When he discovered the soldiers, he was thrilled with terror; and, fully believing that his hour had come, he dropped upon the ground, to wait, in trembling anxiety, the passage of the troops. It was a regiment of Virginia mountaineers, clothed in the most fantastic style with hunting-shirts and coon-skin caps. They yelled and howled like so many wildcats.

From his hiding place on the bank of the stream, he obtained a good view of the men, as they waded across the river. He was fearful that some of them might stray from the ranks, and stumble upon his place of refuge; but a kind Providence put it into their heads to mind their own business, and Tom gathered hope as the yells of the mountaineers grew indistinct in the distance.

"This is no place for me," said Tom to himself, when the sounds had died away in the direction of the Blue Ridge. "A whole army of them may camp near that ford, and drive me out of my hiding place."

Jumping into the bateau again, he waited till he was satisfied no carriage or body of troops was in the vicinity; and then plying the paddle with the utmost vigor, he passed the ford. But then he found that the public highway ran along the banks of the river, which exposed him to increased risk of being seen. A couple of vehicles passed along the road while he was in this exposed situation; but as the occupants of them seemed to take no notice of him, he congratulated himself upon his escape, for presently the boat was beneath the shadows of the great trees. Finding a suitable place, he again hauled up, and concealed himself and the bateau.

As all danger seemed to have passed, Tom composed his nerves, ate his dinner, and went to sleep as usual; but his rest was not so tranquil as he had enjoyed in the solitudes of the mountains. Visions of rebel soldiers haunted his dreams, and more than once he started up, and gazed wildly around him; but these were only visions, and there was something more real to disturb his slumbers.

"Hi! Who are you?" exclaimed a wildcat soldier, who had penetrated the thicket without disturbing the sleeper.

Tom started up, and sprang to his feet. One of the tall mountaineers, whom he had seen crossing the ford, stood before him; and the reality was even more appalling than the vision.

"Who mought you be?" demanded the tall soldier, with a good-natured grin upon his greasy face.

"Faith! I believe I've been asleep!" said Tom, rubbing his eyes, and looking as innocent as a young lamb.

"You may bet your life on thet, my boy," replied the rebel, laughing. "Hi! Jarvey!" added he, apparently addressing a companion at no great distance from the spot.

Heavy footsteps announced the approach of Jarvey, who soon joined them. He was not less than six feet three inches in height, and, with two such customers as these, Tom had no hope except in successful strategy. He had no doubt they had obtained information of him from the persons in the vehicles, and had come to secure him. He fully expected to be marched off to the rebel regiment, which could not be far off.

"Who is he, Sid?" asked Jarvey, when he reached the spot.

"Dunno. Say, who are ye, stranger?"

"Who am I? Tom Somers, of course. Do you belong to that regiment that stopped over yonder last night?" asked Tom, with a proper degree of enthusiasm. "Don't you know me?"

"Well, we don't."

"Didn't you see me over there? That's a bully regiment of yours. I'd like to join it."

"Would you, though, sonny?" said Sid, laughing till his mouth opened wide enough for a railroad train to pass in.

"Wouldn't I, though!" replied Tom. "If there's any big fighting done, I'll bet your boys do it."

"Bet your life on thet," added Jarvey. "But why don't you jine a regiment?"

"Don't want to join any regiment that comes along. I want to go into a fighting regiment, like yours."

"Well, sonny, you ain't big enough to jine ours," said Sid, as he compassionately eyed the young man's diminutive proportions.

"The old man wouldn't let me go in when I wanted to, and I'm bound not to go in any of your fancy regiments. I want to fight when I go."

"You'll do, sonny. Now, what ye doing here?"

"I came out a-fishing, but I got tired, and went to sleep."

"Where's your fish-line?"

"In the boat."

"What ye got in that handkerchief?"

"My dinner," replied Tom. "Won't you take a bite?"

"What ye got?"

"A piece of cold chicken and some bread."

"We don't mind it now, sonny. Hev you seen any men with this gear on in these yere parts?" asked Jarvey, as he pointed to his uniform.

"Yes, sir," replied Tom, vigorously.

"Whar d'ye see 'em, sonny?"

"They crossed the ford, just above, only a little while ago."

"How many?"

"Two," replied Tom, with promptness.

"Where's the other?" asked Jarvey, turning to his companion.

"He's in these yere woods, somewhar. We'll fotch 'em before night. You say the two men crossed the ford -- did ye, sonny?"

"Yes, half an hour ago. What is the matter with them?"

"They're mean trash, and want to run off. Now, sonny, 'spose you put us over the river in your boat."

"Yes, sir!" replied Tom, readily.

The two wildcats got into the bateau, nearly swamping it by their great weight, and Tom soon landed them on the other side of the river.

"Thank'e, sonny," said Jarvey, as they jumped on shore. "If you were only four foot higher, we'd like to take you into our regiment. You'll make a right smart chance of a soldier one of these yere days. Good by, sonny."

"Good by," answered Tom, as he drew a long breath, indicative of his satisfaction at being so well rid of his passengers.

He had fully persuaded himself that he should be carried off a prisoner to this wildcat regiment, and he could hardly believe his senses when he found himself again safely floating down the rapid tide of the Shenandoah. His impudence and his self-possession had saved him; but it was a mystery to him that his uniform, or the absence of his fish-line, or the answers he gave, had not betrayed him. The mountaineers had probably not yet seen a United States uniform, or they would, at least, have questioned him about his dress.

Tom ran down the river a short distance farther before he ventured to stop again, for he could not hope to meet with many rebel soldiers who were so innocent and inexperienced as these wildcats of the mountains had been. When the darkness favored his movements, he again embarked upon his voyage. Twice during the night his boat got aground, and once he was pitched into the river by striking upon a rock; but he escaped these and other perils of the navigation with nothing worse than a thorough ducking, which was by no means a new experience to the soldier boy. In the morning, well satisfied with his night's work, he laid up for the day in the safest place he could find.

On the second day of his voyage down the river, the old problem of rations again presented itself for consideration, for the ham and chicken he had procured at Leed's Manor were all gone. There were plenty of houses on the banks of the river, but Tom had hoped to complete his cruise without the necessity of again exposing himself to the peril of being captured while foraging for the commissary department. But the question was as imperative as it had been several times before, and twelve hours fasting gave him only a faint hint of what his necessities might compel him to endure in twenty-four or forty-eight hours. He did not consider it wise to postpone the settlement of the problem till he was actually suffering for the want of food.

On the third night of his voyage, therefore, he hauled up the bateau at a convenient place, and started off upon a foraging expedition, intending to visit some farmer's kitchen, and help himself, as he had done on a former occasion. Of course, Tom had no idea where he was; but he hoped and believed that he should soon reach Harper's Ferry.

After making his way through the woods for half a mile, he came to a public road, which he followed till it brought him to a house. It was evidently the abode of a thrifty farmer, for near it were half a dozen negro houses. As the dwelling had no long windows in front, Tom was obliged to approach the place by a flank and rear movement; but the back door was locked. He tried the windows, and they were fastened. While he was reconnoitring the premises, he heard heavy footsteps within. Returning to the door, he knocked vigorously for admission.

"Who's thar?" said a man, as he threw the door wide open.

"A stranger, who wants something to eat," replied Tom, boldly.

"Who are ye?"

"My name is Tom Somers," added the soldier boy, as he stepped into the house. "Can you tell me whether the Seventh Georgia Regiment is down this way?"

"I reckon 'tis; least wise I don't know. There's three rigiments about five mile below yere."

"I was told my regiment was down this way, and I'm trying to find it. I'm half starved. Will you give me something to eat?"

"Sartin, stranger; I'll do thet."

The man, who was evidently the proprietor of the house, brought up the remnant of a boiled ham, a loaf of white bread, some butter, and a pitcher of milk. Tom ate till he was satisfied. The farmer, in deference to his amazing appetite probably, suspended his questions till the guest began to show some signs of satiety, when he pressed him again as vigorously as though he had been born and brought up among the hills of New England.

"Where d'ye come from?" said he.

"From Manassas. I lost my regiment in the fight; and the next day I heard they had been toted over this way, and I put after them right smart," answered Tom, adopting as much of the Georgia vernacular as his knowledge would permit.

"Walk all the way?"

"No; I came in the keers most of the way."

"But you don't wear our colors," added the farmer, glancing at Tom's clothes.

"My clothes were all worn out, and I helped myself to the best suit I could find on the field."

"What regiment did ye say ye b'longed to?" queried the man, eying the uniform again.

"To the Seventh Georgia. Perhaps you can tell me where I shall find it."

"I can't; but I reckon there's somebody here that can. I'll call him."

Tom was not at all particular about obtaining this information. There was evidently some military man in the house, who would expose him if he remained any longer.

"Who is it, father?" asked a person who had probably heard a part of the conversation we have narrated; for the voice proceeded from a bed-room adjoining the apartment in which Tom had eaten his supper.

"A soldier b'longing to the Seventh Georgia," answered the farmer. "That's my son; he's a captain in the cavalry, and he'll know all about it. He can tell you where yer regiment is," added he, turning to Tom, who was edging towards the door.

"I'm very much obliged to you for my supper," said the fugitive, nervously. "I reckon I'll be moving along."

"Wait half a second, and my son will tell you just where to find your regiment."

"The Seventh Georgia?" said the captain of cavalry, entering the room at this moment with nothing but his pants on. "There's no such regiment up here, and hasn't been. I reckon you're a deserter."

"No, sir! I scorn the charge," replied Tom, with becoming indignation. "I never desert my colors."

"I suppose not," added the officer, glancing at his uniform; "but your colors desert you."

Tom failed to appreciate the wit of the reply, and backed off towards the door, with one hand upon the stock of his revolver.

"Hold on to him, father; don't let him go," said the officer, as he rushed back into his chamber, evidently for his pistols or his sabre.

"Hands off, or you are a dead man;" cried Tom, as he pointed his revolver at the head of the farmer.

In another instant, the captain of cavalry reappeared with a pistol in each hand. A stunning report resounded through the house, and Tom heard a bullet whistle by his head.



Chapter XXII.

The Picket Guard.


It was sufficiently obvious to Tom that, on the present occasion, the suspicions of his host were awakened. It is possible that, if he had depended upon his impudence, he might have succeeded in deceiving the Confederate officer; but his evident intention to retire from the contest before an investigation could be had, proved him, in the estimation of the captain, to be either a spy or a deserter, and shooting him was preferable to losing him.

The officer fired quick, and with little attention to the important matter of a steady aim; and Tom had to thank his stars for the hasty shot, for, though it went within a few inches of his head, "a miss was as good as a mile," and the brains of our hero remained intact and complete. But he was not willing to be the subject of any further experiments of this description, and without waiting further to express his gratitude to the host for the bountiful supper he had eaten, he threw open the door, and dashed off at the top of his speed.

The revolver he carried was a very good implement with which to bully a negro, or an unarmed farmer; but Tom had more confidence in his legs than in his skill as a marksman, and before the captain could transfer the second pistol from his left to his right hand, he had passed out of the house, and was concealed from his pursuers by the gloom of the night. He felt that he had had a narrow escape, and he was not disposed to trifle with destiny by loitering in the vicinity of the house.

He had not proceeded far before he heard a hue and cry behind him; and if the captain of cavalry had not stopped to put on his boots, it is more than possible that our humble volume might have contained a chapter or two upon prison life in Richmond. Undoubtedly it was quite proper for the officer to put on his boots before he went out; a decent regard for his individual sanitary condition, and a reasonable horror of ague and rheumatism, would have induced him to do it, even at the risk of losing a Federal prisoner, or a rebel deserter, as the case might be. At any rate, if Tom had known the cause of the delay, he would freely have forgiven him for wasting his time in healthful precautions.

The fugitive retraced his steps to the river by the same route he had taken in approaching the hospitable roof of the farmer. As nearly as he could judge by the sounds that reached him from the distance, the officer and his father were gathering up a force to hunt down the fugitive. Tom jumped into the bateau, and pushed off. Keeping under the shadow of the bank of the river, he plied his paddle vigorously, and by the time his pursuers arrived at the river, he was a couple of miles from the spot. He could hear a shout occasionally in the deep silence of the night, but with the distance between him and the enemy, he felt entirely secure. The danger had passed, and he floated leisurely on his voyage, buoyant as his light bark, and hopeful as the dream of youth.

Hour after hour, in the gloom of the solemn night, he was borne by the swift tide towards the lines of the loyal army. The day was dawning, and he was on the lookout for a suitable place to conceal himself, until the friendly shades of night should again favor his movements. After the experience of the former night near the ford, he was very cautious in the selection of a hiding place. It is not always safe to be fastidious; for while Tom was rejecting one location, and waiting for another to appear, the river bore him into a tract of very open country, which was less favorable than that through which he had just been passing.

The prospect began to make him nervous; and while he was bitterly regretting that he had not moored the boat before, he was startled to hear a sharp, commanding voice on the bank at his left.

"Who comes there? Halt!"

Tom looked up, and discovered a grayback, standing on the shore, very deliberately pointing his musket at him.

"Who comes there?" demanded the picket; for at this point were stationed the outposts of the rebel force in the Shenandoah valley.

"Friend!" replied Tom.

"Halt, then!"

"I would, if I could," answered Tom, as hastily as possible.

"Halt, or I'll fire!"

"I tell you I can't halt," replied Tom, using his paddle vigorously, as though he was trying to urge the bateau to the shore. "Don't fire! For mercy's sake, don't fire."

Tom appeared to be intensely frightened at the situation in which he was placed, and redoubled his efforts apparently to gain the bank of the stream; but the more he seemed to paddle one way, the more the boat went the other way. However much Tom appeared to be terrified by the peril that menaced him, it must be confessed that he was not wholly unmoved.

"Stop your boat, quick!" said the soldier, who had partially dropped his musket from its menacing position.

"I can't stop it," responded Tom, apparently in an agony of terror. "I would go ashore if I could."

"What's the matter?"

"The water runs so swift, I can't stop her; been trying this two hours."

"You will be inside the Yankee lines in half an hour if you don't fetch to," shouted the picket.

"Gracious!" exclaimed Tom, redoubling his efforts.

But it was useless to struggle with the furious current, and Tom threw himself into the bottom of the boat, as if in utter desperation. If Niagara Falls, with their thundering roar and fearful abyss, had been before him, his agony could not have been more intense, as judged from the shore.

By this time, the sentinel on the bank had been joined by his two companions, and the three men forming the picket post stood gazing at him, as he abandoned himself to the awful fate of being captured by the blood-thirsty Yankees, to whose lines the relentless current of the Shenandoah was bearing him.

When Tom was first challenged by the grayback, the boat had been some twenty rods above him; and it had now passed the spot where he stood, but the rebels were still near enough to converse with him. Tom heard one of them ask another who he was. Of course neither of them knew who he was, or where he came from.

"Try again!" shouted one of the pickets. "The Yankees will have you in a few minutes."

Tom did make another ineffectual effort to check the progress of the bateau, and again abandoned the attempt in despair. The rebels followed him on the bank, encouraging him with words of cheer, and with dire prophecies of his fate if he fell into the hands of the cruel Yankees.

"Can't you help me?" pleaded Tom, in accents of despair. "Throw me a rope! Do something for me."

Now, this was a suggestion that had not before occurred to the picket guard, and Tom would have been infinitely wiser if he had not put the idea of assisting him into their dull brains; for it is not at all probable that they would have thought of such a thing themselves, for the south, especially the poor white trash, are not largely endowed with inventive genius.

"Save me! Save me!" cried Tom, as he saw the rebels engaged in a hasty consultation, the result of which was, that two of them started off upon the run in a direction at right angles with the stream.

"Try again! Stick to it!" shouted the picket left on the shore.

"I can't do any more; I'm all tired out," replied Tom, throwing himself for the fourth time in the bottom of the boat, the very picture of despair.

The picture was very much exaggerated and over-drawn; but as long as the bullet from the rebel's musket did not come his way, Tom was satisfied with his acting, and hopeful for the future. The man on the shore, full of sympathy for the distressed and exhausted voyager, walked and ran so as to keep up with the refractory barge, which seemed to be spitefully hurling its agonized passenger into the Federal lines, where death and dungeons lurked at every corner.

While this exciting drama was in progress, the stream bore Tom to a sharp bend in the river, where the current set in close to the shore. His attentive guardian on the bank ran ahead, and stationed himself at this point, ready to afford any assistance to the disconsolate navigator which the circumstances might permit.

"Now's your chance!" shouted he. "Gosh all whittaker! put in now, and do your pootiest!"

Tom adopted this friendly advice, and "put in" with all his might; but the more he "put in," the more he put out -- from the shore, whither the inauspicious eddies were sweeping him. If Tom had not been born in Pinchbrook, and had a home by the sea, where boating is an appreciated accomplishment, he would probably have been borne into the arms of the expectant rebel, or received in his vitals the ounce of cold lead which that gentleman's musket contained. As it was, he had the skill to do what he seemed not to be doing. Mr. Johnny Reb evidently did not suspect that Tom was "playing 'possum," as the Tennessee sharpshooters would have expressed it. The voyager's efforts appeared to be made in good faith; and certainly he applied himself with a degree of zeal and energy which ought to have overcome the inertia of a small gunboat.

The bateau approached the point not more than a rod from the waiting arms of the sympathizing grayback. As it passed, he waded a short distance into the water, and stretched forth his musket to the unhappy voyager. Tom threw down his paddle, and sprang with desperate energy to obtain a hold upon the gun. He even succeeded in grasping the end of the bayonet. For a moment he pulled so hard that it was doubtful whether the bateau would be hauled ashore, or Secesh drawn into the deep water.

"Hold on tight, my boy! Pull for your life!" shouted the soldier, highly excited by the probable success of his philanthropic efforts.

"Save me! Save me!" groaned Tom, as he tugged, or seemed to do so, at the bayonet.

Then, while the united exertions of the saver and the saved, in anticipation, were on the very point of being successful, the polished steel of the bayonet unaccountably slipped through the fingers of Tom, and the bateau was borne off towards the opposite shore.

"Save me! Save me," cried Tom again, in tones more piteous than ever.

"What d'ye let go fur?" said the grayback, indignantly, as his musket, which he had held by the tip end of the stock, dropped into the water, when Tom let go of the bayonet.

The soldier indulged in a volley of peculiarly southern oaths, with which we cannot disfigure our page, even in deference to the necessity of painting a correct picture of the scene we have described. Tom had a vein of humor in his composition, which has already displayed itself in some of the rough experiences of his career; and when he saw the rebel soldier deprived of all power to make war upon him, either offensive or defensive, he could not resist the temptation to celebrate the signal strategical victory he had obtained over the picket guard. This triumphal demonstration was not very dignified, nor, under the circumstances, very prudent or sensible. It consisted in placing the thumb of his right hand upon the end of his nose, while he wiggled the four remaining digital appendages of the same member in the most aggravating manner, whistling Yankee Doodle as an accompaniment to the movement.

If Secesh did not understand the case before, he did now; and fishing up his musket, he emptied the water out of the barrel, and attempted to fire it. Luckily for Tom, the gun would not go off, and he swept on his way jubilant and joyous.



Chapter XXIII.

The End Of The Voyage.


Tom Somers's voyage down the Shenandoah was, in many respects, a type of human life. He experienced the various reverses, the trials and hardships, which attend all sojourners here below. He triumphed over all obstacles, and when he had completely outwitted the grayback who had labored so diligently to save him from his impending fate, he was at the zenith of prosperity. He had vanquished the last impediment, and the lines of the Union army -- the haven of peace to him -- were only a short distance from the scene of his victory.

Prosperity makes men arrogant and reckless, and I am sorry to say that it had the same effect upon Tom Somers. If he had been content modestly to enjoy the victory he had achieved, it would have been wiser and safer for him; but when Fortune was kind to him, he mocked her, and she turned against him.

When he had passed out of the reach of the rebel soldier, whose musket had been rendered useless for the time being, Tom believed that he was safe, and that he had fairly escaped from the last peril that menaced him on the voyage. But he was mistaken; for as the current swept the bateau around the bend of the river, he discovered, to his astonishment and chagrin, the two secesh soldiers, who had left the picket post some time before, standing at convenient distances from each other and from the shore, in the water, ready to rescue him from the fate before him. The place they had chosen was evidently a ford of the river, where they intended to check the boat in its mad career down the stream. They were painfully persistent in their kind intentions to save him from the horrible Yankees, and Tom wished they had been less humane and less enthusiastic in his cause.

As soon as Tom perceived this trap, he regretted his imprudence in betraying himself to the soldier from whom he had just escaped. His sorrow was not diminished, when, a few minutes later, he heard the shouts of the third soldier, who, by hard running across the fields, had reached the ford before him.

"Shoot him! Shoot him! He's a Yankee!" bellowed the grayback on the shore.

Tom was appalled at these words, and wondered how the soldier could have found out that he was a Yankee; but when he recalled the fact that he had entertained him with Yankee Doodle at their last meeting, the mystery became less formidable.

"Shoot him! He's a Yankee!" shouted Secesh on the bank of the stream.

"We've left our guns on shore," replied Secesh in the water.

"I'm very much obliged to you for that," said Tom to himself, as he grasped his paddle, and set the boat over towards the right bank of the river.

No doubt the rebels in the water, when they saw with what facility the boatman moved the bateau in the swift tide, as compared with his futile efforts farther up the stream, were fully satisfied of the truth of their companion's assertion. Tom decided to run the gauntlet between the right bank and the soldier nearest to that shore. He paddled the bateau with all his vigor, until he had obtained the desired position.

The graybacks in the water, realizing that they were engaged on an errand of peace and humanity, had left their muskets on shore. They were, therefore, comparatively harmless; but the one on shore had reached the ford, and picking up one of the muskets of his companions, without threat or warning, fired. It was lucky for Tom that he was not a Tennessee sharpshooter, nor a Texas ranger, for the shot passed harmlessly over him. The soldier dropped the gun, and picked up the other, which he instantly discharged, and with better aim than before, for the ball struck the bateau, though not within four feet of where Tom stood.

"Don't waste your powder, if you can't shoot better than that," shouted one of the soldiers in the water. "You'll hit us next."

"Stop him, then! Stop him!" replied the grayback on the shore. "Kill him if you can."

Tom was paddling with all his might to pass the ford before the soldier nearest to him should reach a position in which he could intercept the boat. The rebel was an enterprising fellow, and the soldier boy's chances were growing amazingly small. Secesh had actually reached a place where he could make a dash at the boat. There he stood with a long bowie-knife between his teeth, and with both hands outstretched, ready to seize upon the unfortunate bark. He looked grim and ferocious, and Tom saw that he was thoroughly in earnest.

It was a trying situation for a boy of Tom's years, and he would fain have dodged the issue. That bowie-knife had a wicked look, though it was mild and tame compared with the savage eye of the rebel who held it. As it was a case of life and death, the fugitive braced himself up to meet the shock. Taking his position in the stern of the boat, he held the paddle in his left hand, while his right firmly grasped his revolver. It was either "kill or be killed," and Tom was not so sentimental as to choose the latter rather than the former, especially as his intended victim was a secessionist and a rebel.

"Keep off, or you are a dead man," shouted Tom, as he flourished his pistol so that his assailant could obtain a fair view of its calibre, and in the hope that the fellow would be willing to adopt a politician's expedient, and compromise the matter by retiring out of range.

"Tew kin play at that game. This yere tooth-pick will wipe you out," coolly replied the fellow, as he made a spring at the boat.

"Stand off!" screamed Tom, as he raised the pistol, and fired.

It was a short range, and Tom would have been inexcusable if he had missed his aim. The rebel struck his chest with his right hand, and the bowie knife dropped from his teeth; but with his left hand he had grasped the gunwale of the boat, and as he sunk down in the shallow water, he pulled the bateau over on one side till the water poured in, and threatened to swamp her. Fortunately the wounded man relaxed his hold, the boat righted, and Tom commenced paddling again with all his strength and skill.

The other soldier in the water, as soon as he discovered where Tom intended to pass, hastened over to assist his associate. The shouts of their companion on shore had fully fired their southern hearts, and both of them were ten times as zealous to kill or capture a Yankee, as they had been to save a Virginian. When the wounded man clutched the boat, the other was not more than ten feet from him, but farther down the stream. His associate fell, and he sprang forward to engage in the affray.

"Stand off, or you are a dead man!" yelled Tom, with emphasis, as he plied his paddle with renewed energy, for he saw that the man could not reach him.

The bateau passed them both, and Tom began to breathe easier. The second rebel, finding he could not capture or kill the detested Yankee, went to the assistance of his companion. The soldier boy suspended his exertions, for the danger seemed to be over, and gazed with interest upon the scene which was transpiring in the water just above him. He was anxious to know whether he had killed the rebel or not. There was something awful in the circumstances, for the soldier boy's sensibilities were too acute to permit him to take a human life, though it was that of an enemy, without producing a deep impression upon his mind. Perhaps, in the great battle in which he had been a participant, he had killed several rebels; if he had done so, he had not seen them fall. This was the first man he had consciously killed or wounded, and the fact was solemn, if not appalling, to the young soldier.

As the rebel raised his companion from the water he seemed to be dead, and Tom was forced to the conclusion that he had killed him. He had done the deed in self-defence, and in the strict line of duty. He could not be blamed even by his enemies for the act. He felt no exultation, and hoped from the bottom of his heart that the man was prepared to meet his Maker, into whose presence he had been so suddenly summoned.

Tom had heard the boys in Pinchbrook talk lightly about killing rebels, and he had talked so himself; but the reality was not so pleasant as it had seemed at a distance. He was sorry for the poor fellow, and wished he had not been obliged to kill him. It was terrible to him, even in battle, to take a human life, to slay a being created in the image of God, and for whom Christ lived and died.

While he was indulging in these sad reflections, he heard a bullet whistle near his head. The Secesh soldier on the shore had loaded up his companions' muskets, and was doing his best to bring down the lucky fugitive. His last shot was not a bad one, and Tom could not help thinking, if the grayback should hit him, that he would not waste any fine feelings over him. He did not like the sound of those whizzing bullets, and as he had never boasted of his courage, he did not scorn to adopt precautionary measures. The water was three inches deep in the bottom of the bateau; but Tom deemed it prudent to lie down there until the current should bear him out of the reach of the rebel bullets.

He maintained this recumbent posture for half an hour or more, listening to the balls that frequently whistled over his head. Once he ventured to raise his head, and discovered, not one man, but a dozen, on the shore, which accounted for the rapid firing he heard. When he looked up again, his bateau had passed round a bend, and he was no longer exposed to the fire of the enemy.

From his heart Tom thanked God for his escape. He was religiously grateful for the aid which Providence had rendered him, and when he thought how near he had stood to the brink of destruction, he realized how narrow the span between the Here and the Hereafter. And the moral of his reflections was, that if he stood so near to the open gate of death, he ought always to live wisely and well, and ever be prepared to pass the portals which separate time from eternity.

Tom's thoughts were sad and heavy. He could not banish from his mind the face of the rebel, as he raised his hand to his breast, where he had received his mortal wound. That countenance, full of hate and revenge, haunted him for weeks afterwards, in the solitude of his tent, and on his midnight vigils as a sentinel.

As he sat in the boat, thinking of the events of the morning, and listening to the mournful rippling of the waters, which, to his subdued soul, sounded like the requiem of his victim, he was challenged from the shore again.

"Who comes there!"

Tom jumped up, and saw a sentinel on the bank pointing his gun at him. He surveyed the form with anxious interest; but this time he had nothing to fear, for the soldier wore the blue uniform of the United States army.

"Friend," replied he, as he grasped his paddle.

"Come ashore, or I'll put a bullet through you," added the sentinel.

"Don't do it!" said Tom, with energy. "Can't you see the colors I wear."

"Come ashore, then."

"I will."

The soldier boy worked his paddle with vigor and skill, and it was astonishing to observe with what better success than when invited to land by the grayback up the river. The guard assisted him in landing and securing his boat.

"Who are you?" demanded he, as he gazed at Tom's wet and soiled garments.

"I was taken prisoner at Bull Run, and came back on my own hook."

"Perhaps you were, but you can't pass these lines," said the soldier.

Tom was sent to the Federal camp, and passed from one officer to another, till he was finally introduced to General Banks, at Harper's Ferry. He was questioned in regard to his own adventures, the country he had passed through, and the troops of the enemy he had seen. When, to use his own expression, he had been "pumped dry," he was permitted to rest a few days, and then forwarded to his regiment.



Chapter XXIV.

Budd's Ferry.


Though Tom Somers had been absent from the regiment only a fortnight, it seemed to him as though a year had elapsed since the day of the battle when he had stood shoulder to shoulder with his townsmen and friends. He had been ordered to report to the provost marshal at Washington, where he learned that his regiment was at Bladensburg, about six miles from the city. Being provided with the necessary pass and "transportation," he soon reached the camp.

"Tom Somers! Tom Somers!" shouted several of his comrades, as soon as they recognized him.

"Three cheers for Tom Somers!" shouted Bob Dornton.

The soldier boy was a favorite in the company, and his return was sufficient to justify such a proceeding. The cheers, therefore, were given with tremendous enthusiasm.

"Tom, I'm glad to see you!" said old Hapgood, with extended hand, while his eyes filled with tears. "I was afeared we should never see you again."

The fugitive shook hands with every member of the company who was present. His reception was in the highest degree gratifying to him, and he was determined always to merit the good will of his companions in arms.

"Now, fellows, tell us what the news is," said Tom, as he seated himself on a camp stool before the tent of his mess.

"There are letters for you, Tom, in the hands of the orderly," added one of his friends. "I suppose you have got a bigger story to tell than any of us, but you shall have a chance to read your letters first."

These precious missives from the loved ones at home were given to him, and the soldier boy opened them with fear and trembling, lest he should find in them some bad news; but his mother and all the family were well. One of them was written since the battle, and it was evidently penned with deep solicitude for his fate, of which nothing had been heard.

Hapgood, who sat by him while he read his letters, assured him that his mother must know, by this time, that he was not killed, for all the men had written to their friends since the battle. The captain who had escaped from Sudley church had reported him alive and well, but he had no information in regard to his escape.

"We are all well, and every thing goes on about the same as usual in Pinchbrook," wrote one of his older sisters. "John is so bent upon going to sea in the navy, that it is as much as mother can do to keep him at home. He says the country wants him, and he wants to go; and what's more, he must go. We haven't heard a word from father since he left home; but Captain Barney read in the paper that his vessel had been sunk in the harbor of Norfolk to block up the channel. We can only hope that he is safe, and pray that God will have him in his holy keeping.

"Squire Pemberton was dreadful mad because his son went into the army. He don't say a word about politics now."

In a letter from John, he learned that Captain Barney had advanced the money to pay the interest on the note, and that Squire Pemberton had not said a word about foreclosing the mortgage. His brother added that he was determined to go into the navy, even if he had to run away. He could get good wages, and he thought it was a pity that he should not do his share towards supporting the family.

Tom finished his letters, and was rejoiced to find that his friends at home were all well and happy; and in a few days more, a letter from him would gladden their hearts with the intelligence of his safe return to the regiment.

"All well -- ain't they?" asked Hapgood, as Tom folded up the letters and put them in his pocket; and the veteran could not fail to see, from the happy expression of his countenance, that their contents were satisfactory.

"All well," replied Tom. "Where is Fred Pemberton? I haven't seen him yet."

"In the hospital: he's sick, or thinks he is," answered Hapgood. "Ben Lethbridge is in the guard house. He attempted to run away while we were coming over from Shuter's Hill."

"Who were killed, and who were wounded? I haven't heard a word about the affair, you know," asked Tom.

"Sergeant Bradford was wounded and taken prisoner. Sergeant Brown was hit by a shell, but not hurt much. The second lieutenant was wounded in the foot, and -- "

A loud laugh from the men interrupted the statement.

"What are you laughing at?" demanded Tom.

"He resigned," added Bob Dornton, chuckling.

"You said he was wounded?"

"I didn't say so; the lieutenant said so himself, and hobbled about with a big cane for a week; but as soon as his resignation was accepted, he threw away his stick, and walked as well as ever he could."

The boys all laughed heartily, and seemed to enjoy the joke prodigiously. Tom thought it was a remarkable cure, though the remedy was one which no decent man would be willing to adopt.

"How's Captain Benson?"

"He's better; he felt awful bad because he wasn't in that battle. The colonel has gone home, sick. He has more pluck than body. He was sun-struck, and dropped off his horse, like a dead man, on the field. It's a great pity he hasn't twice or three times as much body; if he had, he'd make a first-rate officer."

It was now Tom's turn to relate his adventures; and he modestly told his story. His auditors were deeply interested in his narrative, and when he had finished, it was unanimously voted that Tom was a "trump;" which I suppose means nothing more than that he was a smart fellow -- a position which no one who has read his adventures will be disposed to controvert.

A long period of comparative inactivity for the regiment followed the battle of Bull Run. General McClellan had been called from the scene of his brilliant operations in Western Virginia, to command the army of the Potomac, and he was engaged in the arduous task of organizing the vast body of loyal troops that rushed forward to sustain the government in this dark hour of peril.

While at Bladensburg the  -- th regiment with three others were formed into a brigade, the command of which was given to Hooker -- a name then unknown beyond the circle of his own friends.

About the first of November the brigade was sent to Budd's Ferry, thirty miles below Washington, on the Potomac, to watch the rebels in that vicinity. The enemy had, by this time, closed the river against the passage of vessels to the capital, by erecting batteries at various places, the principal of which were at Evansport, Shipping Point, and Cockpit Point. Budd's Ferry was a position in the vicinity of these works, and the brigade was employed in picketing the river, to prevent the enemy on the other side from approaching, and also to arrest the operations of the viler traitors on this side, who were attempting to send supplies to the rebels.

It was not a very exciting life to which the boys of our regiment were introduced on their arrival at Budd's Ferry, though the rebel batteries at Shipping Point made a great deal of noise and smoke at times. As the season advanced the weather began to grow colder, and the soldiers were called to a new experience in military life; but as they were gradually inured to the diminishing temperature, the hardship was less severe than those who gather around their northern fireside may be disposed to imagine. Tom continued to be a philosopher, which was better than an extra blanket; and he got along very well.

It was a dark, cold, and windy night, in December, when Tom found himself doing picket duty near the mouth of Chickamoxon Creek. Nobody supposed that any rebel sympathizer would be mad enough to attempt the passage of the river on such a night as that, for the Potomac looked alive with the angry waves that beat upon its broad bosom. Hapgood and Fred Pemberton were with him, and the party did the best they could to keep themselves comfortable, and at the same time discharge the duty assigned to them.

"Here, lads," said old Hapgood, who, closely muffled in his great-coat, was walking up and down the bank of the creek to keep the blood warm in his veins.

"What is it, Hapgood?" demanded Fred, who was coiled up on the lee side of a tree, to protect him from the cold blast that swept down the creek.

"Hush!" said Hapgood. "Don't make a noise; there's a boat coming. Down! down! Don't let them see you."

Tom and Fred crawled upon the ground to the verge of the creek, and placed themselves by the side of the veteran.

"I don't see any boat," said Tom.

"I can see her plain enough, with my old eyes. Look up the creek."

"Ay, ay! I see her."

"So do I," added Fred. "What shall we do?"

"Stop her, of course." replied Tom.

"That's easy enough said, but not so easily done. We had better send word up to the battery, and let them open upon her," suggested Fred.

"Open upon the man in the moon!" replied Tom, contemptuously. "Don't you see she is under sail, and driving down like sixty? We must board her!"

Tom spoke in an emphatic whisper, and pointed to a small boat, which lay upon the shore. The craft approaching was a small schooner apparently about five tons burden. The secessionists of Baltimore or elsewhere had chosen this dark and tempestuous night to send over a mail and such supplies as could not be obtained, for love or money, on the other side of the Potomac. Of course, they expected to run the risk of a few shots from the Union pickets on the river; but on such a night, and in such a sea, there was very little danger of their hitting the mark.

Up the creek the water was comparatively smooth; but the little schooner was driving furiously down the stream, with the wind on her quarter, and the chances of making a safe and profitable run to the rebel line, those on board, no doubt, believed were all in their favor.

"We have no time to lose," said Hapgood, with energy, as he pushed off the boat, which lay upon the beach. "Tumble in lively, and be sure your guns are in good order."

"Mine is all right," added Tom, as he examined the cap on his musket, and then jumped into the boat.

"So is mine," said Fred; "but I don't much like this business. Do you know how many men there are in the schooner?"

"Don't know, and don't care," replied Tom.

"Of course they are armed. They have revolvers, I'll bet my month's pay."

"If you don't want to go, stay on shore," answered Hapgood, petulantly. "But don't make a noise about it."

"Of course I'll go, but I think we are getting into a bad scrape."

Tom and Hapgood held a hurried consultation, which ended in the former's taking a position in the bow of the boat, while the other two took their places at the oars. The muskets were laid across the thwarts, and the rowers pulled out to the middle of the creek, just in season to intercept the schooner. Of course they were seen by the men on board of her, who attempted to avoid them.

"Hallo!" said Tom, in a kind of confidential tone. "On board the schooner there! Are you going over?"

"Yes. What do you want?" answered one of the men on board the vessel.

"We want to get over, and are afraid to go in this boat. Won't you take us over?"

"Who are you?"

"Friends. We've got a mail bag."

"Where did you get it?"

"In Washington."

By this time, the schooner had luffed up into the wind, and Tom directed his companions to pull again. In a moment the boat was alongside the schooner, and the soldier boy was about to jump upon her half-deck, when the rebel crew, very naturally, ordered him to wait till they had satisfied themselves in regard to his secession proclivities.

There were five men in the schooner, all of whom were seated near the stern. Tom did not heed the protest of the traitors, but sprang on board the schooner, followed by his companions.

"Now, tell us who you are before you come any farther," said one of the men.

"Massachusetts soldiers! Surrender, or you are a dead man," replied Tom, pointing his gun.



Chapter XXV.

In The Hospital.


The night was very dark, so that the rebels in the boat could not distinguish the uniform of those who had applied for a passage on the schooner. Perhaps Tom Somers's experience in the Blue Ridge and on the Shenandoah had improved his strategic ability, so that his words and his manner seemed plausible. But as strategy and cunning always owe their success to the comparative stupidity of the victims, Tom and his companions gained the half-deck of the schooner more by the palpable blundering of her crew than through the brilliancy of their own scheme.

Tom did not stop, in the midst of the exciting enterprise, to determine the particular reason of his success, as we, his humble biographer, have done. He was on the enemy's ground, and confronting the enemy's forces, and logic was as much out of place as rebellion in a free republican country. He was closely followed by Hapgood, and at a later period by Fred Pemberton. The nerves of the latter were not remarkably steady, and as he stepped on board the schooner, he neglected to take the painter with him; and the consequence was, that the boat went adrift. It is good generalship to keep the line of retreat open; and Fred's neglect had deprived them of all means of retiring from the scene of action. The only alternative was to fight their way through, and find safety in success.

To Tom's reply, that the party were Massachusetts soldiers, the rebel who had acted as spokesman for the crew, uttered a volley of oaths, expressive of his indignation and disgust at the sudden check which had been given to their prosperous voyage.

"Surrender!" repeated Tom, in energetic tones.

Two of the rebels at the stern discharged their pistols in answer to the summons -- a piece of impudence which our Massachusetts soldiers could not tolerate; and they returned the fire. The secessionists evidently carried revolvers; and a turn of the barrel enabled them to fire a second volley, which the soldiers were unable to do, for they had no time to load their guns.

"O!" groaned Fred, as he sunk down upon the half-deck. "I'm hit."

"We can't stand this, Hapgood," said Tom, fiercely, as he leaped into the midst of the party in the standing room. "Let's give them the bayonet."

"Give it to 'em, Tom!" replied the veteran, as he placed himself by the side of his young companion.

"Will you surrender?" demanded Tom, as he thrust vigorously with his bayonet.

"We surrender," replied one of the men; but it was not the one who had spoken before, for he had dropped off his seat upon the bottom of the boat.

"Give up your pistols, then," added Hapgood. "You look out for the boat, Tom, and I will take care of these fellows."

Tom sprang to the position which had been occupied by the spokesman of the party, and grasping the foresheet and the tiller of the boat, he soon brought her up to the wind. Seating himself in the stern, he assumed the management of the schooner, while Hapgood busied himself in taking the pistols from the hands of the rebels, and exploring their pockets, in search of other dangerous weapons.

"How are you, Fred?" shouted Tom, when the pressing business of the moment had been disposed of. "Are you much hurt?"

"I'm afraid my time's most up," replied he, faintly.

"Where are you hit?"

"In the face; the ball went through my head, I suppose," he added, in tones that were hardly audible, in the warring of the December blast.

"Keep up a good heart, Fred, and we will soon be ashore. Have you got an easy place?"

"No, the water dashes over me."

"Can't you move him aft, Hapgood?"

"Pretty soon; when I get these fellows fixed," replied the veteran, who had cut the rope nearest to his hands, and was securing the arms of the prisoners behind them.

"There is no fear of them now. We have got two revolvers apiece, and we can have it all our own way, if they show fight."

But Hapgood had bound the rebels by this time, and with tender care he lifted his wounded companion down into the standing room, and made him as comfortable as the circumstances would permit.

"Now, where are we, Hapgood?" asked Tom, who had been vainly peering ahead to discover some familiar object by which to steer. I can't see the first thing."

"I don't know where we are," replied Hapgood. "I never was much of a sailor, and I leave the navigating all to you."

"I can navigate well enough, if I knew where we were," added Tom, who had thus far been utterly unable to ascertain the "ship's position."

During the brief struggle for the possession of the schooner, she had drifted some distance, which had caused the new commander to lose his bearings. The shore they had just left had disappeared, as though it had been swallowed up by an earthquake. No lights were allowed on shore, where they could be seen from the river, for they afforded so many targets to the artillerymen in the rebel batteries. The more Tom tried to discover a familiar object to steer by, the more it seemed as though the land and everything else had been cut adrift, and emigrated to foreign parts. Those who have been in a boat in a very dark night, or in a dense fog, will be able to appreciate the bewilderment of the skipper of the captured schooner.

"Look out, Tom, that you don't run us into some of those rebel batteries," said Hapgood, after he had watched the rapid progress of the boat for a few moments. "A shot from a thirty-two pounder would be a pill we couldn't swallow."

"No danger of that, Hapgood," answered Tom, confidently.

"I don't know about that, my boy," answered the veteran, in a tone heavy with dire anxiety.

"I know it. The schooner was running with the wind on her starboard quarter when we boarded her. We are now close-hauled, and of course we can't make the shore on the other side while we are on this tack."

Well, I don't know much about it, Tom, but if you say its all right, I'm satisfied; that' all. I'd trust you just as far as I would General McClennon, and you know we all b'lieve in him."

"What are you going to do with us?" asked one of the rebels, who began to exhibit some interest in the fate of the schooner.

"I suppose you will find good quarters in Fort McHenry," replied Tom. "Where do you belong?"

"In Baltimore."

"What are you doing here, then?"

"We go in for the South."

"Go in, then!" added Tom, laughing.

"You'll fetch up where all the rest of 'em do," said Hapgood.

"How's that fellow that was hit?" asked Tom, pointing to the rebel who lay in the middle of the standing room.

"I guess it's all right with him," replied Hapgood, bending over the silent form. "No; he isn't dead."

"I have it!" shouted Tom, suddenly crowding the helm hard-a-lee.

"What, Tom?"

"I see where we are. We are running up the river. I see the land on the weather bow."

The schooner was put about, and after running with the wind amidships for ten or fifteen minutes, Tom discovered the outline of Mrs. Budd's house, which was directly under the guns of the Union battery.

"Stand by the fore halliards, Hapgood," said Tom, as the boat came about again. "Let go!"

The foresail came down, and Tom sprang upon the pier, as the schooner came up under its lee. In a moment the boat was made fast. By this time the pickets appeared.

"Who comes there?" demanded the soldier.

"Friends!" replied Tom.

"Advance, friend, and give the countersign."

"Little Mac," whispered the soldier boy in the ear of the sentinel.

"Who are you?"

"Co. K." answered Tom.

"What's the row? The long roll was beat just now, and the whole regiment is in line. What was that firing?"

"We have captured this boat, and five prisoners, one of them wounded, if not dead."

"Bully for you," replied the picket.

They were soon joined by a squad of men, and Fred Pemberton and the wounded rebel were conveyed to the hospital, while the four prisoners were conducted to a secure place. Hapgood and Tom then hastened to the parade, where the regiment was drawn up, and reported the events which had just transpired. It was unanimously voted by officers and privates that the picket guard had done "a big thing," and they were warmly and generously commended for their skill and bravery.

Hapgood and Tom requested permission to go to the hospital and see their companion. They found that the surgeon had already dressed his wound.

"Will he die?" asked Tom, full of solicitude for his friend.

"Die! no; it's a mere scratch. The ball ploughed into his cheek a little way," replied the surgeon. "It isn't a bad wound. He was more scared than hurt."

"I am glad it is no worse," said Captain Benson, who, with fatherly solicitude for his men, had come to the hospital as soon as the company was dismissed. "But what ails you, Tom? You look pale."

"Nothing, captain."

"Are you sure?"

"I don't think I am badly hurt. I believe one of those pistol balls grazed my side; but I hardly felt it."

"Let me see," said the surgeon.

The doctor opened Tom's coat, and his gray shirt was found to be saturated with blood.

"That's a worse wound than Pemberton's. Didn't you know it, Tom?"

"Well, of course I knew it; but I didn't think it was any thing," replied Tom, apologetically. "I knew it wouldn't do to drop down, or we should all be in Dixie in half an hour."

"You are my man for the present," said the doctor, as he proceeded to a further examination of the wound.

Tom was hit in the side by one of the pistol bullets. As I have not the surgeon's report of the case, I cannot give a minute description of it; but he comforted Hapgood and the captain with the assurance that, though severe, it was not a dangerous wound.

"Tom Somers, there's a sergeant's warrant in Company K for one of you three men," said Captain Benson, when the patient was comfortably settled upon his camp bed. "The colonel told me to give him the name of the most deserving man in my company."

"Give it to Tom," said Hapgood, promptly. "He led off in this matter, and ef't hadn't been for him, we should all have been on t'other side of the river, and p'raps on t'other side of Jordan, afore this time. And then, to think that the poor fellow stood by, and handled the boat like a commodore, when the life-blood was runnin' out of him all the time! It belongs to Tom."

"Give it to Tom," added Fred, who lay near the patient.

"No, Captain Benson," interposed Tom, faintly. "Hapgood is an old soldier, and deserves it more than I do. Give it to him, and I shall be better satisfied than if you give it to me."

"Tom Somers!" exclaimed old Hapgood, a flood of tears sliding down his furrowed cheeks, "I won't stand nothin' of the sort! I'd jump into the river and drownd myself before I'd take it, after what you've done."

"You are both worthy of it," added Captain Benson.

"Please give it to Hapgood," pleaded Tom. "He first proposed going out after the little schooner."

"Give it to Tom, cap'n. It'll help heal his wound," said Hapgood.

"No; it would do me more good to have you receive it," protested Tom.

"Well, here, I can't have this battle fought in the hospital," interposed the surgeon. "They are good friends, captain, and whichever one you give it to, the other will be suited. You had better settle the case at head-quarters."

"If you please, Captain Benson, I would like to have Hapgood stay with me to-night, if he can be spared."

The veteran was promptly detailed for hospital duty, and the captain returned to his quarters to decide the momentous question in regard to the sergeant's warrant.



Chapter XXVI.

Tom Is Sentimental.


The little schooner which the picket guard had captured was loaded with valuable supplies for the rebels, which of course were confiscated without ceremony. The mail bag which was on board contained a great many letters from traitors in Baltimore, some of whom were exposed by the capture of their treasonable correspondence.

Tom's wound proved to be more serious than even the surgeon had anticipated; but the best care which it was possible to give in a military hospital was bestowed upon him. Old Hapgood, in recognition of his services on that eventful night, was permitted to be near the patient as much as the interests of the service would permit; and the old man was happy when seated by the rude couch of the soldier boy, ministering to his necessities, or cheering him with bright hopes of the future. A strong friendship had grown up between them, for Tom's kind heart and brave conduct produced a deep impression upon the old man.

"Here, Tom," said Captain Benson, as he approached the sufferer, a few days after he entered the hospital, and laid a paper upon the bed. "Here's a prescription which the colonel says you must take."

"What is it?" asked Tom, with a faint smile.

"A sergeant's warrant."

"Glory, glory, hallelujah, as we go marching on!" exclaimed old Hapgood, jumping up like a youth of sixteen, and swinging his cap above his head.

"Shut up, there!" shouted the hospital steward. "Don't you know any better than to make such a racket in this place?"

"I beg pardon, Jameson. I forgot where I was," apologized the veteran. "The news was so good I couldn't help it. Our Tom is a sergeant now!"

"Not yet, Hapgood," replied Tom, feebly. "I can't accept it, Captain Benson; it belongs to Hapgood, sir, and I shall feel a great deal better if you put his name in place of mine."

"Don't do it, cap'n!" interposed the old man, vehemently. "Tom shall be a brigadier general if the war lasts one year more. I should feel like a whipped kitten if that warrant was altered."

"The matter has been fully and fairly considered at head-quarters, and there is no such thing as altering the decision now; so, Tom, you can put the stripes on your arm just as soon as you please."

Hapgood insisted, the surgeon insisted, and the captain insisted; and Tom was too sick to hold way with them in an argument, and his name was placed upon the roster of the company as a sergeant. He was proud of the distinction which had been conferred upon him, though he thought Hapgood, as an older and abler soldier, was better entitled to the honor than himself.

It was six weeks before Tom was able to enter upon the actual enjoyment of the well-merited promotion which he had won by his gallantry; but when he appeared before the company with the chevron of the sergeant upon his arm, he was lustily cheered by his comrades, and it was evident that the appointment was a very popular one. Not even the grumblers, of whom there is a full quota in every regiment, deemed it prudent to growl at the decision of the officers. If any one ventured to suggest that he was too young to be placed over older and stronger men, his friends replied, that men in the army were measured by bravery and skill, not by years.

If my young readers wish to know why Tom's appointment was so well received by his companions in arms, I can only reply, that he had not only been brave and cheerful in the midst of peril and hardship, but he was kind and obliging to his comrades. He had always been willing to help those that needed help, to sympathize with those in trouble, and generally to do all he could to render those around him happy.

Above all these considerations, Tom was a young man of high principle. He had obeyed his mother's parting injunction, often repeated in the letters which came to him from home, and had faithfully "read his Testament." Without being a hypocrite or a canting saint, Tom carried about with him the true elements of Christian character.

Tom had fought a greater battle than that in which he had been engaged at Bull Run a hundred times, in resisting the temptations which beset him from within and without. True to God and true to himself, he had won the victory. Though his lot was cast in the midst of men who swore, gambled, and drank liquor, he had shunned these vices, and loved the sinner while he hated the sin. Such a person could not fail to win the respect of his companions. Though he had been jeered at and insulted for being sober, honest, and pious, he had fought down and lived down all these vilifiers, and won their esteem.

It must be acknowledged that Tom's piety was of the robust type. He would not allow any man to insult him; and after the chastisement he had given Ben Lethbridge, not even those who were strong enough to whip him were disposed to trespass upon his rights and dignity. Perhaps Tom's creed needed a little revising; but he lived under martial law, which does not take cognizance of insults and revilings. He was willing to be smitten on the one cheek, and on the other also, for the good of his country, or even his friends, but not to be wantonly insulted.

The influence of Tom's principles was not confined to himself, for "a little leaven leaveneth the whole lump." This was particularly true of Hapgood, who, more through Tom's preaching and practice than from any strength in his own character, had steadily maintained his purpose to abstain from intoxicating drinks, though occasional opportunities were presented for the indulgence of his darling vice. Tom and he read the Testament and other good books which were sent to the regiment, and both profited by them.

When the soldier boy was discharged from the hospital, the surgeon gave him a pair of woolen socks, from a case of them which had been sent by the friends of the soldier in Boston and its vicinity. He was very much in need of them, and from the depths of his heart he blessed the ladies who had done this good work. He unrolled the socks, and proceeded to pull one of them on. It was as good a fit as though his mother had knit it on purpose for him.

"God bless the lady that knit these socks!" exclaimed Tom, as he began to draw on the other.

"Amen!" replied Hapgood, who was watching the operation in full sympathy with his protege.

"Eh! what's this?" added Tom, for his foot had met with an obstruction in its passage down the leg.

He pulled off the sock, and thrusting his hand into it, took therefrom a letter enclosed in an envelope.

"See that, uncle?" said he, exhibiting the prize.

"What is it, Tom? Open it quick," replied Hapgood.

The soldier boy broke the envelope, and took from it a note enclosing a photograph. Tom looked at the picture with a feeling of pleasure, which would have caused the original of the miniature, the author of the note, and the author of the socks, to blush up to her eyes if she had beheld the expression of admiration which glowed upon the handsome, manly face of the young sergeant.

"By all that's lovely, isn't she a beauty!" exclaimed Tom, rapturously, as he glanced from the picture to Hapgood, who was looking over his shoulder.

"She's hahnsome, and no mistake," replied the veteran, with a grim smile.

"Well, she is!" added Tom, whose eyes were riveted to the photograph.

"Well, why don't you read the letter, Tom?" demanded the old soldier, after the young man had gazed with blushing cheek upon the sweet face of the author of his socks for full five minutes.

"I guess I will," said Tom; but he did not; for the picture seemed to be glory and beauty enough to satisfy him for the present.

"Read the letter, Tom!" shouted the veteran, after he had waited as long as the nature of the case seemed to require.

The soldier boy carefully placed the photograph in the envelope, and unfolded the letter. It was written in a beautiful hand, which looked as soft and delicate as the fair fingers which had penned the lines. He glanced at it as a whole, admired the penmanship, and the fairy-like symmetry that make up the tout-ensemble of the page, and was about to dissolve into another rhapsody, when Hapgood, who was not half so sentimental as the sergeant, became impatient to know the contents of the missive. Tom read it aloud to the stoical veteran; and though we cannot clothe its sweet words in the fairy chirography which transported our hero, and made the letter a dream of bliss to him, we shall venture to present it to our curious readers, stiffened and hardened into the dull, cold forms of the printer's art.

No. --  -- , RUTLAND STREET, BOSTON, Nov. 5, 1861.

My Dear Soldier: -- 

This is the first pair of socks I ever knit; and I send them to you with my blessing upon the brave defenders of my country. I hope they will keep your feet warm, and thus keep your heart warm towards God and our blessed land.

Grandma says I am a silly girl, and I suppose I am; but if you feel half as much interest in me as I do in the person who will wear the first pair of socks I ever knit, you will wish to know how I look; therefore I send you my photograph.

I very much desire to know whether my work has done any good; whether my socks are ever worn in a battle; and most of all, I desire to know how the noble fellow looks that wears them. Therefore I beg you to answer my letter, and also to send me your photograph, if you can conveniently.

Now, my dear soldier, be brave and true, and, above all, do not run away from the rebels with my socks on your feet. You may retreat when your officers order you to retire; but if you are a coward, and find yourself compelled to run away, please pull them off before you do so, for I should die with mortification if I thought I had knit a pair of socks for a Union soldier to run away in.

Truly yours, for our flag and our country.

Lilian Ashford.

"Well, if that gal ain't a trump, then there ain't no snakes in Virginny!" exclaimed Hapgood. "She's got the true grit, and no mistake."

"That's so," replied the recipient of the gift, thoughtfully, as he bent down, and began to pull off the sock which encased his left foot.

"What are you doing?" demanded Hapgood, surprised at this new movement of his companion.

"I can't wear these socks yet, uncle," replied he.

"Why not?"

Don't she say she wants them worn in a battle?"

"Tom, you are a little fool!" added the veteran, petulantly. "Are you going with cold feet just to please a silly gal, whose head is as full of moonshine as an egg is of meat. Put on the socks, and keep your feet warm. If you don't, I'll write to her, and tell what a fool you are."

Tom did put them on, but he could not help feeling that uncle Hapgood, as he was familiarly called in the camp, did not understand and appreciate his sentiments. The socks seemed to be too precious to be worn in the vulgar mud of Maryland. To him there was something ethereal about them, and it looked a little like profanation to put any thing emanating from the fairy fingers of the original of that photograph, and the author of that letter, upon his feet.

"Now you act like a sensible fellow, as you are, Tom," said Hapgood, as the sergeant put on his army brogans.

"Well, uncle, one thing is certain: I never will run away from the rebels with these socks on," added Tom, with a rich glow of enthusiasm.

"If Gen'l McClennon don't stir his stumps pretty soon, you'll wear 'em out afore you git a chance to run away."

Tom, almost for the first time since he had been in the army, wanted to be alone. With those socks on, it seemed just as though he was walking the streets of the New Jerusalem, with heaven and stacks of silver-fringed and golden-tinged clouds beneath his feet, buried up to the eyes in floods of liquid moonshine.

If "grandma" really thought that Lilian Ashford was a silly girl, and if Lilian really supposed so herself, it must be added, in justification of her conduct, that she had given the soldier boy a new incentive to do his duty nobly, and kindled in his soul a holy aspiration to serve God and his country with renewed zeal and fidelity.



Chapter XXVII.

The Confederate Deserter.


While Tom was in the hospital, he received a letter from his sister, informing him that his brother John had actually entered the navy, and with his mother's consent. The news from home was so favorable, that the soldier boy was pleased to hear that Jack had realized his darling wish, and that he was now in his element.

Intelligence from home, accompanied with letters, papers, books, comforts, and luxuries of various kinds, reached him every two or three weeks; and when the news went back that Tom had been made a sergeant for gallant conduct, there was a great sensation in Pinchbrook. The letters which reached him after the receipt of this gratifying announcement contained all the gossip of the place in regard to the important event. Of course, Tom was delighted by these letters, and was more than ever determined to be diligent and faithful in the discharge of his duties, and never to disgrace the name he bore. He was confident his friends would never have occasion to blush for his conduct -- including the original of the photograph, the author of the letter and of the socks.

Tom recovered from the effects of his wound, as we have before intimated, and took his place in the regimental line as a sergeant. January and February passed away without any very stirring events; but in the month of March came indications of activity. The rebels began to draw in their lines, by abandoning various points, till the nation was startled by the evacuation of their strongly fortified position at Manassas, and the forts in front of Budd's Ferry were suddenly left for the occupation of the Federal troops.

Hooker's men crossed the Potomac, and Tom was once more on the sacred soil of Virginia. Skirmishers were sent out in various directions, and though a deserted camp, which had been hastily abandoned, was found, there were no rebels to be seen. The Union boys were not disposed to leave their investigations at this interesting point, and they pursued their way still farther into the country. Somehow or other, Tom and his party did not receive the order to return, and the enterprising young hero continued his march in search of further adventures. It was altogether too tame for him and the congenial spirits in his section to retire without seeing a live rebel or two; and I am not sure, if their desire had not been gratified, that they would not have penetrated to Fredericksburg, and captured that citadel of rebellion in advance to General Augur, who visited the place in April.

As it was, they stumbled upon the pickets of a rebel force, and as soon as their uniform was identified they had the honor of being fired upon, though none of them had the honor of being killed in the midst of their virtual disobedience of orders. But their appearance created a panic among the Confederates, who had no means of knowing that they were not the pioneers of a whole division of Union troops, for General McClellan had removed the spell which bound the loyal army to its camps, and corps, divisions, and brigades were pushing forward into the dominion of the traitors.

The alarm was given, and Tom saw that he was rushing into a bad scrape; and as prudence is as much a requisite of the good soldier as bravery, he ordered his men to fall back. Rebels are very much like ill-natured curs, ever ready to pursue a retreating foe, or run away from an advancing one. The Confederates chased them, and as the legs of the former seemed to be in remarkably good condition, the sergeant came to the conclusion that it would not be safe to run too fast.

"Halt!" shouted he; and the men promptly obeyed the order.

They discharged their muskets, and then made a demonstration towards the enemy, who, obeying their instinct, ran away as fast as their legs would carry them. Taking advantage of this movement on their part, Tom again ordered a retreat.

"They are after us again," said Hapgood. "I hope there ain't no cavalry within hearing. If there is, we may take a journey to Richmond."

"They have stopped to load their guns," replied Tom. "We will use our legs now."

"See that, Tom!" said Hapgood, suddenly.

"What?"

"There's one of them rushing towards us all alone."

"He has thrown up his gun. The others are yelling to him to come back. What does that mean?"

"He is a deserter; he wants to get away from them. There he comes."

"Yes, and there comes the rest of them -- the whole rebel army -- more than a million of them," said Fred Pemberton. "It's time for us to be going."

"See! They are firing at him. Forward!" added Tom, leading the way.

The party rushed forward, for a short distance; but the dozen rebels had been reenforced, and it was madness to rush into the very teeth of danger. Tom ordered his men to halt and fire at will. The deserter, probably finding that he was between two fires, turned aside from the direct course he was pursuing, and sought shelter in the woods. The sergeant then directed his men to retire, for whether the retreat of the runaway rebel was covered or not, it was no longer safe to remain.

Fortunately the Confederates were more in doubt than the Unionists; and perhaps expecting to fall upon a larger body of the latter, they abandoned the pursuit, and returned to their posts. Nothing was seen of the deserter for some time, and Tom concluded that he had lost his way in the woods, or had missed the direction taken by the Federal scouts.

"He was a plucky fellow, any how," said one of the men, "to attempt to run away in the very face of his companions."

"Well, he timed it well, for he started just when their guns were all empty," added another.

"I'm not sorry he missed us," continued Hapgood. "I don't like a desarter, no how. It goes right agin my grain."

"But he was running from the wrong to the right side," replied Tom.

"I don't keer if he was. Them colors on t'other side were his'n. He chose 'em for himself, and it's mean to run away from 'em. If a man's go'n to be a rebel, let him be one, and stick to it."

"You don't know any thing about it, uncle. Thousands of men have been forced into the rebel army, and I don't blame them for getting out of it the best way they can. I should do so."

"That may be. Tom; that may be," added the veteran, taking off his cap and rubbing his bald head, as though a new idea had penetrated it. "I didn't think of that."

"He's a brave man, whoever he is, and whatever he is."

"He must want to get away from 'em pretty bad, or he wouldn't have run that risk. I shouldn't wonder if they hit him."

"Perhaps he is wounded, and gone into the woods there to die," suggested Tom.

"Halloo!" shouted some one in the rear of them.

"There's your man," said Hapgood.

"Halloo!" cried the same voice.

"Halloo, yourself!" shouted Hapgood in reply to the hail.

The party halted, and after waiting a few moments, the rebel deserter came in sight. He was apparently a man of fifty; and no mendicant of St. Giles, who followed begging as a profession, could have given himself a more wretched and squalid appearance, if he had devoted a lifetime to the study of making himself look miserable. He wore a long black and gray beard, uncut and unkempt, and snarled, tangled, and knotted into the most fantastic forms. His gray uniform, plentifully bedaubed with Virginia mud, was torn in a hundred places, and hung in tatters upon his emaciated frame. On his head was an old felt hat, in a terribly dilapidated condition. He wore one boot and one shoe, which he had probably taken from the common sewer of Richmond, or some other southern city; they were ripped to such an extent that the "uppers" went flipperty-flap as he walked, and had the general appearance of the open mouth of the mythic dragon, with five bare toes in each to represent teeth.

As he approached, the unthinking soldiers of the party indulged in screams of laughter at the uncouth appearance of the whilom rebel; and certainly the character in tableau or farce need not have spoken, to convulse any audience that ever assembled in Christendom. Rip Van Winkle, with the devastations and dilapidations of five-and-twenty years hanging about him, did not present a more forlorn appearance than did this representative of the Confederate army.

"What are you laughing at?" demanded the deserter, not at all delighted with this reception.

"I say, old fellow, how long since you escaped from the rag-bag?" jeered one of the men.

"What's the price of boots in Richmond now?" asked another.

"Who's your barber?"

"Silence, men!" interposed Tom, sternly, for he could not permit his boys to make fun of the wretchedness of any human being.

"We'll sell you out for paper stock," said Ben Lethbridge, who had just returned from three months' service in the Rip-Raps for desertion.

"Shut up, Ben!" added Tom.

"Dry up, all of you!" said Corporal Snyder.

"Who and what are you?" asked Tom, of the deserter.

"I'm a Union man!" replied the stranger with emphasis; "and I didn't expect to be treated in this way after all I've suffered."

"They thought you were a rebel. You wear the colors of the rebel army," answered the sergeant, willing to explain the rudeness of his men.

"Well, I suppose I do look rather the worse for the wear," added the grayback, glancing down at the tattered uniform he wore. "I joined the rebel army, after I had tried every way in the world to get out of this infernal country; but I never fired a gun at a Union man. Seems to me, sergeant, I've seen you before somewhere. What's your name? Where did you come from?"

"Pinchbrook, Massachusetts; and most of us hail from the same place."

"Creation!" exclaimed the deserter. "You don't say so!"

"Your voice sounds familiar to me," added Tom; and for some reason his chest was heaving violently beneath his suddenly accelerated respiration.

As he spoke, he walked towards the dilapidated rebel, who had not ventured to come within twenty feet of the party.

"Did you say Pinchbrook?" demanded the stranger, who began to display a great deal of emotion.

"Pinchbrook, sir," added Tom; and so intensely was he excited, that the words were gasped from his lips.

"What's your name?"

"Thomas Somers," replied the sergeant.

"Tom!" screamed the deserter, rushing forward.

"Father!" cried Tom, as he grasped the hand of the phantom Confederate.

The soldiers of the party were transfixed with astonishment at this unexpected scene, and they stood like statues gazing at the meeting of father and son, till the final development of their relationship, when the muscles of their faces relaxed, and the expression of wonder gave place to joyous sympathy.

"Captain Somers, of Pinchbrook!" shouted old Hapgood; and the men joined with him in a roar of intense satisfaction, that made the woods ring.



Chapter XXVIII.

On The Peninsula.


The scene between Captain Somers and his son was very affecting and very exciting; and if the soldiers had all been uncles and first cousins of the parties, they could not have manifested more interest on the joyous occasion. The father wept, and the son wept; for each, amid the terrible experience of these troublous times, had hardly expected to meet the other.

For several minutes they held each other by the hand, laughing and weeping alternately, and neither being able to express the intense emotions which agitated him. The men shouted and laughed in full sympathy with the reunited sire and son.

"I'm glad to see you, Tom," said Captain Somers, as he wiped away the tears that were sliding down upon his grizzly beard. "I haven't cried before for thirty years; I'm ashamed of it, Tom, but I can't help it."

"I didn't expect to find you here, father, and clothed in the rebel uniform; but I'm glad to see you in any uniform," replied the soldier boy.

"So you're in the army, Tom," continued the father, gazing with satisfaction at the neat appearance of the sergeant.

"Yes, sir; I enlisted within a fortnight after we heard that the traitors had bombarded Fort Sumter."

"I see you've got three stripes on your arm."

"Yes, Cap'n Somers," said Hapgood; "Tom was made a sergeant for gallant conduct on the river in December; and he deserved his promotion too."

"I'm glad to see you with that uniform on your back, Tom; and glad to hear that you have behaved well."

"I was in the battle of Bull Run, father, and was taken prisoner, but I got away."

"Well, Tom, we'll hear about that bimeby," said the old man, stopping and looking nervously into the face of his son. "I want to ask a great many questions, Tom, but I hardly dare to do it. You know I haven't heard a word from home since I left, and it's almost a year now."

"You needn't be afraid, father; the folks are all well. I have got a heap of letters at the camp, and you shall read them all as soon as we get there."

"Is your mother well, Tom?"

"First rate."

"And John?"

"Yes, sir; but he's gone into the navy. He was bound to be in the fight any how."

"John's a chip of the old block. He wanted to snuff the salt water afore he was a week old. John's a good sailor, and he ought to have a good lay wherever he goes," added the father.

Captain Somers and Tom sat upon the ground for half an hour, until the fugitive from the rebel army was in some degree rested after the hard run he had had through the woods. The soldiers gathered around them, as much interested as though they had been members of the Somers family. Tom's father had a multitude of questions to ask about Pinchbrook and its people, all of which were answered to his satisfaction.

The sergeant thought it was time for the party to move on, and his father declared that he was able to walk any distance which would bring him nearer to the home of his wife and children. The order was given, and the little band resumed its march.

"How have you been all this time, father?" asked Tom, as he walked along by the side of Captain Somers.

"I've been pretty fairly most of the time. I'm tough and hardy, or I should have been dead afore this time. We've been half starved and half frozen in the camp; but I managed to live through it, hoping and expecting to get away from those rascally rebels."

"Where have you been all the time?" asked Tom. "Have you been in the rebel army long?"

"About four months; but I may as well begin at the beginning, and tell you the whole story," added the captain. "I got to Norfolk all right, and was there when the news came up that the rebels had taken Sumter. Every body was mad, and I was as mad as the rest of them, though not exactly in the same way. I let on a little with my tongue, and came pretty near being tarred and feathered, and I think I should have been, if your uncle Wyman hadn't interfered."

"Did he settle with you, father?"

"After a while he did. He had some fifteen thousand dollars in New York, which had just been sent over from England, and as he was secesh, he was terribly afeard the Lincoln government would confiscate it; so he settled with me, and gave me a power of attorney to draw his money, pay myself, and take care of what was over. I've got the papers safe in my waistbands now."

"Good! Glory, hallelujah!" shouted Tom. "We can pay off old Pemberton now, for it goes against my grain to owe a dollar to a traitor. But if uncle Wyman is a rebel, and I suppose he is, I hope the government will confiscate what's over after you have paid yourself."

"Well, I don't know. We will see about that bimeby. He used me fair, and I don't wish him any harm; but I hate his principles. Well, just then, Tom, when I had got my accounts squared, the rascals took my vessel, and sunk it in the channel to keep the Union fleet out. My pipe was out then, and I couldn't do any thing more. I hung round the city of Norfolk till I saw there was no chance to get out in that direction; and then I left. I was up near Bull Run -- the rebels call it Manassas -- when the battle was fought; but our folks got licked so badly, that it was no use to try to get through there.

"I tried half a dozen times to crawl through, and had nearly starved to death in the woods; but some rebel cavalry pickets spied me out, called me a traitor, and sent me back. My money was all gone by this time, and I went over to Norfolk again. Your uncle Wyman told me I had better keep quiet where I was, for just as sure as his name was Somers, the North would all fall to pieces in less than six months. He expected the rebel army would be in New York afore long, and I should be a great deal better off where I was. He tried to get a pass to send me through the rebel lines, but he couldn't do it.

"Things went on in this way till your uncle Wyman went to Charleston on business, and I haven't seen him from that day to this. The rebels tried to make me go into their navy, but I wouldn't do it, of course; but when I couldn't do any other way, I went into the army, hoping I should be sent to the front, and find a chance to get away. I've been watching ever since, but I never happened to get within twenty miles of the Union pickets before. But here I am, and I'm perfectly satisfied with the past, though I've suffered a good deal in one way and another."

By the time Captain Somers had finished his narrative, the party arrived at the camp. Tom was reprimanded very gently for detaching himself from the main body of the regiment; but when he reported the events of his excursion, as he had safely returned with his command, nothing more was said about his adventure.

At the camp the Union refugee was provided with comfortable clothing; his hair and beard were trimmed down to decent proportions, and he was otherwise purged of the barbarisms of the rebel camp. But even then he did not look like the stout, hearty, healthy Captain Somers who sailed from Boston in the Gazelle nearly a year before. He was haggard and emaciated from anxiety and semi-starvation.

Captain Somers was warmly welcomed by the members of Company K, who came from Pinchbrook; and when his physical wants had been satisfied, he was sent to General Hooker, to communicate to him such intelligence as he possessed in regard to the position and numbers of the rebel army. He remained at the camp but two days, at the end of which time he was sent to Washington, and from there hastened to his home in Pinchbrook. A letter from Tom, announcing the joyful intelligence of his return, had preceded him.

In ten days after parting with his father, the sergeant received a full and glowing account of the reception of Captain Somers, who became quite a lion in Pinchbrook for the time being. He received his money as he passed through New York, though not without the aid of a government order which he had procured in Washington, and only the amount that was actually due to him, for uncle Wyman's funds were then in process of being confiscated.

The only drawback upon his father's happiness was the absence of John, who had been drafted into a vessel bound to the South. He had not seen him for a year, and another year would probably elapse before he could expect to realize this pleasure. But the captain's patriotism had been intensified a hundred fold by his bitter experience in Virginia; and while his twin sons were gallantly serving their country in the army and the navy, he was willing to sacrifice the yearnings of his paternal heart, and he hoped and prayed that they might do their duty faithfully.

Tom's regiment remained on the Potomac but a short time after the event we have related. Sharper and sterner experience was before these tried soldiers, and the first indications of active service were greeted with joyous enthusiasm. Suddenly the camp was broken up, and the order to march given. The men wondered and speculated upon their destination, and though the prophets of the regiments gave them certain information in regard to the direction they were to take, most of them were incredulous. One declared they were going to Richmond by the way of Fredericksburg; another, by the way of Manassas; and a third was positive, from hints he had seen in the newspapers, that they were going down the valley of the Shenandoah, to take the capital of Rebeldom on the flank and rear.

While the prophets and wise men were speculating, the regiment marched on; and to the astonishment of all, and to the utter confusion of the seers, they were embarked in a transport -- the steamer Napoleon -- bound no one knew where. One regiment and half of another belonging to the brigade were huddled on board of this one steamer. Every foot of standing room was occupied, and, of course, the boys were not very comfortably quartered; but, as Tom expressed it, there was music ahead, and the brave hearts on board were ready to stand any thing if they could only get a fight out of the rebels. The mortification of their defeat at Bull Run still hung heavily on their spirits, and they were panting for an opportunity to retaliate upon the foe, and win the laurels they had lost upon that disastrous field.

The prophets, though their failure to foretell the coming event had cast them into disgrace, were still ready to volunteer an opinion. They declared that the transports were bound to North Carolina, to follow up Burnside's successes; but most of the men were content to wait till the future should develop itself.

The troops were eager for active duty, and if they could get into the field and strike a heavy blow at the rebellion, they did not care where it was. They had unbounded confidence in the young general who was to organize victory for them, and they were willing to obey orders, and leave every thing to him.

It "thundered all around" them. Roanoke, Pea Ridge, Newbern, Winchester, Donelson, were a succession of Union victories, which inspired them with zeal and courage to endure all hardships, and face any peril which might be in their path.

The transport descended the Potomac, and came to anchor in the bay, where they lay one day; the steamer then continued on her course, and landed her troops in Cheseman's Creek, an indentation of the peninsula between the York and James Rivers. After lying in camp a few days, they marched again, and Tom learned that the regiment was before Yorktown, which had been strongly fortified by the rebels to resist the advance of the Union army.



Chapter XXIX.

The Battle Of Williamsburg.


What the army of the Potomac achieved and suffered before Yorktown, we must leave for the historian. Our soldier boy was only one hero among thousands who toiled in the soft mud of the early spring, who watched and waited for the tremendous events which have now passed into history, and whose actors will be honored and remembered by future generations.

Tom Somers bore his full share of the trials and hardships of that eventful period; and when McClellan's scientific engineering had driven the rebels from their strong works without a struggle to retain them, he moved forward with the gallant army. "On to Richmond!" again sounded along the lines, and the soldiers toiled through mud and mire, hoping and expecting to strike the final blow that would crush out the rebellion.

Yorktown was evacuated. The rebels were fleeing from their frowning batteries, and the order came for Hooker's division to join in the pursuit. At noon the brigade -- now under command of General Grover commenced its forward movement.

"Rather rough," said Hapgood, as the regiment struggled on through the mire. "Rather soft, I think," replied Tom, laughing.

"I hope we haven't got to march far through this mud," added Ben Lethbridge.

"That will depend upon how soon we come up with the rebels. If it rests with Hooker, I tell you he will get a fight out of the rebs, if such a thing is possible."

After the regiment had marched five or six miles, the order came to halt; and the intelligence passed along the column that the cavalry had come up with the enemy, and were waiting the arrival of an infantry force to assist in the attack.

"Good!" shouted Tom. "We shall have a battle before night."

"Perhaps not," added Hapgood. "It takes the cat a good while to catch the mouse, even after she smells the critter."

"Why don't we march? What are we stopping here for?" said Tom, impatiently.

"They say Smith's division has got in ahead of us. Keep cool, Tom; never be in a hurry for a battle. Some of us that stand here now won't be alive in twenty-four hours from now; for I don't believe the rebs are going to let us have it all our own way," said the veteran.

"Nor I," added Fred Pemberton. "I shall be killed in this fight."

"How do you know, Fred?" demanded Hapgood, sternly.

"Of course I don't know, but I feel it in my bones that I shall fall in the first battle."

"Your bones ain't no guide at all. I know something about this business, and I've seen croakers afore to-day. Don't talk about being killed, or even hit. Be ready to die, do your duty like a soldier, and leave all the rest to your Maker," said the veteran, solemnly.

"I don't have any such feeling as that. I know I shan't be killed," laughed Ben. "The bullet hasn't been cast yet that will stop my wind."

"Perhaps it has, my boy. It may be in some rebel soldier's cartridge box over yonder, even now. I tell you, boys, you don't know any thing about it. Just afore we went in at Cerry Gordy, a feller by my side said the same thing you did, Ben; and he was the first man that went down. I tried to pick him up, and do something for him, but he was stone dead. I tell you, Ben, you don't know any thing about it. Leave it all to the Almighty."

"Pooh, uncle!" sneered Ben, trying to laugh down the solemn words of the old man. "Don't you think we'd better have a prayer meetin' before we go in?"

"I think we should fight the better for it, for he who trusts in God don't fear death."

But it was evident that the words of Hapgood, especially the incident of Cerro Gordo, had made a deep impression upon the mind of the thoughtless young man. Though the division did not move for three hours, he was very silent and sober. He seemed to feel that he had been tempting Providence by his bold speech, and even expressed his regret to Tom for what he had said.

It was dark when the order to march was given. The night was exceedingly gloomy, and the rain poured down upon the devoted army, as it moved forward to do its great work. Hour after hour, in the deep darkness and the pouring rain, the men struggled through the mire, expecting every moment to be hurled upon the rebel battalions, or to meet the impetuous onset of the foe.

Between ten and eleven, when the men were nearly worn out by the exhausting labors of the march, they were ordered to halt in the road, and bivouac for the rest of the night. What a time and what a place for repose! They could only wrap themselves up in their wet blankets, and stretch themselves upon the ground, soaked with water, and with the rain still pouring down upon them. But they slept, and enjoyed their rest, for Nature was imperative in her demands.

At daylight the march was resumed; for the intrepid Hooker, ever faithful to the trust confided to him, was wholly in earnest. At half-past five the column was halted in the woods. The rebel works before Williamsburg were in sight, and General Hooker rode to the front to examine the position of the enemy.

In front of the rebel batteries, and on each side of the roads, the trees had been felled, in order to give the guns in the field works full play upon an approaching force.

"Hurrah!" shouted some of the boys on the right of the column. "Our brigade is to commence the attack."

"How do you know?" growled Hapgood, who did not think a soldier ought to know any thing about the plan of the battle.

"We are ordered to move," replied Tom. "I suppose that's all they know about it."

The prophets on the right were correct this time, for the regiment was soon sent to the right of the road, and ordered to deploy as skirmishers. A battery was thrown forward in front of the felled timber; but before a gun could be fired, two officers and two privates were seen to fall before the unerring aim of the rebel sharpshooters, occupying the rifle pits which dotted the cleared land in front of the forts.

"That's a hot place," said Ben Lethbridge.

"We shall all see hot work before the sun goes down to-night," replied Tom. "But let us stand up to it like men."

"That's the talk, Tom!" exclaimed Hapgood.

"Have you got those socks on, my boy?"

"I have, uncle; and I have the letter and the photograph in my pocket."

"Good, Tom! After this day's work is over, you can write the lady a letter, and tell her that her socks have been in a battle."

"And that I didn't run away in them."

The roar of the guns in Fort Magruder interrupted the conversation. The gunners of the battery in front of them had been driven from their pieces; but it was almost instantly manned by volunteers, and a destructive fire poured into the works. Other batteries were brought up, and the fort was soon silenced. The roar of battle sounded all along the line; the thunder of cannon and the crash of musketry reverberated through the woods and over the plain, assuring the impatient troops that they were engaged in no trivial affair; that they were fighting a great battle, of which thousands yet unborn would read upon the pages of history.

Our regiment closed up its lines, and the gallant colonel gave the order to move forward in the direction of the field works. On, on, steadily and firmly marched the men of Massachusetts, through ditch and swamp, through mud and mire, loading, firing, and charging, as the enemy presented opportunity. The hot work of the day had commenced; for, from every bush, tree, and covert, which could conceal a man, the rebels poured a deadly fire into the ranks of the advancing Federals.

Tom stood as firm as a rock. The doubts and fears which beset him in his first battle had no existence on this day. So thoroughly had he schooled his mind to the fearful ordeal of carnage, that he felt quite at home. He was cool and determined, and continually encouraged those around him by his cheering words as well as by his example.

"Ben is down!" exclaimed Hapgood.

"Poor fellow!" replied Tom, without taking his eye off the foe in front.

"There goes Bob Dornton!" added Hapgood.

"Stand up to it, my men!" said Tom, firmly, for he had no time then to think of the fallen.

"Forward!" shouted the impetuous colonel, who, if he had never been popular with the men before, was rapidly establishing himself in their good graces by his unflinching heroism. "Forward! double quick! march!"

And on dashed the gallant regiment, mounting the enemy's lofty works, and driving the foe before them like sheep, at the point of the bayonet. This was the first experience of this exciting description which Tom had seen, and he entered into the spirit of it with a hearty zeal.

"Halt!" was the order, as a regiment filed out in front of them, with a flag of truce flying on its front. "Steady -- don't fire," repeated several officers along the line.

"What regiment are you?" shouted a person, as the flag came within speaking distance.

"What are you?" demanded an officer of the storming party.

"We're the Alabama eighth!"

"We are the Massachusetts  -- th," replied our men.

"Then you are the villains we want!" returned the rebel, plentifully interlarding the sentence with oaths.

The flag of truce dropped, and the dastardly foe poured in a volley of musketry, before which a dozen of our brave boys fell, either killed or wounded.

"Fire!" yelled the colonel; and the order was obeyed with a will. "Charge bayonets! Forward -- double quick -- march!"

The men, burning with indignation at the treachery of the rebel horde, sprang forward to wreak their righteous vengeance upon the cowardly traitors. So impetuous was the charge, that the rebel regiment broke, and sought safety in flight.

"Down with them!" hoarsely screamed Tom, as the line swayed forward, and pursued the panic-stricken foe into the woods on the left. The even line was broken, and the boys scattered to do their work to the best advantage.

Tom's legs seemed to be in excellent condition, notwithstanding the toilsome marches of the last twenty-four hours; and he dashed forward into the woods followed by only a dozen choice spirits, whose enthusiasm was equal to his own. A squad of flying rebels in front of them was the object of their present anxiety, and they soon distanced their companions.

The rebels, seeing by how small a force they were pursued, rallied and formed line again.

"Give it to them!" cried Tom, as he led his little force upon the rebels.

"Hold on, Tom!" said Hapgood; "we have gone far enough. There's a rebel regiment forming behind us."

"Can't help it," said Tom, as he rushed forward, with the veteran by his side. "Give it to them!"

Tom and his men threw themselves upon the rebel squad, and a sharp fight ensued, in which the parties fought with bayonets, clubbed muskets, and even with the death grip upon each other's throats. The traitors could not stand it, and fled again.

The sergeant glanced behind him, and saw the rebel regiment formed ready to charge upon his own. He was cut off from his friends, with the enemy on his front and rear. Three of his men had fallen in the sharp encounter with the rebels, and most of them were wounded or bruised, and all of them out of breath. To add to the peril of the situation, the squad they had been pursuing were rallying and being reenforced by their fugitive companions.

"Bad, Tom, bad," said Hapgood, who was puffing and blowing like a porpoise, as he ominously shook his head.

"Follow me!" said Tom, confidently, as he led the way in a direction at right angles with the advance of the party.

Our regiment had reformed again, and soon gave that in front of them enough to do. The rebels in their rear caused the sergeant's squad no little annoyance; but they continued on their course, loading and firing as they retreated.



Chapter XXX.

More Of The Battle.


While Tom and his little command were working their way back to the Union lines, followed up by the disorganized band of rebels, a series of most unearthly yells swept over the field, for they had emerged from the woods. It was the rallying cry of the Confederate regiment which had formed in their rear. They were charging upon the Massachusetts  -- th; but they might as well have charged upon the Rock of Gibraltar, for presently Tom was delighted to see them retiring before the tremendous onslaught of his friends.

"Hurrah!" shouted he, forgetting the foe in his rear, and pressing forward to that on his front, at the same time changing his course so as to approach the right wing of the rebel regiment.

"Don't be rash, Tom," said the old soldier, who never permitted the sergeant to leave his side.

"Follow me, boys!" roared Tom, breathless with excitement, as he started off on the double quick towards the breaking lines of the enemy.

"Here we are!" replied the gallant fellows behind him, pushing forward with a zeal equal to that of their leader, from whom they derived their inspiration. "Go in, sergeant, and we'll stand by you."

But the bold soldier boy had discretion as well as gallantry; and he saw that if he threw his little force upon the rebel line, the whole party would be instantly annihilated. A covert of bushes fortunately lay on the right flank of the retreating regiment, and Tom ordered his men to conceal themselves behind it, until a favorable moment should arrive to take their places in the lines.

The men were glad enough to obtain a breathing spell; but, at such a tremendous moment as that, idleness would have been treason, for such a glorious opportunity to strike a heavy blow had not before occurred.

"Load up, and fire at will," said Tom, as he charged his musket. "Don't throw your lead away either."

"We are a dead shot here if we are any where," added Hapgood, as he and the rest of the party hastily loaded their muskets.

Pop went Tom's piece first, and over went the rebel at the extreme right of the rebel regiment. There was no such thing as missing the mark, for they were on the flank of the Confederate line, which the united efforts of the officers could hardly preserve. The men in the covert fired when they were ready; and as they carefully observed the injunction of Tom not to waste their lead, every shot told upon the rebels.

The Confederate officers glanced nervously at the clump of bushes, which glowed with flashes of fire as the sergeant's little command poured in their volleys; but they were too closely pressed by the Federals in front to attempt to dislodge them. The rebel privates were not long in ascertaining what was so clear to their officers -- that they were flanked, and were being shot down like sheep, from a quarter where they could not defend themselves. They had been slowly and doggedly retiring before the advancing Federals, disputing every inch of ground; but when they realized that the bolts of death were dropping among them from another direction, they could no longer endure that awful suspense which takes possession of the minds of men when they are suspended, as it were, between life and death.

Tom saw them waver, and he knew what it meant. The rebel line was just abreast of him, and he had seen at least a score of men fall before the deadly fire of his party.

"Give it to them, boys! They shake!" shouted Tom, as he delivered his fire again. "Pour in as fast as you can, but don't waste your powder."

The men redoubled their exertions, and the rapidity of their fire was sensibly increased. The effect was soon perceptible in the rebel ranks; for the right of the line, probably supposing a company, if not a whole regiment, of sharp-shooters was concealed in the covert, suddenly broke and fled with the utmost precipitation, in spite of the gallant efforts of their officers to rally them.

The Federal regiment instantly took advantage of this partial panic, and charged furiously upon the rebel line. A desperate hand-to-hand encounter ensued, during which Tom and his companions emerged from their concealment, and ran along the rear of the victorious line. They soon satisfied themselves of what they had before believed -- that the regiment was their own; and they lost no time in finding the company to which they belonged. They joined in the pursuit, which soon ended in the utter rout of the rebel force.

The position of the enemy's lines did not permit them to follow the advantage to any great extent, and the order was soon given to fall back. At this juncture the regiment, which had been constantly engaged for several hours, was relieved; and not too early in the day, for the men were completely exhausted by the furious onslaughts they had made.

"Who were those men in the bushes on the flank of the rebel regiment?" demanded the colonel, as he reined up his jaded horse in front of Company K.

"Sergeant Somers and others," replied Captain Benson.

"Somers again!" exclaimed the colonel.

"Yes, sir. They pursued the regiment into the woods -- the one that showed the flag of truce -- till they were separated from the rest of us." "Forward, Sergeant Somers," added the colonel.

Tom modestly stepped forward, and he would have blushed if his face had not been so reddened by his previous exertions as to leave no room for a deepening of its tint.

"You did a big thing, Sergeant Somers. You broke that rebel line by your steady fire. Sergeant Somers, I thank you and the men you commanded for your good service."

Tom bowed, and the regiment cheered. It was the proudest moment of his life to be thanked on the field, while the guns were roaring and the musketry rattling, for the good service he had rendered. It would form an excellent paragraph for his letter to Lilian Ashford, especially as he had more than once, in the perils of that exciting hour, thought of the socks he wore, and of the letter and the photograph which nestled in his breast pocket, and upon which his quick throbbing heart was beating the notes of glory and victory.

"We gave you up for lost," said Captain Benson, as Tom returned to the line.

"We are safe, thank God!" replied Tom, "though three of our number fell in the woods, or on the field where we were chased by the rebels."

"Sergeant Somers saved us," added uncle Hapgood. "If he hadn't been as cool as cowcumber, and as stiff as the mainmast of a frigate, we should have been taken, every one of us."

"Bravo, Tom!" said the captain.

"The men stood by me like heroes, or it would have been all up with the whole of us. They are good fellows, and they deserve as much credit as I do."

The battle continued to rage with increasing fury, till the roar, and the crash, and the sweep of armed legions beggared description. Regiments and brigades advanced and fell back with the varying fortunes of the day, but as yet there was nothing to indicate the final result.

When the men of our regiment had recovered their breath, an order came for them to proceed to the left. On their arrival at the position assigned to them, they were immediately led to the front, where the batteries which had been pouring a hot fire into the enemy were in imminent danger of being surrounded. Indeed, the swoop of the rebel infantry upon the guns had already been made, and the cannoneers had been driven from their stations. With the colonel on the right, and the adjutant in command on the left, the regiment charged upon the foe, as it had twice before charged on that eventful day, with an enthusiasm bordering upon fury.

The rebels had even spiked one of the guns, and they maintained their position with an obstinacy which promised the annihilation of one or the other of the contending forces. A desperate strife ensued, in which the least perceptible advantage was gained by the Federals. But if they could do no more, they held the enemy in check, till the gunners could charge their pieces with grape and canister, which they poured into the rebels with the most deadly effect.

"Hurrah!" shouted Tom, as the rebels quaked before the withering storm of shot belched forth by the guns of the battery. "They shake! Give it to them!"

"Steady, my men! steady," said Captain Benson. "The ammunition of the battery is expended," he added, as the cannon ceased their work of destruction. "We must hold these pieces, and every man must do his duty."

"Ay, ay, sir!" replied Tom, vigorously, and the cry was repeated through the company.

As soon as the guns were thus rendered useless, the enemy swept down upon the supports again, intent upon capturing the pieces. They advanced with that terrific yell which is enough of itself to frighten a nervous man, and with an impetuosity which nothing human could resist. Our regiment recoiled under the shock; but it was forced back by the sheer stress of numbers.

"Rally men! Rally, my brave fellows!" shouted the adjutant, in command of the left wing.

"Stand stiff! Roll them back!" roared the colonel.

"Steady, men!" added Captain Benson.

"Now, give it to them!" screamed Tom, as he plunged his bayonet into the vitals of the rebel in front of him, and pushed forward into the very midst of the foe.

The sergeant seemed suddenly to be endowed with the strength of a giant, and he held his own till Hapgood sprang to his assistance. The rest of the line, inspired by this daring conduct, rushed forward, and fell upon the foe with a fury that could not be resisted.

"Bravo! Bravo, Tom!" shouted the captain. "Go in, boys!" roared the lieutenant.

And the boys "went in," and forced back the rebel line, and held the guns until another battery with a supply of ammunition arrived upon the ground to relieve them. The enemy was again repulsed, and the guns were saved by the unflinching heroism of our gallant Massachusetts regiment -- another paragraph for the letter to Lilian Ashford.



Chapter XXXI.

Glory And Victory.


The battle now raged more fiercely than ever, and hotter and hotter became the fire on every side. The shouts of the enemy indicated the arrival of reenforcements. "Johnston!" "Long-street!" resounded over the field, and roused the rebels to renewed activity. More certainly was the increase of the enemy's force determined by the gradual falling back of the brigade at the left of the road; but the men fought with desperate courage, and yielded not a foot of ground without enriching it with their best blood.

There were no signs of reenforcements for over exhausted troops, though a whole corps was within hearing of the booming guns that were slaughtering our outnumbered and exhausted brigades. On the field the aspect began to be dark and unpromising, and Tom prayed with all his soul that he might be spared the pain of beholding another defeat, another rout.

Our regiment was ordered to the support of the yielding brigade on the left. The woods were full of rebels, and the issue of the conflict in this part of the field was almost hopeless. The enemy seemed to be inspired by the slight advantage they had gained, and their yells were fiercer and more diabolical than ever, as they gathered themselves up for a desperate onslaught.

The Federal brigade was overmatched, and the result seemed to waver upon a balance; then the equilibrium was slightly disturbed, and the Union force fell back a little, but only a little, and doggedly resisted the advance of the foe. It needed but little to restore the equilibrium, and our regiment, after struggling through the mud with all attainable speed, arrived upon the spot when the prospect was so gloomy for the loyal cause.

The men were almost exhausted by the tremendous strain which had all day long been imposed upon their nervous systems, and by the physical exertion required of them. But the battle was going against the North, and they were ready again to make a desperate effort to redeem the field.

"One more of your Massachusetts charges, colonel," said General Hooker, as the weary soldiers moved up to the endangered position.

"You shall have it, general. My men are always ready, though they are nearly used up."

"Hancock and Kearney are close by, and if we can hold out a few minutes longer, all will be well with us."

"We'll drive them back, general!" shouted the colonel.

"Go in, then!" added the gallant Hooker, waving his sword to encourage the soldiers. "Forward! You have no time to lose!"

The fiery colonel briefly stated to the regiment the nature of the work before them, admonished the men to do as they had done all day, and Massachusetts would be proud of them. A ringing cheer was the reply to the stirring words of the colonel, and the orders were given for the advance.

On went the brave fellows like a wall of iron, and precipitated themselves upon the rebels, buoyant with hope as they followed up their temporary advantage. The point of attack was all in their favor, and their exhilarating shouts as they sprang upon the foe kindled up the expiring enthusiasm of the yielding brigade to whose assistance they had come. The shock was terrible -- more fearful and destructive than any which our boys had before experienced.

"Steady, my men!" shouted Captain Benson.

"Give it to them!" roared Tom, maddened to desperation by the awful strife around him, and by seeing so many of our men fall by his side.

"Stand up to it!" shouted the excited colonel. "They run!"

At this moment an inequality of the ground beneath the men of Company K placed them in a bad position, and the rebels in front of them, taking advantage of the circumstance, pressed forward, and actually broke through the line, trampling some of our soldiers beneath their feet, and transfixing them with their bayonets.

A terrible scene ensued at this gap in the ranks, for the whole rebel regiment began to press into the weak place. The breach was made by the side of our sergeant, so that he was not borne down by the pressure of the rebel battalion.

"Close up!" yelled Tom. "Close up! Hail, Columbia! and give it to them!"

Drawing a revolver which he had been permitted to retain after the capture of the contraband craft on the Potomac, he discharged its six barrels into the foremost of the assailants; and Hapgood and Fred Pemberton, who were armed in like manner from the same source, imitated the example of the sergeant.

"Now give them the bayonet, boys!" screamed Tom, hoarsely, as he plunged into the midst of the rebels.

The men on the other side of the gap pushed forward with equal energy, and the ranks closed up again over a pile of dead and wounded rebels, and Federals, who had fallen in that sharp encounter.

"Bravo!" shouted General Hooker, whose attention had been drawn to the break in the line. "Bravo, sergeant! You shall have a commission! Forward, my brave boys! Massachusetts sees you!"

"Up and at them," cried Tom, as the rebels began to yield and break before the tremendous charge of our regiment.

The young sergeant's throat was raw with the shouting he had done, and his limbs were beginning to yield to the fatigues of the day; but the words of the commander of the division made him over new again, and his husky voice still rang along the line, full of new courage and new energy to his exhausted comrades. The rebels were driven back for the time, and fled before the iron masses that crowded upon them.

The regiment was recalled, and the weary troops, now almost decimated by the slaughter which had taken place in their ranks, were permitted to breathe once more.

"This is awful," said the veteran of Company K, panting from the violence of his exertions. "I never saw any thing like this before."

"Nor I," replied Tom, dropping upon the ground with exhaustion.

"I know something about this business. I thought Cerry Gordy was consid'able of a battle, but 'twas nothin' like this."

"It's awful," sighed Tom, as he thought of the good fellows he had seen fall upon the field.

"Heaps of our boys have gone down!"

"Attention -- battalion!" came ringing with startling effect along the line, in the familiar tones of the intrepid colonel.

"If we win the day, we can afford to lose many. Victory or death!" shouted Tom, as he sprang to his feet, in obedience to the command. "More work for us!"

"How do you feel, Tom?" demanded the veteran, as they sprang into the line.

"All right," replied Tom, with a forced buoyancy of spirits.

"Are you sure, my boy?" continued the veteran, gazing with deep anxiety into the face of the sergeant.

"I'm first rate, uncle. I think I can stand it as long as any body else."

"You have done wonders to-day, Tom. I'm proud of you, but I'm afeared you are doing too much. If you are used up, it wouldn't be any disgrace for you to go to the rear. After what you've done, nobody will say a word. Don't kill yourself, Tom, but go to the rear."

"I go to the rear!" exclaimed Tom, with indignation.

"If you are disabled, I mean, of course," apologized the veteran.

"I'm not disabled. If I go to the rear with these socks on, it won't be till after the breath has left my body."

"Socks!" replied Hapgood, with a sneer. "I'm afeared that gal will be the death of you."

"I don't sulk in these socks," replied Tom, with a faint smile, as the regiment moved off on the double quick to some new position of peril.

"The rebels are flanking us!" shouted an officer in another command, as our regiment hurried forward to the endangered point.

"That's what we are wanted for," said Hapgood.

The enemy had nearly accomplished their purpose when our gallant colonel and his jaded force reached the left of the line, and in a few moments more would have poured a flanking fire into our devoted battalions, which were struggling with terrible energy to roll back the pressure in front of them.

The colonel had his men well in hand, and he manoeuvred them with consummate skill, so as to bring them advantageously to the work they were to perform. The regiment was hurled against the head of the flanking column, and the boys rushed forward with that dash and spirit which had characterized their conduct half a score of times before in various parts of the field.

Tom's muscles had become loose and soft after the long continued strain upon them, and if his soul had not been ten times as big as his body, he must have sunk under the exhaustion of the day. Another desperate onslaught was required of the men of our regiment, and commanding all his energies, Tom braced himself up once more for the fearful struggle.

"How do you feel now, Tom?" demanded the anxious veteran, as he bit off the cartridge, and rammed it home.

"First rate, uncle!" replied Tom, as the regiment poured a withering volley into the rebel line.

"For Heaven's sake, Tom, don't kill yourself," added the old man, as they loaded up again. "Your knees shake under you now."

"Do you think I'm afraid, uncle?" demanded the sergeant with a grim smile.

"No, no, Tom; of course I don't think any thing of the kind. I'm afeared you'll bust a blood-vessel, or something of that sort."

"If I do, I'll let you know, uncle."

"Charge bayonets! Double quick -- march!" rang along the line.

"Have at them!" cried Tom, who was always the first to catch the orders of the commanding officer. "Down with them! Give 'em Yankee Doodle, Hail, Columbia, and the Red, White, and Blue."

The advancing column, shaken by the furious fire of our regiment, recoiled before the shock. Slowly the foe fell back, leaving heaps of their slain upon the hotly-contested ground. Our boys halted, and poured in another destructive volley.

The Confederate officers rallied their men, and, maddened by the check they had received, drove them forward to recover the lost ground.

"Once more, boys! Give it to 'em again," cried Tom, as the order to advance was repeated.

His words were only representations of his actions; for, as he spoke, he rushed on a little in front of his comrades, who, however, pressed forward to keep up with him. He did not exceed the orders of his superior, but he was one of the promptest to obey them. On dashed the regiment, and again the rebel line recoiled, and soon broke in spite of the admirable efforts of their officers to keep them steady.

"Kearney! Kearney! Kearney is here!" shouted the weary heroes in various parts of the field.

"Down with them!" roared Tom, as the inspiring words rang in his ears. "Down with them! Kearney has come, and the day is ours!"

He had scarcely uttered the words, and sprung forward, before he was seen to drop upon the ground, several paces in front of the line, though the undaunted old Hapgood was close by his side. The enemy had fled; the danger of being flanked was averted; and when Kearney's men dashed on the field, the sad-hearted veteran, assisted by Fred Pemberton, bore the silent form of the gallant sergeant to the rear.

Kearney and Hancock rushed gallantly to the rescue of the exhausted troops, and Hooker's division was ordered to the rear to act as a reserve. The strife raged with unabated fury as those who had borne the brunt of the battle slowly fell back to give place to the fresh legions.

Poor Tom was tenderly carried by the wiry veteran and his friends to the surgeon's quarters in the rear. There were tears in the eyes of the old man as he laid the silent form of his protégé upon the wet ground. There he sat by his charge, sorrowful beyond expression, till tremendous shouts rent the air. Tom opened his eyes.

"Glory and Victory!" shouted he, in husky tones, as he sprang to his feet.



Chapter XXXII.

Honorable Mention.


The surgeon examined Tom's wound, and found that he had been struck by a bullet over the left temple. The flesh was torn off, and if the skull was not fractured, it had received a tremendous hard shock. It was probably done at the instant when he turned to rally the men of Company K, and the ball glanced under the visor of his cap, close enough to scrape upon his skull, but far enough off to save his brains. Half an inch closer, and the bullet would have wound up Tom's earthly career.

The shock had stunned him, and he had dropped like a dead man, while the profusion of blood that came from the wound covered his face, and his friends could not tell whether he was killed or not. He was a pitiable object as he lay on the ground by the surgeon's quarters; but the veteran soon assured himself that his young charge was not dead.

Hapgood washed the gore from his face, and did what he could in his unscientific manner; and probably the cold water had a salutary effect upon the patient, for when Hancock and Kearney had completed their work, and the cry of victory rang over the bloody field, he was sufficiently revived to hear the inspiring tones of triumph. Leaping to his feet, faint and sick as he was, he took up the cry, and shouted in unison with the victors upon the field.

But he had scarcely uttered the notes of glory and victory before his strength deserted him, and he would have dropped upon the ground if he had not been caught by Hapgood. He groaned heavily as he sank into the arms of his friend, and yielded to the faintness and exhaustion of the moment.

The surgeon said the wound was not a very bad one, but that the patient was completely worn out by the excessive fatigues of march and battle. In due time he was conveyed to the college building in Williamsburg, where hundreds of his companions in arms were suffering and dying of their wounds. He received every attention which the circumstances would permit. Hapgood, by sundry vigorous applications at headquarters, was, in consideration of his own and his protégé's good conduct on the battle field, permitted to remain with the patient over night.

The sergeant's skull, as we have before intimated, was not very badly damaged, as physical injuries were measured after the bloody battle of that day. But his wound was not the only detriment he had experienced in the trying ordeal of that terrible day. His constitution had not yet been fully developed; his muscles were not hardened, and the fatigues of battle and march had a more serious effect upon him than the ounce of lead which had struck him on the forehead.

The surgeon understood his case perfectly, and after dressing his wound, he administered some simple restoratives, and ordered the patient to go to sleep. On the night of the 3d of May, he had been on guard duty; on that of the 4th, he had obtained but three hours' sleep; and thus deprived of the rest which a growing boy needs, he had passed through the fearful scenes of the battle, in which his energies, mental and physical, had been tasked to their utmost. He was completely worn out, and in spite of the surroundings of the hospital, he went to sleep, obeying to the letter the orders of the surgeon.

After twelve hours of almost uninterrupted slumber, Tom's condition was very materially improved, and when the doctor went his morning round, our sergeant buoyantly proposed to join his regiment forthwith.

"Not yet, my boy," said the surgeon, kindly. "I shall not permit you to do duty for at least thirty days to come," he added, as he felt the patient's pulse.

"I feel pretty well, sir," replied Tom.

"No, you don't. Your regiment will remain here, I learn, for a few days, and you must keep quiet, or you will have a fever."

"I don't feel sick, and my head doesn't pain me a bit."

"That may be, but you are not fit for duty. You did too much yesterday. They say you behaved like a hero, on the field."

"I tried to do my duty," replied Tom, his pale cheek suffused with a blush.

"Boys like you can't stand much of such work as that. We must fix you up for the next battle; and you shall go into Richmond with the rest of the boys."

"Must I stay in here all the time?"

"No, you may go where you please. I will give you a certificate which will keep you safe from harm. You can walk about, and visit your regiment if you wish."

"Thank you, doctor."

Hapgood had been compelled to leave the hospital before his patient waked, and Tom had not yet learned any thing in regard to the casualties of the battle. Armed with the surgeon's certificate, he left the hospital, and walked to the place where the steward told him he would find his regiment. Somewhat to his astonishment he found that he was very weak; and before he had accomplished half the distance to the camp, he came to the conclusion that he was in no condition to carry a knapsack and a musket on a long march. But after resting himself for a short time, he succeeded in reaching his friends.

He was warmly received by his companions, and the veteran of the company had nearly hugged him in his joy and admiration.

"Honorable mention, Tom," said Hapgood. "You will be promoted as true as you live."

"O, I guess not," replied Tom, modestly. "I didn't do any more than any body else. At any rate, you were close by my side, uncle."

"Yes, but I followed, and you led. The commander of the division says you shall be a lieutenant. He said so on the field, and the colonel said so to-day."

"I don't think I deserve it."

"I do; and if you don't get a commission, then there ain't no justice left in the land. I tell you, Tom, you shall be a brigadier if the war lasts only one year more."

"O, nonsense, uncle!"

"Well, if you ain't, you ought to be."

"I'm lucky to get out alive. Whom have we lost, uncle?"

"A good many fine fellows." replied Hapgood, shaking his head, sadly.

"Poor Ben dropped early in the day."

"Yes, I was afraid he'd got most to the end of his chapter afore we went in. Poor fellow! I'm sorry for him, and sorry for his folks."

"Fred Pemberton said he should be killed, and Ben said he should not, you remember."

"Yes, and that shows how little we know about these things."

"Bob Dornton was killed, too."

"No, he's badly hurt, but the surgeon thinks he will git over it. The cap'n was slightly wounded." And Hapgood mentioned the names of those in the company who had been killed or wounded, or were missing.

"It was an awful day," sighed Tom, when the old man had finished the list. "There will be sad hearts in Pinchbrook when the news gets there."

"So there will, Tom; but we gained the day. We did something handsome for 'Old Glory,' and I s'pose it's all right."

"I would rather have been killed than lost the battle."

"So would I; and betwixt you and me, Tom, you didn't come very fur from losing your number in the mess," added the veteran, as he thrust his little fingers into a bullet hole in the breast of Tom's coat. "That was rather a close shave."

"I felt that one, but I hadn't time to think about it then, for it was just as we were repelling that flank movement," replied Tom, as he unbuttoned his coat, and thrust his hand into his breast pocket. "Do you suppose she will give me another?" he added, as he drew forth the envelope which contained the letter and the photograph of the author of his socks.

A minie ball had found its way through the envelope, grinding a furrow through the picture, transversely, carrying away the chin and throat of the young lady. The letter was mangled and minced up beyond restoration. Tom had discovered the catastrophe when he waked up in the hospital, for his last thought at night, and his first in the morning, had been the beautiful Lilian Ashford. He was sad when he first beheld the wreck; but when he thought what a glorious assurance this would be of his conduct on the field, he was pleased with the idea; and while in his heart he thanked the rebel marksman for not putting the bullet any nearer to the vital organ beneath the envelope, he was not ungrateful for the splendid testimonial he had given him of his position during the battle.

"Of course she'll give you another. Won't she be proud of that picture when she gets it back?"

"If I had been a coward, I couldn't have run away with those socks on my feet."

Tom remained with the regiment several hours, and then, in obedience to the surgeon's orders, returned to the hospital, where he wrote a letter to his father, containing a short account of the battle, and another to Lilian Ashford, setting forth the accident which had happened to the picture, and begging her to send him another.

I am afraid in this last letter Tom indulged in some moonshiny nonsense; but we are willing to excuse him for saying that the thought of the beautiful original of the photograph and the beautiful author of his socks had inspired him with courage on the battle field, and enabled him faithfully to perform his duty, to the honor and glory of the flag beneath whose starry folds he had fought, bled, and conquered, and so forth. It would not be unnatural in a young man of eighteen to express as much as this, and, we are not sure that he said any more.

The next day Tom was down with a slow fever, induced by fatigue and over-exertion. He lay upon his cot for a fortnight, before he was able to go out again; but he was frequently visited by Hapgood and other friends in the regiment. About the middle of the month, the brigade moved on, and Tom was sad at the thought of lying idle, while the glorious work of the army was waiting for true and tried men.

Tom received "honorable mention" in the report of the colonel, and his recommendation, supported by that of the general of the division, brought to the hospital his commission as second lieutenant.

"Here's medicine for you," said the chaplain, as he handed the patient a ponderous envelope.

"What is it, sir?"

"I don't know, but it has an official look."

The sergeant opened it, and read the commission, duly signed by the governor of Massachusetts, and countersigned and sealed in proper form. Tom was astounded at the purport of the document. He could hardly believe his senses; but it read all right, and dated from the day of the battle in which he had distinguished himself. This was glory enough, and it took Tom forty-eight hours thoroughly to digest the contents of the envelope.

Lieutenant Somers! The words had a queer sound, and he could not realize that he was a commissioned officer. But he came to a better understanding of the subject the next day, when a letter from Lilian Ashford was placed in his hands. It was actually addressed to "Lieutenant Thomas Somers." She had read of his gallant conduct and of his promotion on the battle field in the newspapers. She sent him two photographs of herself, and a sweet little letter, begging him to return the photograph which had been damaged by a rebel bullet.

Of course Tom complied with this natural request; but, as the surgeon thought his patient would improve faster at home than in the hospital, he had procured a furlough of thirty days for him, and the lieutenant decided to present the photograph in person.



Chapter XXXIII.

Lieutenant Somers And Others.


Tom Somers had been absent from home nearly a year; and much as his heart was in the work of putting down the rebellion, he was delighted with the thought of visiting, even for a brief period, the loved ones who thought of and prayed for him in the little cottage in Pinchbrook. I am not quite sure that the well-merited promotion he had just received did not have some influence upon him, for it would not have been unnatural for a young man of eighteen, who had won his shoulder-straps by hard fighting on a bloody field, to feel some pride in the laurels he had earned. Not that Tom was proud or vain; but he was moved by a lofty and noble ambition. It is quite likely he wondered what the people of Pinchbrook would say when he appeared there with the straps upon his shoulders.

Of course he thought what his father would say, what his mother would say, and he could see the wrinkled face of gran'ther Greene expand into a genial smile of commendation. It is quite possible that he had even more interest in his reception at No  --  --  Rutland Street, when he should present himself to the author and finisher of those marvellous socks, which had wielded such an immense influence upon their wearer in camp and on the field. Perhaps it was a weakness on the part of the soldier boy, but we are compelled to record the fact that he had faithfully conned his speech for that interesting occasion. He had supposed every thing she would say, and carefully prepared a suitable reply to each remark, adorned with all the graces of rhetoric within his reach.

With the furlough in his pocket, Tom obtained his order for transportation, and with a light heart, full of pleasant anticipations, started for home. As he was still dressed in the faded and shattered uniform of a non-commissioned officer, he did not attract any particular notice on the way. He was enabled to pass through Baltimore, Philadelphia, and New York, without being bored by a public reception, which some less deserving heroes have not been permitted to escape. But the people did not understand that Tom had a second lieutenant's commission in his pocket, and he was too modest to proclaim the fact, which may be the reason why he was suffered to pass through these great emporiums of trade without an escort, or other demonstration of respect and admiration.

Tom's heart jumped with strange emotions when he arrived at Boston, perhaps because he was within a few miles of home; possibly because he was in the city that contained Lilian Ashford, for boys will be silly in spite of all the exertions of parents, guardians, and teachers, to make them sober and sensible. Such absurdities as "the air she breathes," and other rhapsodies of that sort, may have flitted through his mind; but we are positive that Tom did not give voice to any such nonsense, for every body in the city was a total stranger to him, so far as he knew. Besides, Tom had no notion of appearing before the original of the photograph in the rusty uniform he wore; and as he had to wait an hour for the Pinchbrook train, he hastened to a tailor's to order a suit of clothes which would be appropriate to his new dignity.

He ordered them, was duly measured and had given the tailor his promise to call for the garments at the expiration of five days, when the man of shears disturbed the serene current of his meditations by suggesting that the lieutenant should pay one half of the price of the suit in advance.

"It is a custom we adopt in all our dealings with strangers," politely added the tailor.

"But I don't propose to take the uniform away until it is paid for," said Tom, blushing with mortification; for it so happened that he had not money enough to meet the demand of the tailor.

"Certainly not," blandly replied Shears; "but we cannot make up the goods with the risk of not disposing of them. They may not fit the next man who wants such a suit."

"I have not the money, sir;" and Tom felt that the confession was an awful sacrifice of dignity on the part of an officer in the army of the Potomac, who had fought gallantly for his country on the bloody fields of Williamsburg and Bull Run.

"I am very sorry, sir. I should be happy to make up the goods, but you will see that our rule is a reasonable one."

Tom wanted to tell him that this lack of confidence was not a suitable return of a stay-at-home for the peril and privation he had endured for him; but he left in disgust, hardly replying to the flattering request of the tailor that he would call again. With his pride touched, he walked down to the railroad station to await the departure of the train. He had hardly entered the building before he discovered the familiar form of Captain Barney, to whom he hastened to present himself.

"Why, Tom, my hearty!" roared the old sea captain, as he grasped and wrung his hand. "I'm glad to see you. Shiver my mainmast, but you've grown a foot since you went away. But you don't look well, Tom."

"I'm not very well, sir; but I'm improving very rapidly."

"How's your wound?"

"O, that's almost well."

"Sit down, Tom. I want to talk with you," said Captain Barney, as he led the soldier boy to a seat.

In half an hour Tom had told all he knew about the battle of Williamsburg, and the old sailor had communicated all the news from Pinchbrook.

"Tom, you're a lieutenant now, but you haven't got on your uniform," continued Captain Barney.

"No, sir," replied Tom, laughing. "I went into a store to order one, and they wouldn't trust me."

"Wouldn't trust you, Tom!" exclaimed the captain. "Show me the place, and I'll smash in their deadlights."

"I don't know as I blame them. I was a stranger to them."

"But, Tom, you mustn't go home without a uniform. Come with me, and you shall be fitted out at once. I'm proud of you, Tom. You are one of my boys, and I want you to go into Pinchbrook all taut and trim, with your colors flying."

"We haven't time now; the train leaves in a few moments."

"There will be another in an hour. The folks are all well, and don't know you're coming; so they can afford to wait."

Tom consented, and Captain Barney conducted him to several stores before he could find a ready-made uniform that would fit him; but at last they found one which had been made to order for an officer who was too sick to use it at present. It was an excellent fit, and the young lieutenant was soon arrayed in the garments, with the symbolic straps on his shoulder.

"Bravo, Tom! You look like a new man. There isn't a better looking officer in the service."

Very likely the subject of this remark thought so too, as he surveyed himself in the full-length mirror. The old uniform, with two bullet-holes in the breast of the coat, was done up in a bundle and sent to the express office, to be forwarded to Pinchbrook. Captain Barney then walked with him to a military furnishing store, where a cap, sword, belt, and sash, were purchased. For some reason which he did not explain, the captain retained the sword himself, but Tom was duly invested with the other accoutrements.

Our hero felt "pretty good," as he walked down to the station with his friend; but he looked splendidly in his new outfit, and we are willing to excuse certain impressible young ladies, who cast an admiring glance at him as he passed down the street. It was not Tom's fault that he was a handsome young man; and he was not responsible for the conduct of those who chose to look at him.

With a heart beating with wild emotion, Tom stepped out of the cars at Pinchbrook. Here he was compelled to undergo the penalty of greatness. His friends cheered him, and shook his hand till his arm ached.

Captain Barney's wagon was at the station, and before going to his own home, he drove Tom to the little cottage of his father. I cannot describe the emotions of the returned soldier when the horse stopped at the garden gate. Leaping from the vehicle, he rushed into the house, and bolted into the kitchen, even before the family had seen the horse at the front gate.

"How d'ye do, mother?" cried Tom, as he threw himself pell-mell into the arms of Mrs. Somers.

"Why, Tom!" almost screamed she, as she returned his embrace. "How do you do?"

"Pretty well, mother. How do you do, father?"

"Glad to see you," replied Captain Somers, as he seized his son's hand.

"Bless my soul, Tom!" squeaked gran'ther Greene, shaking in every fibre of his frame from the combined influence of rhapsody and rheumatism.

Tom threw both arms around Jenny's neck, and kissed her half a dozen times with a concussion like that of a battery of light artillery.

"Why, Tom! I never thought nothin' of seein' you!" exclaimed Mrs. Somers. "I thought you was sick in the hospital."

"I am better now, and home for thirty days."

"And got your new rig on," added his father.

"Captain Barney wouldn't let me come home without my shoulder-straps. I met him in the city. He paid the bills."

"I'll make it all right with him."

"I'll pay for it by and by. You know I have over a hundred dollars a month now."

"Gracious me!" ejaculated Mrs. Somers, as she gazed with admiration upon the new and elegant uniform which covered the fine form of her darling boy.

Presently Captain Barney came into the house, and for two hours Tom fought his battles over again, to the great satisfaction of his partial auditors. The day passed off amid the mutual rejoicings of the parties; and the pleasure of the occasion was only marred by the thought, on the mother's part, that her son must soon return to the scene of strife.

The soldier boy -- we beg his pardon; Lieutenant Somers -- hardly went out of the house until after dinner on the following day, when he took a walk down to the harbor, where he was warmly greeted by all his friends. Even Squire Pemberton seemed kindly disposed towards him, and asked him many questions in regard to Fred. Before he went home, he was not a little startled to receive an invitation to meet some of his friends in the town hall in the evening, which it was impossible for him to decline.

At the appointed hour, he appeared at the hall, which was filled with people. The lieutenant did not know what to make of it, and trembled before his friends as he had never done before the enemies of his country. He was cheered lustily by the men, and the women waved their handkerchiefs, as though he had been a general of division. But his confusion reached the climax when Captain Barney led him upon the platform, and Mr. Boltwood, a young lawyer resident in Pinchbrook, proceeded to address him in highly complimentary terms, reviewing his career at Bull Run, on the Shenandoah, on the Potomac, to its culmination at Williamsburg, and concluded by presenting him the sword which the captain had purchased, in behalf of his friends and admirers in his native town.

Fortunately for Tom, the speech was long, as he was enabled in some measure to recover his self-possession. In trembling tones he thanked the donors for their gift, and promised to use it in defence of his country as long as a drop of blood was left in his veins -- highly poetical, but it required strong terms to express our hero's enthusiasm -- whereat the men and boys applauded most vehemently, and the ladies flourished their cambrics with the most commendable zeal. Tom bowed -- bowed again -- and kept bowing, just as he had seen General McClellan bow when he was cheered by the troops. As the people would not stop applauding, Tom, his face all aglow with joy and confusion, descended from the platform, and took his seat by the side of his mother.

The magnates of Pinchbrook then made speeches -- except Squire Pemberton -- about the war, patriotism, gunpowder, and eleven-inch shot and shells. Every body thought it was "a big thing," and went home to talk about it for the next week. Tom's father, and mother, and sister, and gran'ther Greene, said ever so many pretty things, and every body was as happy as happy could be, except that John was not at home to share in the festivities. Letters occasionally came from the sailor boy, and they went to him from the soldier boy.

Mrs. Somers was not a little surprised, the next day, to hear her son announce his intention to take the first train for the city; but Tom could not postpone his visit to No  --  --  Rutland Street any longer, for he was afraid his uniform would lose its gloss, and the shoulder-straps their dazzling brilliancy.

Tom's courage had nearly forsaken him when he desperately rang the bell at the home of Lilian Ashford; and he almost hoped the servant would inform him that she was not at home. Lilian was at home, and quaking like a condemned criminal before the gallows, he was ushered into the presence of the author of his socks.

Stammering out his name he drew from his pocket the battered photograph and the shattered letter, and proceeded at once to business. Lilian Ashford blushed, and Tom blushed -- that is to say, they both blushed. When he had presented his relics, he ventured to look in her face. The living Lilian was even more beautiful than the Lilian of the photograph.

"Dear me! So you are the soldier that wore the socks I knit," said Lilian; and our hero thought it was the sweetest voice he ever heard.

"I am, Miss Ashford, and I did not run away in them either."

"I'm glad you did not," added she, with a musical laugh, which made Tom think of the melody of the spheres, or some such nonsense.

"I have to thank you for my promotion," said Tom, boldly.

"Thank me!" exclaimed she, her fair blue eyes dilating with astonishment.

"The socks inspired me with courage and fortitude," replied Tom, in exact accordance with the programme he had laid down for the occasion. "I am sure the thought of her who knit them, the beautiful letter, and the more beautiful photograph, enabled me to do that which won my promotion."

"Well, I declare!" shouted Lilian, in a kind of silvery scream.

Bravo, Tom! you are getting along swimmingly. And he said sundry other smart things which we have not room to record. He stayed half an hour, and Lilian begged him to call again, and see her grandmother, who was out of town that day. Of course he promised to come, promised to bring his photograph, promised to write to her when he returned to the army -- and I don't know what he did not promise, and I hardly think he knew himself.

But the brief dream ended, and Tom went home to Pinchbrook, after he had sat for his picture. The careless fellow left Lilian's photograph on the table in his chamber a few days after, and his mother wanted to know whose it was; and the whole story came out, and Tom was laughed at, and Jenny made fun of him, and Captain Barney told him he was a match for the finest girl in the country. The lieutenant blushed like a boy, but rather enjoyed the whole thing.

A sad day came at last, and Tom went back to the army. He went full of hope, and the blessing of the loved ones went with him. He was received with enthusiasm by his old companions in arms, and Hapgood -- then a sergeant -- still declared that he would be a brigadier in due time, -- or, if he was not, he ought to be. His subsequent career, if not always as fortunate as that portion which we have recorded, was unstained by cowardice or vice.

<eob>

Both Sides The Border: A Tale Of Hotspur And Glendower

By

G. A. Henty



Chapter 1: A Border Hold.


A lad was standing on the little lookout turret, on the top of a border fortalice. The place was evidently built solely with an eye to defence, comfort being an altogether secondary consideration. It was a square building, of rough stone, the walls broken only by narrow loopholes; and the door, which was ten feet above the ground, was reached by broad wooden steps, which could be hauled up in case of necessity; and were, in fact, raised every night.

The building was some forty feet square. The upper floor was divided into several chambers, which were the sleeping places of its lord and master, his family, and the women of the household. The floor below, onto which the door from without opened, was undivided save by two rows of stone pillars that supported the beams of the floor above. In one corner the floor, some fifteen feet square, was raised somewhat above the general level. This was set aside for the use of the master and the family. The rest of the apartment was used as the living and sleeping room of the followers, and hinds, of the fortalice.

The basement -- which, although on a level with the ground outside, could be approached only by a trapdoor and ladder from the room above -- was the storeroom, and contained sacks of barley and oatmeal, sides of bacon, firewood, sacks of beans, and trusses of hay for the use of the horses and cattle, should the place have to stand a short siege. In the centre was a well.

The roof of the house was flat, and paved with square blocks of stone; a parapet three feet high surrounded it. In the centre was the lookout tower, rising twelve feet above it; and over the door another turret, projecting some eighteen inches beyond the wall of the house, slits being cut in the stone floor through which missiles could be dropped, or boiling lead poured, upon any trying to assault the entrance. Outside was a courtyard, extending round the house. It was some ten yards across, and surrounded by a wall twelve feet high, with a square turret at each corner.

Everything was roughly constructed, although massive and solid. With the exception of the door, and the steps leading to it, no wood had been used in the construction. The very beams were of rough stone, the floors were of the same material. It was clearly the object of the builders to erect a fortress that could defy fire, and could only be destroyed at the cost of enormous labour.

This was indeed a prime necessity, for the hold stood in the wild country between the upper waters of the Coquet and the Reed river. Harbottle and Longpikes rose but a few miles away, and the whole country was broken up by deep ravines and valleys, fells and crags. From the edge of the moorland, a hundred yards from the outer wall, the ground dropped sharply down into the valley, where the two villages of Yardhope lay on a little burn running into the Coquet.

In other directions the moor extended for a distance of nearly a mile. On this two or three score of cattle, and a dozen shaggy little horses, were engaged in an effort to keep life together, upon the rough herbage that grew among the heather and blocks of stones, scattered everywhere.

Presently the lad caught sight of the flash of the sun, which had but just risen behind him, on a spearhead at the western edge of the moor. He ran down at once, from his post, to the principal room.

"They are coming, Mother," he exclaimed. "I have just seen the sun glint on a spearhead."

"I trust that they are all there," she said, and then turned to two women by the fire, and bade them put on more wood and get the pots boiling.

"Go up again, Oswald; and, as soon as you can make out your father's figure, bring me down news. I have not closed an eye for the last two nights, for 'tis a more dangerous enterprise than usual on which they have gone."

"Father always comes home all right, Mother," the boy said confidently, "and they have a strong band this time. They were to have been joined by Thomas Gray and his following, and Forster of Currick, and John Liddel, and Percy Hope of Bilderton. They must have full sixty spears. The Bairds are like to pay heavily for their last raid hither."

Dame Forster did not reply, and Oswald ran up again to the lookout. By this time the party for whom he was watching had reached the moor. It consisted of twelve or fourteen horsemen, all clad in dark armour, carrying very long spears and mounted on small, but wiry, horses. They were driving before them a knot of some forty or fifty cattle, and three of them led horses carrying heavy burdens. Oswald's quick eye noticed that four of the horsemen were not carrying their spears.

"They are three short of their number," he said to himself, "and those four must all be sorely wounded. Well, it might have been worse."

Oswald had been brought up to regard forays and attacks as ordinary incidents of life. Watch and ward were always kept in the little fortalice, especially when the nights were dark and misty, for there was never any saying when a party of Scottish borderers might make an attack; for the truces, so often concluded between the border wardens, had but slight effect on the prickers, as the small chieftains on both sides were called, who maintained a constant state of warfare against each other.

The Scotch forays were more frequent than those from the English side of the border; not because the people were more warlike, but because they were poorer, and depended more entirely upon plunder for their subsistence. There was but little difference of race between the peoples on the opposite side of the border. Both were largely of mixed Danish and Anglo-Saxon blood; for, when William the Conqueror carried fire and sword through Northumbria, great numbers of the inhabitants moved north, and settled in the district beyond the reach of the Norman arms.

On the English side of the border the population were, in time, leavened by Norman blood; as the estates were granted by William to his barons. These often married the heiresses of the dispossessed families, while their followers found wives among the native population.

The frequent wars with the Scots, in which every man capable of bearing arms in the Northern Counties had to take part; and the incessant border warfare, maintained a most martial spirit among the population, who considered retaliation for injuries received to be a natural and lawful act. This was, to some extent, heightened by the fact that the terms of many of the truces specifically permitted those who had suffered losses on either side to pursue their plunderers across the border. These raids were not accompanied by bloodshed, except when resistance was made; for between the people, descended as they were from a common stock, there was no active animosity, and at ordinary times there was free and friendly intercourse between them.

There were, however, many exceptions to the rule that unresisting persons were not injured. Between many families on opposite sides of the border there existed blood feuds, arising from the fact that members of one or the other had been killed in forays; and in these cases bitter and bloody reprisals were made, on either side. The very border line was ill defined, and people on one side frequently settled on the other, as is shown by the fact that several of the treaties contained provisions that those who had so moved might change their nationality, and be accounted as Scotch or Englishmen, as the case might be.

Between the Forsters and the Bairds such a feud had existed for three generations. It had begun in a raid by the latter. The Forster of that time had repulsed the attack, and had with his own hand killed one of the Bairds. Six months later he was surprised and killed on his own hearthstone, at a time when his son and most of his retainers were away on a raid. From that time the animosity between the two families had been unceasing, and several lives had been lost on both sides. The Bairds with a large party had, three months before, carried fire and sword through the district bordering on the main road, as far as Elsdon on the east, and Alwinton on the north. News of their coming had, however, preceded them. The villagers of Yardhope had just time to take refuge at Forster's hold, and had repulsed the determined attacks made upon it; until Sir Robert Umfraville brought a strong party to their assistance, and drove the Bairds back towards the frontier.

The present raid, from which the party was returning, had been organized partly to recoup those who took part in it for the loss of their cattle on that occasion, and partly to take vengeance upon the Bairds. As was the custom on both sides of the border, these expeditions were generally composed of members of half a dozen families, with their followers; the one who was, at once, most energetic and best acquainted with the intricacies of the country, and the paths across fells and moors, being chosen as leader.

Presently, Oswald Forster saw one of the party wave his hand; and at his order four or five of the horsemen rode out, and began to drive the scattered cattle and horses towards the house. Oswald at once ran down.

"Father is all right, Mother. He has just given orders to the men, and they are driving all the animals in, so I suppose that the Bairds must be in pursuit. I had better tell the men to get on their armour."

Without waiting for an answer, he told six men, who were eating their breakfast at the farther end of the room, to make an end of their meal, and get on their steel caps and breast and back pieces, and take their places in the turret over the gate into the yard. In a few minutes the animals began to pour in, first those of the homestead, then the captured herd, weary and exhausted with their long and hurried journey; then came the master, with his followers.

Mary Forster and her son stood at the top of the steps, ready to greet him. The gate into the yard was on the opposite side to that of the doorway of the fortalice, in order that assailants who had carried it should have to pass round under the fire of the archers in the turrets, before they could attack the building itself.

She gave a little cry as her husband came up. His left arm was in a sling, his helmet was cleft through, and a bandage showed beneath it.

"Do not be afraid, wife," he said cheerily. "We have had hotter work than we expected; but, so far as I am concerned, there is no great harm done. I am sorry to say that we have lost Long Hal, and Rob Finch, and Smedley. Two or three others are sorely wounded, and I fancy few have got off altogether scatheless.

"All went well, until we stopped to wait for daybreak, three miles from Allan Baird's place. Some shepherd must have got sight of us as we halted, for we found him and his men up and ready. They had not had time, however, to drive in the cattle; and seeing that we should like enough have the Bairds swarming down upon us, before we could take Allan's place, we contented ourselves with gathering the cattle and driving them off. There were about two hundred of them.

"We went fast, but in two hours we saw the Bairds coming in pursuit; and as it was clear that they would overtake us, hampered as we were with the cattle, we stood and made defence. There was not much difference in numbers, for the Bairds had not had time to gather in all their strength. The fight was a stiff one. On our side Percy Hope was killed, and John Liddel so sorely wounded that there is no hope of his life. We had sixteen men killed outright, and few of us but are more or less scarred. On their side Allan Baird was killed; and John was smitten down, but how sorely wounded I cannot say for certain, for they put him on a horse, and took him away at once. They left twenty behind them on the ground dead; and the rest, finding that we were better men than they, rode off again.

"William Baird himself had not come up. His hold was too far for the news to have reached him, as we knew well enough; but doubtless he came up, with his following, a few hours after we had beaten his kinsmen. But we have ridden too fast for him to overtake us. We struck off north as soon as we crossed the border, travelled all night by paths by which they will find it difficult to follow or track us, especially as we broke up into four parties, and each chose their own way.

"I have driven all our cattle in, in case they should make straight here, after losing our track. Of course, there were many who fought against us who know us all well; but even were it other than the Bairds we had despoiled, they would hardly follow us so far across the border to fetch their cattle.

"As for the Bairds, the most notorious of the Scottish raiders, for them to claim the right of following would be beyond all bearing. Why, I don't believe there was a head of cattle among the whole herd that had not been born, and bred, on this side of the border. It is we who have been fetching back stolen goods."

By this time, he and his men had entered the house, and those who had gone through the fray scatheless were, assisted by the women, removing the armour from their wounded comrades. Those who had been forced to relinquish their spears were first attended to.

There was no thought of sending for a leech. Every man and woman within fifty miles of the border was accustomed to the treatment of wounds, and in every hold was a store of bandages, styptics, and unguents ready for instant use. Most of the men were very sorely wounded; and had they been of less hardy frame, and less inured to hardships, could not have supported the long ride. John Forster, before taking off his own armour, saw that their wounds were first attended to by his wife and her women.

"I think they will all do," he said, "and that they will live to strike another blow at the Bairds, yet.

"Now, Oswald, unbuckle my harness. Your mother will bandage up my arm and head, and Elspeth shall bring up a full tankard from below, for each of us. A draught of beer will do as much good as all the salves and medicaments.

"Do you take the first drink, Jock Samlen, and then go up to the watchtower. I see the men have been posted in the wall turrets. One of them shall relieve you, shortly."

As soon as the wounds were dressed, bowls of porridge were served round; then one of the men who had remained at home was posted at the lookout; and, after the cattle had been seen to, all who had been on the road stretched themselves on some rushes at one end of the room, and were, in a few minutes, sound asleep.

"I wonder whether we shall ever have peace in the land, Oswald," his mother said with a sigh; as, having seen that the women had all in readiness for the preparation of the midday meal, she sat down on a low stool, by his side.

"I don't see how we ever can have, Mother, until either we conquer Scotland, or the Scotch shall be our masters. It is not our fault. They are ever raiding and plundering, and heed not the orders of Douglas, or the other Lords of the Marches."

"We are almost as bad as they are, Oswald."

"Nay, Mother, we do but try to take back our own; as father well said, the cattle that were brought in are all English, that have been taken from us by the Bairds; and we do but pay them back in their own coin. It makes but little difference whether we are at war or peace. These reiving caterans are ever on the move. It was but last week that Adam Gordon and his bands wasted Tynedale, as far as Bellingham; and carried off, they say, two thousand head of cattle, and slew many of the people. If we did not cross the border sometimes, and give them a lesson, they would become so bold that there would be no limit to their raids."

"That is all true enough, Oswald, but it is hard that we should always require to be on the watch, and that no one within forty miles of the border can, at any time, go to sleep with the surety that he will not, ere morning, hear the raiders knocking at his gate."

"Methinks that it would be dull, were there nought to do but to look after the cattle," Oswald replied.

It seemed to him, bred up as he had been amid constant forays and excitements, that the state of things was a normal one; and that it was natural that a man should need to have his spear ever ready at hand, and to give or take hard blows.

"Besides," he went on, "though we carry off each others' cattle, and fetch them home again, we are not bad friends while the truces hold, save in the case of those who have blood feuds. It was but last week that Allan Armstrong and his two sisters were staying here with us; and I promised that, ere long, I would ride across the border and spend a week with them."

"Yes, but that makes it all the worse. Adam Armstrong married my sister Elizabeth, whom he first met at Goddington fair; and, indeed, there are few families, on either side of the border, who have not both English and Scotch blood in their veins. It is natural we should be friends, seeing how often we have held Berwick, Roxburgh, and Dumfries; and how often, in times of peace, Scotchmen come across the border to trade at the fairs. Why should it not be so, when we speak the same tongue and, save for the border line, are one people? Though, indeed, it is different in Kirkcudbright and Wigtown, where they are Galwegians, and their tongue is scarce understood by the border Scots. 'Tis strange that those on one side of the border, and those on the other, cannot keep the peace towards each other."

"But save when the kingdoms are at war, Mother, we do keep the peace, except in the matter of cattle lifting; and bear no enmity towards each other, save when blood is shed. In wartime each must, of course, fight for his nation and as his lord orders him. We have wasted Scotland again and again, from end to end; and they have swept the Northern Counties well nigh as often.

"I have heard father say that, eight times in the last hundred years, this hold has been levelled to the ground. It only escaped, last time, because he built it so strongly of stone that they could not fire it; and it would have taken them almost as long, to pick it to pieces, as it took him to build it."

"Yes, that was when you were an infant, Oswald. When we heard the Scotch army was marching this way, we took refuge with all the cattle and horses among the Pikes; having first carried out and burnt all the forage and stores, and leaving nothing that they could set fire to. Your father has often laughed at the thought of how angry they must have been, when they found that there was no mischief that they could do; for, short of a long stay, which they never make, there was no way in which they could damage it. Ours was the only house that escaped scot free, for thirty miles round.

"But indeed, 'tis generally but parties of pillagers who trouble this part of the country, even when they invade England. There is richer booty, by far, to be gathered in Cumberland and Durham; for here we have nought but our cattle and horses, and of these they have as many on their side of the border. It is the plunder of the towns that chiefly attracts them, and while they go past here empty handed, they always carry great trains of booty on their backward way."

"Still, it would be dull work if there were no fighting, Mother."

"There is no fighting in Southern England, Oswald, save for those who go across the sea to fight the French; and yet, I suppose they find life less dull than we do. They have more to do. Here there is little tillage, the country is poor; and who would care to break up the land and to raise crops, when any night your ricks might be in flames, and your granaries plundered? Thus there is nought for us to do but to keep cattle, which need but little care and attention, and which can be driven off to the fells when the Scots make a great raid. But in the south, as I have heard, there is always much for farmers to attend to; and those who find life dull can always enter the service of some warlike lord, and follow him across the sea."

Oswald shook his head. The quiet pursuits of a farmer seemed to him to be but a poor substitute for the excitement of border war.

"It may be as you say, Mother; but for my part, I would rather enter the service of the Percys, and gain honour under their banner, than remain here day after day, merely giving aid in driving the cattle in and out, and wondering when the Bairds are coming this way, again."

His mother shook her head. Her father and two brothers had both been slain, the last time a Scottish army had crossed the border; and although she naturally did not regard constant troubles in the same light in which a southern woman would have viewed them, she still longed for peace and quiet; and was in constant fear that sooner or later the feud with the Bairds, who were a powerful family, would cost her husband his life.

Against open force she had little fear. The hold could resist an attack for days, and long ere it yielded, help would arrive; but although the watch was vigilant, and every precaution taken, it might be captured by a sudden night attack. William Baird had, she knew, sworn a great oath that Yardhope Hold should one day be destroyed; and the Forsters wiped out, root and branch. And the death of his cousin Allan, in the last raid, would surely fan the fire of his hatred against them.

"One never can say what may happen," she said, after a pause; "but if at any time evil should befall us, and you escape, remember that your uncle Alwyn is in Percy's service; and you cannot do better than go to him, and place yourself under his protection, and act as he may advise you. I like not the thought that you should become a man-at-arms; and yet methinks that it is no more dangerous than that of a householder on the fells. At least, in a strong castle a man can sleep without fear; whereas none can say as much, here."

"If aught should happen to my father and you, Mother, you may be sure that I should share in it. The Bairds would spare no one, if they captured the hold. And although Father will not, as yet, take me with him on his forays, I should do my share of fighting, if the hold were attacked."

"I am sure that you would, Oswald; and were it captured I have no doubt that, as you say, you would share our fate. I speak not with any thought that it is likely things will turn out as I say; but they may do so, and therefore I give you my advice, to seek out your uncle. As to a capture of our hold, of that I have generally but little fear; but the fact that your father has been wounded, and three of his men killed, and that another Baird has fallen, has brought the possibility that it may happen more closely to my mind, this morning, than usual.

"Now, my boy, you had best spend an hour in cleaning up your father's armour and arms. The steel cap must go to the armourer at Alwinton, for repair; but you can get some of the dints out of his breast and back pieces, and can give them a fresh coat of black paint;" for the borderers usually darkened their armour so that, in their raids, their presence should not be betrayed by the glint of sun or moon upon them.

Oswald at once took up the armour, and went down the steps into the courtyard, so that the sound of his hammer should not disturb the sleepers. As, with slight but often repeated blows, he got out the dents that had been made in the fray, he thought over what his mother had been saying. To him also the death of three of the men, who had for years been his companions, came as a shock. It was seldom, indeed, that the forays for cattle lifting had such serious consequences. As a rule they were altogether bloodless; and it was only because of the long feud with the Bairds, and the fact that some warning of the coming of the party had, in spite of their precaution, reached Allan Baird; that on the present occasion such serious results had ensued.

Had it not been for this, the cattle would have been driven off without resistance, for Allan Baird's own household would not have ventured to attack so strong a party. No attempt would have been made to assault his hold; for he had often heard his father say that, even in the case of a blood feud, he held that houses should not be attacked, and their occupants slain. If both parties met under arms the matter was different; but that, in spite of the slaying of his own father by them, he would not kill even a Baird on his hearthstone.

Still, a Baird had been killed, and assuredly William Baird would not be deterred by any similar scruples. His pitiless ferocity was notorious, and even his own countrymen cried out against some of his deeds, and the Earl of Douglas had several times threatened to hand him over to the English authorities; but the Bairds were powerful, and could, with their allies, place four or five hundred men in the field; and, in the difficult country in which they lived, could have given a great deal of trouble, even to Douglas. Therefore nothing had come of his threats, and the Bairds had continued to be the terror of that part of the English border that was the most convenient for their operations.

Oswald was now past sixteen, and promised to be as big a man as his father, who was a fine specimen of the hardy Northumbrian race -- tall, strong, and sinewy. He had felt hurt when his father had refused to allow him to take part in the foray.

"Time enough, lad, time enough," he had said, when the lad had made his petition to do so. "You are not strong enough, yet, to hold your own against one of the Bairds' moss troopers, should it come to fighting. In another couple of years it will be time enough to think of your going on such an excursion as this. You are clever with your arms, I will freely admit; as you ought to be, seeing that you practise for two hours a day with the men. But strength counts as well as skill, and you want both when you ride against the Bairds; besides, at present you have still much to learn about the paths through the fells, and across the morasses. If you are ever to become a leader, you must know them well enough to traverse them on the darkest night, or through the thickest mist."

"I think that I do know most of them, Father."

"Yes, I think you do, on this side of the border; but you must learn those on the other side, as well. They are, indeed, of even greater importance in case of pursuit, or for crossing the border unobserved. Hitherto, I have forbidden you to cross the line, but in future Mat Wilson shall go with you. He knows the Scotch passes and defiles, better than any in the band; and so that you don't go near the Bairds' country, you can traverse them safely, so long as the truce lasts."

For years, indeed, Oswald, on one of the hardy little horses, had ridden over the country in company with one or other of the men; and had become familiar with every morass, moor, fell, and pass, down to the old Roman wall to the south, and as far north as Wooler, being frequently absent for three or four days at a time. He had several times ridden into Scotland, to visit the Armstrongs and other friends of the family; but he had always travelled by the roads, and knew nothing of the hill paths on that side. His life had, in fact, been far from dull, for they had many friends and connections in the villages at the foot of the Cheviots, and he was frequently away from home.

His journeys were generally performed on horseback, but his father encouraged him to take long tramps on foot, in order that he might strengthen his muscles; and would, not infrequently, give him leave to pay visits on condition that he travelled on foot, instead of in the saddle.

Constant exercise in climbing, riding, and with his weapons; and at wrestling and other sports, including the bow, had hardened every muscle of his frame, and he was capable of standing any fatigues; and although his father said that he could not hold his own against men, he knew that the lad could do so against any but exceptionally powerful ones; and believed that, when the time came, he would, like himself, be frequently chosen as leader in border forays. He could already draw the strongest bow to the arrowhead, and send a shaft with a strength that would suffice to pierce the light armour worn by the Scotch borderers. It was by the bow that the English gained the majority of their victories over their northern neighbours; who did not take to the weapon, and were unable to stand for a moment against the English archers, who not only loved it as a sport, but were compelled by many ordinances to practise with it from their childhood.

Of other education he had none, but in this respect he was no worse off than the majority of the knights and barons of the time, who were well content to trust to monkish scribes to draw up such documents as were required, and to affix their seal to them. He himself had once, some six years before, expressed a wish to be sent for a year to the care of the monks at Rothbury, whose superior was a distant connection of his father, in order to be taught to read and write; but John Forster had scoffed at the idea.

"You have to learn to be a man, lad," he had said, "and the monks will never teach you that. I do not know one letter from another, nor did my father, or any of my forebears, and we were no worse for it. On the marches, unless a man means to become a monk, he has to learn to make his sword guard his head, to send an arrow straight to the mark, to know every foot of the passes, and to be prepared, at the order of his lord, to defend his country against the Scots.

"These are vastly more important matters than reading and writing; which are, so far as I can see, of no use to any fair man, whose word is his bond, and who deals with honest men. I can reckon up, if I sell so many cattle, how much has to be paid, and more of learning than that I want not. Nor do you, and every hour spent on it would be as good as wasted. As to the monks, Heaven forfend that you should ever become one. They are good men, I doubt not, and I suppose that it is necessary that some should take to it; but that a man who has the full possession of his limbs should mew himself up, for life, between four walls, passing his time in vigils and saying masses, in reading books and distributing alms, seems to me to be a sort of madness."

"I certainly do not wish to become a monk, Father, but I thought that I should like to learn to read and write."

"And when you have learnt it, what then, Oswald? Books are expensive playthings, and no scrap of writing has ever been inside the walls of Yardhope Hold, since it was first built here, as far as I know. As to writing, it would be of still less use. If a man has a message to send, he can send it by a hired man, if it suits him not to ride himself. Besides, if he had written it, the person he sent it to would not be able to read it, and would have to go to some scribe for an interpretation of its contents.

"No, no, my lad, you have plenty to learn before you come to be a man, without bothering your head with this monkish stuff. I doubt if Hotspur, himself, can do more than sign his name to a parchment; and what is good enough for the Percys, is surely good enough for you."

The idea had, in fact, been put into Oswald's head by his mother. At that time the feud with the Bairds had burned very hotly, and it would have lessened her anxieties had the boy been bestowed, for a time, in a convent. Oswald himself felt no disappointment at his father's refusal to a petition that he would never have made, had not his mother dilated to him, on several occasions, upon the great advantage of learning.

No thought of repeating the request had ever entered his mind. His father had thought more of it, and had several times expressed grave regret, to his wife, over such an extraordinary wish having occurred to their son.

"The boy has nothing of a milksop about him," he said; "and is, for his age, full of spirit and courage. How so strange an idea could have occurred to him is more than I can imagine. I should as soon expect to see an owlet, in a sparrow hawk's nest, as a monk hatched in Yardhope Hold."

His wife discreetly kept silence as to the fact that she, herself, had first put the idea in the boy's head; for although Mary Forster was mistress inside of the hold, in all other matters John was masterful, and would brook no meddling, even by her. The subject, therefore, of Oswald's learning to read and write, was never renewed.



Chapter 2: Across The Border.


A most vigilant watch was kept up, for the next week, at Yardhope Hold. At night, three or four of the troopers were posted four or five miles from the hold, on the roads by which an enemy was likely to come; having under them the fleetest horses on the moor. When a week passed there was some slight relaxation in the watch, for it was evident that the Bairds intended to bide their time for a stroke, knowing well that they would not be likely to be able to effect a surprise, at present. The outlying posts were, therefore, no longer maintained; but the dogs of the hold, fully a dozen in number, were chained nightly in a circle three or four hundred yards outside it; and their barking would, at once, apprise the watchers in the turrets on the walls of the approach of any body of armed men.

Two days later, Oswald started for his promised visit to the Armstrongs. It was not considered necessary that he should be accompanied by any of the troopers, for Hiniltie lay but a few miles across the frontier. In high spirits he galloped away and, riding through Yardhope, was soon at Alwinton; and thence took the track through Kidland Lee, passed round the head of the Usmay brook, along the foot of Maiden Cross Hill, and crossed the frontier at Windy Guile. Here he stood on the crest of the Cheviots and, descending, passed along at the foot of Windburgh Hill; and by noon entered the tiny hamlet of Hiniltie, above which, perched on one of the spurs of the hill, stood the Armstrongs' hold. It was smaller than that of Yardhope, and had no surrounding wall; but, like it, was built for defence against a sudden attack.

Adam Armstrong was on good terms with his neighbours across the border. Although other members of his family were frequently engaged in forays, it was seldom, indeed, that he buckled on armour, and only when there was a general call to arms. He was, however, on bad terms with the Bairds, partly because his wife was a sister of Forster's, partly because of frays that had arisen between his herdsmen and those of the Bairds, for his cattle wandered far and wide on the mountain slopes to the south, and sometimes passed the ill-defined line, beyond which the Bairds regarded the country as their own. Jedburgh was but ten miles away, Hawick but six or seven, and any stay after the sun rose would speedily have brought strong bodies of men from these towns, as well as from his still nearer neighbours, at Chester, Abbotrule, and Hobkirk.

Oswald's approach was seen, and two of his cousins -- Allan, who was a lad of about the same age, and Janet, a year younger -- ran out from the house to meet him.

"We have been expecting you for the last ten days," the former exclaimed, "and had well nigh given you up."

"I hold you to be a laggard," the girl added, "and unless you can duly excuse yourself, shall have naught to say to you."

"My excuse is a good one, Janet. My father made a foray, a fortnight since, into the Bairds' country, to rescue some of the cattle they had driven off from our neighbours, some days before. There was a sharp fight, and Allan Baird was killed; and since then we have been expecting a return visit from them, and have been sleeping with our arms beside us. Doubtless they will come someday, but as it is evident they don't mean to come at present, my father let me leave."

"In that case we must forgive you," the girl said. "Some rumours of the fray have reached us, and my father shook his head gravely, when he heard that another Baird had been killed by the Forsters."

"It was not only us," Oswald replied. "There were some of the Liddels, and the Hopes, and other families, engaged. My father was chosen as chief; but this time it was not our quarrel, but theirs, for we had lost no cattle, and my father only joined because they had aided us last time, and he could not hold back now. Of course, he was chosen as chief because he knows the country so well."

"Well, come in, Oswald. It is poor hospitality to keep you talking here, outside the door."

A boy had already taken charge of Oswald's horse and, after unstrapping his valise, had led it to a stable that formed the basement of the house.

"Well, laddie, how fares it with you, at home?" Adam Armstrong said, heartily, as they mounted the steps to the main entrance. "We have heard of your wild doings with the Bairds. 'Tis a pity that these feuds should go on, from father to son, ever getting more and more bitter. But there, we can no more change a borderer's nature than you can stop the tide in the Solway. I hear that it was well nigh a pitched battle."

"There was hard fighting," Oswald replied. "Three of our troopers, and eight or ten of the others were killed. My father was twice wounded, one of the Hopes was killed, and a Liddel severely wounded. But from what they say, the Bairds suffered more. Had they not done so, there would have been a hot pursuit; but as far as we know there was none."

"The Bairds will bide their time," Armstrong said gravely. "They are dour men, and will take their turn, though they wait ten years for it."

"At any rate they won't catch us sleeping, Uncle; and come they however strong they may, they will find it hard work to capture the Hold."

"Ay, ay, lad, but I don't think they will try to knock their heads against your wall. They are more like to sweep down on a sudden, and your watchman will need keen eyes to make them out before they are thundering at the gate, or climbing up the wall. However, your father knows his danger, and it is of no use talking more of it. What is done is done."

"And how is your mother, Oswald?" Mistress Armstrong asked.

"She is well, Aunt, and bade me give her love to you."

"Truly I wonder she keeps her health, with all these troubles and anxieties. We had hoped that, after the meeting last March of the Commissioners on both sides, when the Lords of the Marches plighted their faith to each other, and agreed to surrender all prisoners without ransom, and to forgive all offenders, we should have had peace on the border. As you know, there were but three exceptions named; namely Adam Warden, William Baird, and Adam French, whom the Scotch Commissioners bound themselves to arrest, and to hand over to the English Commissioners, to be tried as being notorious truce breakers, doing infinite mischief to the dwellers on the English side of the border. And yet nothing has come of it, and these men still continue to make their raids, without check or hindrance, either by the Earl of March or Douglas."

"There are faults on both sides, wife," her husband said.

"I do not deny it, gudeman; but I have often heard you say these three men are the pests of the border; and that, were it not for them, things might go on reasonably enough, for no one counts a few head of cattle lifted, now and again. It is bad enough that, every two or three years, armies should march across the border, one way or the other; but surely we might live peaceably, between times. Did not I nearly lose you at Otterburn, and had you laid up on my hands, for well-nigh six months?"

"Ay, that was a sore day, for both sides."

"Will you tell me about it, Uncle?" Oswald asked. "My father cares not much to talk of it; and though I know that he fought there, he has never told me the story of the battle."

"We are just going to sit down to dinner, now," Adam Armstrong said, "and the story is a long one; but after we have done, I will tell you of it. Your father need not feel so sore about it; for, since the days of the Bruce, you have had as many victories to count as we have."

After dinner, however, Armstrong had to settle a dispute between two of his tenants, as to grazing rights; and it was not until evening that he told his story.

"In 1388 there were all sorts of troubles in England, and France naturally took advantage of them, and recommenced hostilities, and we prepared to share in the game. Word was sent round privately, and every man was bidden to gather, in Jedburgh forest. I tell you, lad, I went with a heavy heart, for although men of our name have the reputation of being as quarrelsome fellows as any that dwell on the border, I am an exception, and love peace and quiet; moreover, the children were but young, and I saw that the fight would be a heavy business, and I did not like leaving them, and their mother. However, there was no help for it, and we gathered there, over 40,000 strong. The main body marched away into Cumberland; but Douglas, March, and Moray, with 300 spears and 2000 footmen, including many an Armstrong, entered Northumberland.

"We marched without turning to the right or left, or staying to attack town, castle, or house, till we crossed the river Tyne and entered Durham. Then we began the war; burning, ravaging, and slaying. I liked it not, for although when it comes to fighting I am ready, if needs be, to bear my part, I care not to attack peaceful people. It is true that your kings have, over and over again, laid waste half Scotland; killing, slaying, and hanging; but it does not seem to me any satisfaction, because some twenty of my ancestors have been murdered, to slay twenty people who were not born until long afterwards, and whose forbears, for aught I know, may have had no hand in the slaughter of mine.

"However, having laden ourselves with plunder from Durham, we sat down for three days before Newcastle, where we had some sharp skirmishes with Sir Henry and his brother, Sir Ralph Percy; and in one of these captured Sir Henry's pennant.

"Then we marched away to Otterburn, after receiving warning from Percy that he intended to win his pennant back again, before we left Northumberland. We attacked Otterburn Castle, but failed to carry it, for it was strong and well defended. There was a council that night, and most of the leaders were in favour of retiring at once to Scotland, with the abundance of spoil that we had gained. But Douglas persuaded them to remain two or three days, and to capture the castle, and not to go off as if afraid of Percy's threats. So we waited all the next day; and at night the Percys, with 600 spears and 8000 infantry, came up. Our leaders had not been idle, for they had examined the ground carefully, and arranged how the battle should be fought, if we were attacked.

"Having heard nothing of the English, all day, we lay down to sleep, not expecting to hear aught of them until the morning. It was a moonlight night, and being in August, there was but a short darkness between the twilights; and the English, arriving, at once made an attack, falling first on the servants' huts, which they took for those of the chiefs. This gave us time to form up in good order, as we had lain down each in his proper position.

"A portion of the force went down to skirmish with the English in front, but the greater portion marched along the mountain side, and fell suddenly upon the English flank. At first there was great confusion; but the English, being more numerous, soon recovered their order and pushed us back, though not without much loss on both sides.

"Douglas shouted his battle cry, advanced his banner, fighting most bravely; as did Sir Patrick Hepburn, but for whose bravery the Douglas banner would have been taken, for the Percys, hearing the cry of 'a Douglas! a Douglas!' pressed to that part of the field, and bore us backwards. I was in the midst of it, with ten of my kinsmen; and though we all fought as became men, we were pressed back, and began to think that the day would be lost.

"Then the young earl, furious at seeing disaster threaten him, dashed into the midst of the English ranks, swinging his battle-axe and, for a time, cutting a way for himself. But one man's strength and courage can go for but little in such a fray. Some of his knights and squires had followed him, but in the darkness it was but few who perceived his advance.

"Presently three knights met him, and all their spears pierced him, and he was borne from his horse, mortally wounded. Happily the English were unaware that it was Douglas who had fallen. Had they known it, their courage would have been mightily raised, and the day would assuredly have been lost. We, too, were ignorant that Douglas had fallen, and still fought on.

"In other parts of the field March and Moray were holding their own bravely. Sir Ralph Percy, who had, like Douglas, charged almost alone into Moray's ranks, was sorely wounded and, being surrounded, surrendered to Sir John Maxwell. Elsewhere many captures were made by both parties; but as the fight went on the advantage turned to our side; for we had rested all the day before, and began the battle fresh, after some hours of sleep; while the English had marched eight leagues, and were weary when they began the fight.

"Sir James Lindsay and Sir Walter Sinclair, with some other knights who had followed Douglas, found him still alive. With his last words he ordered them to raise his banner, and to shout 'Douglas!' so that friends and foes should think that he was of their party. These instructions they followed. We and others pressed forwards, on hearing the shout; and soon, a large party being collected, resumed the battle at this point. Moray and March both bore their arrays in the direction where they believed Douglas to be battling, and so, together, we pressed upon the English so hardly that they retreated, and for five miles we pursued them very hotly. Very many prisoners were taken, but all of quality were at once put to ransom, and allowed to depart on giving their knightly word of payment within fifteen days.

"It was a great victory, and in truth none of us well knew how it had come about, for the English had fought as well and valiantly as we did ourselves; but it is ill for wearied men to fight against fresh ones. Never was I more surprised than when we found that the battle, which for a time had gone mightily against us, was yet won in the end. Methinks that it was, to a great extent, due to the fact that each Englishman fought for himself; while we, having on the previous day received the strictest orders to fight each man under his leader, to hold together, and to obey orders in all respects, kept in our companies; and so, in the end, gained the day against a foe as brave, and much more numerous, than ourselves."

"Thank you, Uncle Armstrong. I have often wondered how it was that the Percys, being three to one against you, were yet defeated; fighting on their own ground, as it were. 'Tis long, indeed, since we suffered so great a reverse."

"That is true enough, Oswald. In the days of Wallace and Bruce, we Scots often won battles with long odds against us; but that was because we fought on foot, and the English for the most part on horseback -- a method good enough on an open plain, but ill fitted for a land of morass and hill, like Scotland. Since the English also took to fighting on foot, the chances have been equal; and we have repulsed invasions not so much by force, as by falling back, and so wasting the country that the English had but the choice of retreating or starving.

"There is reason, indeed, why, when equal forces are arrayed against each other, the chances should also be equal; for we are come of the same stock, and the men of the northern marches of England, and those of Scotland, are alike hardy and accustomed to war. Were we but a united people, as you English are, methinks that there would never have been such constant wars between us; for English kings would not have cared to have invaded a country where they would find but little spoil, and have hard work to take it. But our nobles have always been ready to turn traitors. They are mostly of Norman blood and Norman name, and no small part of them have estates in England, as well as in Scotland. Hence it is that our worst enemies have always been in our midst.

"And now it is time for bed, or you will be heavy in the morning; and I know that you intend starting at dawn, with the dogs, and have promised to bring in some hares for dinner."

Not only Oswald and Allan, but Janet also was afoot early; and, after taking a basin of porridge, started for the hills, accompanied by four dogs. They carried with them bows and arrows, in case the dogs should drive the hares within shot.

Six hours later they returned, carrying with them five hares and a brace of birds. These had both fallen to Oswald's bow, being shot while on the ground; for in those days the idea that it was unsportsmanlike to shoot game, except when flying, was unknown.

For a week they went out every day, sometimes with the dogs, but more often with hawks; which were trained to fly, not only at birds in their flight, but at hares, on whose heads they alighted, pecking them and beating them so fiercely with their wings, that they gave time for the party on foot to run up, and despatch the quarry with an arrow.

Once or twice they accompanied Adam Armstrong, when he rode to some of the towns in the neighbourhood, and spent the day with friends of the Armstrongs there. For a fortnight, the time passed very pleasantly to the English lad; but, at the end of that time, Adam Armstrong returned from a visit to Jedburgh with a grave face.

"I have news," he said, "that your King Richard has been deposed; that Henry, the Duke of Lancaster, having landed in Yorkshire, was joined by Percy and the Earl of Westmoreland, and has been proclaimed king. This will cause great troubles in England, for surely there must be many there who will not tamely see a king dethroned by treasonable practices; and another, having no just title to the crown, promoted to his place.

"Such a thing is contrary to all reason and justice. A king has the same right to his crown as a noble to his estates, and none may justly take them away, save for treasonable practices; and a king cannot commit treason against himself. Therefore it is like that there will be much trouble in England, and I fear that there is no chance of the truce that concludes, at the end of this month, being continued.

"The fact that the two great northern lords of England are both, with their forces, in the south will further encourage trouble; and the peace that, with small intermissions, has continued since the battle of Otterburn, is like to be broken. Therefore, my lad, I think it best that you should cut short your visit, by a week, and you shall return and finish it when matters have settled down.

"Here in Scotland we are not without troubles. Ill blood has arisen between March and Douglas, owing to the Duke of Ramsay breaking his promise to marry the Earl of March's daughter, and taking Douglas's girl to wife. This, too, has sorely angered one more powerful than either Douglas or March -- I mean, of course, Albany, who really exercises the kingly power.

"But troubles in Scotland will in no way prevent war from breaking out with England. On the contrary, the quarrel between the two great lords of our marches will cause them to loose their hold of the border men, and I foresee that we shall have frays and forays among ourselves again, as in the worst times of old. Therefore, it were best that you went home. While these things are going on, the private friendship between so many families on either side of the border must be suspended, and all intercourse; for maybe every man on either side will be called to arms, and assuredly it will not be safe for one of either nation to set foot across the border, save armed, and with a strong clump of spears at his back."

"I shall be sorry, indeed, to go," Oswald said, "but I see that if troubles do, as you fear, break out at the conclusion of the peace, a fortnight hence -- "

"They may not wait for that," Adam Armstrong interrupted him. "A truce is only a truce so long as there are those strong enough to enforce it, and with Douglas and March at variance on our side, and Northumberland and Westmoreland absent on yours, there are none to see that the truce is not broken; and from what I hear, it may not be many days before we see the smoke of burning houses rising, upon either side of the border."

"The more reason for my going home," Oswald said. "My father is not likely to be last in a fray, and assuredly he would not like me to be away across the border when swords are drawn. I am very sorry, but I see that there is no help for it; and tomorrow, at daybreak, I will start for home."

That evening was the dullest Oswald had spent, during his visit. The prospect that the two nations might soon be engaged in another desperate struggle saddened the young cousins, who felt that a long time might elapse before they again met; and that in the meantime their fathers, and possibly themselves, might be fighting in opposite ranks. Although the breaches of the truces caused, as a rule, but little bloodshed, being in fact but cattle lifting expeditions, it was very different in time of war, when wholesale massacres took place on both sides, towns and villages were burned down, and the whole of the inhabitants put to the sword. Ten years had sufficed to soften the memory of these events, especially among young people, but each had heard numberless stories of wrong and slaughter, and felt that, when war once again broke out in earnest, there was little hope that there would be any change in the manner in which it would be conducted.

Oswald rode rapidly, until he had crossed the border. The truce would not expire for another thirteen days, but the raiders might be at work at any moment; for assuredly there would be no chance of complaints being made, on the eve of recommencement of general hostilities. He met no one on the road, until he reached the first hamlet on the English side. Here he stopped to give his horse half an hour's rest, and a feed. As he dismounted, two or three of the villagers came up.

"Have you heard aught, lad, of any gatherings on the other side of the border?"

"None from where I came; but there was a talk that notices had been sent, through the southern Scottish marches, for all to be in readiness to gather to the banner without delay, when the summons was received."

"That is what we have heard," a man said. "We have made everything in readiness to drive off our cattle to the fells; the beacons are all prepared for lighting, from Berwick down to Carlisle; and assuredly the Scotch will find little, near the border, to carry back with them.

"You are the son of stout John Forster of Yardhope Keep, are you not? I saw you riding by his side, two months since, at Alwinton fair."

"Yes, I was there with him."

"He will have hot work, if a Scotch army marches into Tynedale. The Bairds will be sure to muster strongly, and they won't forgive the last raid on them; and whichever way they go, you may be sure that your father's hold will receive a visit."

"It was but a return raid," Oswald said. "The Bairds had been down our way, but a short time before, and lifted all the cattle and horses that they could lay hands on, for miles round."

"That is true enough. We all know the thieving loons. But men remember the injuries they have suffered, better than those they have inflicted; and they will count Allan Baird's death as more than a set-off for a score of their own forays."

"If we have only the Bairds to settle with, we can hold our walls against them," Oswald said; "but if the whole of the Scotch army come our way, we must do as you are doing, drive the cattle to the hills, and leave them to do what harm they can to the stone walls, which they will find it hard work to damage."

"Aye, I have heard that they are stronger than ordinary; and so they need be, seeing that you have a blood feud with the Bairds. Well, they are not like to have much time to waste over it, for our sheriff has already sent word here, as to the places where we are to gather when the beacon fires are lighted; and you may be sure that the Percys will lose no time in marching against them, with all their array; and the Scots are like to find, as they have found before, that it is an easier thing to cross the border than it is to get back."

Late that evening, Oswald returned home. After the first greetings, his father said:

"It is high time that you were back, Oswald. Rumour is busy, all along the border; but for myself, though I doubt not that their moss troopers will be on the move, as soon as the truce ends, I think there will not be any invasion in force, for some little time. The great lords of the Scotch marches are ill friends with each other; and, until the quarrel between Douglas and Dunbar is patched up, neither will venture to march his forces into England. It may be months, yet, before we see their pennons flying on English soil.

"My brother Alwyn has been over here, for a day or two, since you were away. The Percys are down south, so he was free to ride over here. He wants us to send you to him, without loss of time. He says that there is a vacancy in Percy's household, owing to one of his esquires being made a knight, and a page has been promoted to an esquireship. He said that he spoke to Hotspur, before he went south, anent the matter; and asked him to enroll you, not exactly as a page, but as one who, from his knowledge of the border, would be a safe and trusty messenger to send, in case of need. As he has served the Percys for thirty years, and for ten has been the captain of their men-at-arms; and has never asked for aught, either for himself or his relations, Percy gave him a favourable answer; and said that if, on his return, he would present you to him, and he found that you were a lad of manners that would be suitable for a member of his household, he would grant his request; partly, too, because my father and myself had always been stanch men, and ready at all times to join his banner, when summoned, and to fight doughtily. So there seems a good chance of preferment for you.

"Your mother is willing that you should go. She says, and truly enough, that if you stay here it will be but to engage, as I and my forebears have done, in constant feuds with the Scots; harrying and being harried, never knowing, when we lie down to rest, but that we may be woke up by the battle shout of the Bairds; and leaving behind us, when we die, no more than we took from our fathers.

"I know not how your own thoughts may run in the matter, Oswald, but methinks that there is much in what she says; though, for myself, I wish for nothing better than what I am accustomed to. Percy would have knighted me had I wished it, years ago; but plain Jock Forster I was born, and so will I die when my time comes; for it would alter my condition in no way, save that as Jock Forster I can lead a raid across the border, but as Sir John Forster it would be hardly seemly for me to do so, save when there is open war between the countries.

"It is different, in your case; You are young, and can fit yourself to another mode of life; and can win for yourself, with your sword, a better fortune than you will inherit from me. Besides, lad, I am like enough, unless a Baird spear finishes me sooner, to live another thirty years yet; and it is always sure to lead to trouble, if there are two cocks in one farmyard. You would have your notions as to how matters should be done, and I should have mine; and so, for many reasons, it is right that you should go out into the world. If matters go well with you, all the better; if not, you will always be welcome back here, and will be master when I am gone.

"What say you?"

"It comes suddenly upon me, Father; but, as I have always thought that I should like to see something of the world beyond our own dales, I would gladly, for a time at least, accept my uncle's offer; which is a rare one, and far beyond my hopes. I should be sorry to leave you and my mother but, save for that it seems to me, as to you, that it would be best for me to go out into the world, for a time."

"Then that is settled, and tomorrow you shall ride to Alnwick and see, at any rate, if aught comes of the matter.

"Do not cry, Wife. It is your counsel that I am acting upon, and you have told me you are sure that it is best that he should go. It is not as if he were taking service with a southern lord. He will be but a day's ride away from us, and doubtless will be able to come over, at times, and stay a day or two with us; and once a year, when times are peaceable, you shall ride behind me, on a pillion, to see how things go with him at the Percys' castle. At any rate it will be better, by far, than if he had carried out that silly fancy of his, for putting himself in the hands of the monks and learning to read and write; which would, perchance, have ended in his shaving his crown and taking to a cowl, and there would have been an end of the Forsters of Yardhope.

"Now, put that cold joint upon the table, again. Doubtless the lad has a wolf's appetite."

There was no time lost. The next day was spent in looking out his clothes and packing his valise, by his mother; while he rode round the country, to say goodbye to some of his friends. The next morning, at daybreak, he started; and, at nightfall, rode into the castle of Alnwick, and inquired for Alwyn Forster. The two men-at-arms, who had regarded his appearance, on his shaggy border horse, with scarce concealed contempt; at once answered, civilly, that the captain would be found in his room, in the north turret. They then pointed out to him the stables, where he could bestow his horse; and, having seen some hay placed before it, and a feed of barley, to which the animal was but little accustomed, Oswald made his way up the turret, to the room in which his uncle lodged.

The stately castle, and the beauty, as well as the strength, of the Percys' great stronghold, had in no small degree surprised, and almost awed the lad, accustomed only to the rough border holds. It was situated on rising ground, on the river Aln; and consisted of a great keep, which dated back to the times of the Saxons; and three courts, each of which were, indeed, separate fortresses, the embattled gates being furnished with portcullises and strong towers. Within the circuit of its walls, it contained some five acres of ground, with sixteen towers, the outer wall being surrounded by a moat.

The Percys were descended from a Danish chief, who was one of the conquerors of Normandy, and settled there. The Percy of the time came over with William the Norman, and obtained from him the gift of large possessions in the south of England, and in Yorkshire; and, marrying a great Saxon heiress, added to his wide lands in the north.

One of the Percys, in the reign of Henry the Second, made a journey to Jerusalem, and died in the Holy Land. None of his four sons survived him. His eldest daughter Maud married the Earl of Warwick; but, dying childless, her sister Agnes became sole heir to the broad lands of the Percys. She married the son of the Duke of Brabant, the condition of her marriage being that he should either take the arms of the Percys, instead of his own; or continue to bear his own arms, and take the name of Percy. He chose the latter alternative. Their son was one of the barons who forced King John to grant the Magna Carta.

The Percys always distinguished themselves, in the wars against the Scot; and received, at various times, grants of territory in that country; one of them being made Earl of Carrick, when Robert the Bruce raised the standard of revolt against England.

Upon the other hand, they not unfrequently took a share in risings against the Kings of England; and their estates were confiscated, for a time, by their taking a leading part in the action against Piers Gaveston, the royal favourite.

It was in the reign of Henry the Second that the Percy of the time obtained, by purchase, the Barony of Alnwick; which from that date became the chief seat of the family. The present earl was the first of the rank, having been created by Richard the Second. He was one of the most powerful nobles in England, and it was at his invitation that Henry of Lancaster had come over from France, and had been placed on the throne by the Percys, and some other of the northern nobles; and, as a reward for his service, the earl was created High Constable of England.



Chapter 3: At Alnwick.


"You are rarely changed, Oswald," his uncle said, as the lad entered his apartment. "'Tis three years since I last saw you, and you have shot up nigh a head, since then. I should not have known you, had I met you in the street; but as I was expecting you, it is easy to recall your features. I made sure that you would come; for, although your father was at first averse to my offer, I soon found that your mother was on my side, and I know that, in the long run, my brother generally gives in to her wishes; and I was sure that, as you were a lad of spirit, you would be glad to try a flight from home.

"You are growing up mightily like your father, and promise to be as big and as strong as we both are. Your eyes speak of a bold disposition, and my brother tells me that you are already well practised with your arms.

"You understand that it is Sir Henry, whom they call Hotspur, that you are to serve. As to the earl, he is too great a personage for me to ask a favour from, but Sir Henry is different. I taught him the first use of his arms, and many a bout have I had with him. He treats me as a comrade, rather than as the captain of his father's men-at-arms, here; and when I spoke to him about you, he said at once:

"'Bring him here, and we will see what we can do for him. If he is a fellow of parts and discretion, I doubt not that we can make him useful. You say he knows every inch of our side of the border, and something of the Scottish side of it, his mother's sister being married to one of the Armstrongs. There is like to be trouble before long. You know the purpose for which I am going away; and the Scots are sure to take advantage of changes in England, and a youth who can ride, and knows the border, and can, if needs be, strike a blow in self defence, will not have to stay idle in the castle long. His father is a stout withstander of the Scots, and the earl would have given him knighthood, if he would have taken it; and maybe, in the future, the son will win that honour. He is too old for a page, and I should say too little versed in our ways for such a post; but I promise you that, when he is old enough, he shall be one of my esquires.'

"So you may soon have an opportunity of showing Hotspur what you are made of. And now, I doubt not that you are hungry. I will send down to the buttery, for a couple of tankards and a pasty. I had my supper two hours ago, but I doubt not that I can keep you company in another."

He went to the window, and called out, "John Horn!"

The name was repeated below, and in two minutes a servant came up. The captain gave him directions, and they shortly sat down to a substantial meal.

"The first thing to do, lad, will be to get you garments more suitable to the Percys' castle than those you have on; they are good enough to put on under armour, or when you ride in a foray; but here, one who would ride in the train of the Percys must make a brave show. It is curfew, now; but tomorrow, early, we will sally into the town, where we shall find a good choice of garments, for men of all conditions. You hold yourself well, and you have something of your mother's softness of speech; and will, I think, make a good impression on Sir Henry, when suitably clad.

"You see, there are many sons of knights, of good repute and standing, who would be glad, indeed, that their sons should obtain a post in Hotspur's personal following; and who might grumble, were they passed over in favour of one who, by his appearance, was of lower condition than themselves.

"John Forster is well known, on the border, as a valiant fighter, and a leading man in Coquetdale. It is known, too, that he might have been knighted, had he chosen; and doubtless there are many who, having heard that his hold is one of the strongest on the border, give him credit for having far wider possessions than that bit of moor round the hold, and grazing rights for miles beyond it. If, then, you make a brave show, none will question the choice that Hotspur may make; but were you to appear in that garb you have on, they might well deem that your father is, after all, but a moss trooper.

"He told me that you had, once, a fancy to learn to read and write. What put that idea into your head? I do not say that it was not a good one, but at least it was a strange one, for a lad brought up as you have been."

"I think, Uncle, that it was rather my mother's idea than my own; she thought that it might conduce to my advancement, should I ever leave the hold and go out into the world."

"She was quite right, Oswald; and 'tis a pity that you did not go, for a couple of years, to a monastery. It is a good thing to be able to read an order, or to write one, for many of the lords and knights can do no more than make a shift to sign their names. As for books I say nothing, for I see not what manner of good they are; but father Ernulf, who is chaplain here, tells me that one who gives his mind to it can, in a year, learn enough to write down, not in a clerkly hand, but in one that can be understood, any letter or order his lord may wish sent, or to read for him any that he receives.

"In most matters, doubtless, an order by word of mouth is just as good as one writ on vellum; but there are times when a messenger could not be trusted to deliver one accurately, as he receives it; or it might have to be passed on, from hand to hand. Otherwise, a spoken message is the best; for if a messenger be killed on the way, none are the wiser as to the errand on which he is going; while, if a parchment is found on him, the first priest or monk can translate its purport.

"The chaplain has two younger priests with him; and, should you be willing, I doubt not that one of these would give you instruction, for an hour or two of a day. The Percys may not be back for another month or two, and if you apply yourself to it honestly, you might learn something by that time."

"I should like it very much, Uncle."

"Then, so it shall be, lad. For two or three hours a day you must practise in arms -- I have some rare swordsmen among my fellows -- but for the rest of the time, you will be your own master. I will speak with father Ernulf, in the morning, after we have seen to the matter of your garments."

A straw pallet was brought up to the chamber; and, after chatting for half an hour about his visit to the Armstrongs, Oswald took off his riding boots and jerkin, the total amount of disrobing usual at that time on the border, and was soon asleep.

"I am afraid, Uncle," he said in the morning, "that the furnishment of the purse my father gave me, at starting, will not go far towards what you may consider necessary for my outfit."

"That need not trouble you at all, lad. I told your father I should take all charges upon myself, having no children of my own, and no way to spend my money; therefore I can afford well to do as I like towards you. Once the war begins, you will fill your purse yourself; for although the peoples of the towns and villages suffer by the Scotch incursions, we men-at-arms profit by a war. We have nought that they can take from us, but our lives, while we take our share of the booty, and have the ransom of any knights or gentlemen we may make prisoners."

Accordingly they went into Alnwick, and Alwyn Forster bought for his nephew several suits of clothes, suitable for a young gentleman of good family; together with armour, of much more modern fashion than that to which Oswald was accustomed. When they returned to the castle, the lad was told to put on one of these suits, at once.

"Make your old ones up in a bundle," his uncle said. "There may be occasions when you may find such clothes useful; though here, assuredly, they are out of place. Now, I will go with you to Father Ernulf."

The priest's abode was in what was called the Abbots' Tower, which was the one nearest to the large monastery, outside the walls.

"I told you, father," the captain said, "that belike my nephew would join me here, as I was going to present him to Sir Henry Percy. The good knight will not be back again, mayhap, for some weeks; and the lad has a fancy to learn to read and write, and I thought you might put him in the way of his attaining such knowledge."

"He looks as if the sword will suit his hand better than the pen," the priest said, with a smile, as his eye glanced over the lad's active figure. "But surely, if he is so inclined, I shall be glad to further his wishes. There is a monk at the monastery who, although a good scholar, is fitted rather for the army than the Church. He was one of our teachers, but in sooth had but little patience with the blunders of the children; but I am sure that he would gladly give his aid to a lad like this, and would bear with him, if he really did his best. I have nought to do at present, and will go down with him, at once, and talk to Friar Roger.

"If the latter would rather have nought to do with it, one of my juniors shall undertake the task; but I am sure that the friar would make a better instructor, if he would take it in hand.

"He is a stout man-at-arms -- for, as you know, when the Scots cross the border, the abbot always sends a party of his stoutest monks to fight in Percy's ranks; as is but right, seeing that the Scots plunder a monastery as readily as a village. Friar Roger was the senior in command, under the sub-prior, of the monks who fought at Otterburn, and all say that none fought more stoutly, and the monks were the last to fall back on that unfortunate day. They say that he incurred many penances for his unchurchly language, during the fight; but that the abbot remitted them, on account of the valour that he had shown."

Accordingly, the priest went off with Oswald to the monastery, while Alwyn Forster remained, to attend to his duties as captain of the men-at-arms. On his saying that he wished to see the friar Roger, the priest was shown into a waiting room, where the monk soon joined them.

He was a tall, powerful man, standing much over six feet in height, and of proportionate width of shoulders. He carried his head erect, and looked more like a man-at-arms, in disguise, than a monk. He bent his head to the priest, and then said in a hearty tone:

"Well, Father Ernulf, what would you with me, today? You have no news of the Scots having crossed the border, and I fear that there is no chance, at present, of my donning a cuirass over my gown?"

"None at present, brother, though it may well be so, before long. I hope that we shall soon have the earl and his son back again, for the Scots are sure to take advantage of their absence, now that the truce is expired.

"No, I want you on other business. This young gentleman is the nephew of Alwyn Forster, whom you know."

"Right well, Father; a good fellow, and a stout fighter."

"He is about to enter Sir Henry's household," the priest went on; "but, seeing that the knight is still away, and may be absent for some weeks yet, the young man is anxious to learn to read and write -- 

"Not from any idea of entering the Church," he broke off, with a smile, at the expression of surprise on the monk's face; "but that it may be useful to him in procuring advancement.

"I have, therefore, brought him to you; thinking that you would make a far better teacher, for a lad like him, than your brothers in the school. I thought perhaps that, if I spoke to the abbot, he might release you from your attendance at some of the services, for such a purpose."

"That is a consideration," the monk laughed.

"Well, young sir, I tell you fairly that among my gifts is not that of patience with fools. If you are disposed to work right heartily, as I suppose you must be, or you would not make such a request, I on my part will do my best to teach you; but you must not mind if, sometimes, you get a rough buffet to assist your memory."

"I should doubt whether a buffet, from you, would not be more likely to confuse my memory than to assist it," Oswald said, with a smile; "but at any rate, I am ready to take my chance, and can promise to do my best to avoid taxing your patience, to that point."

"That will do, Father," the monk said. "He is a lad of spirit, and it is a pleasure to train one of that kind. As to the puny boys they send to be made monks because, forsooth, they are likely to grow up too weak for any other calling, I have no patience with them; and I get into sore disgrace, with the abbot, for my shortness of temper."

"I am afraid, from what I hear," the priest said, shaking his head, but unable to repress a smile, "that you are often in disgrace, Brother Roger."

"I fear that it is so, and were it not that I am useful, in teaching the lay brothers and the younger monks the use of the carnal weapons, I know that, before this, I should have been bundled out, neck and crop. 'Tis hard, Father, for a man of my inches to be shut up, here, when there is so much fighting to be done, abroad."

"There is good work to be done, everywhere," the priest said gravely. "Many of us may have made a mistake in choosing our vocations; but, if so, we must make the best we can of what is before us."

"What time will you come?" the monk asked Oswald.

"My uncle said that he would suit my hours to yours; but that, if it was all the same to you, I should practise in arms from six o'clock till eight, and again for an hour or two in the evening; so that I could come to you either in the morning or afternoon."

"Come at both, if you will," the monk said. "If the good father can get me off the services, from eight till six, you can be with me all that time, save at the dinner hour. You have but a short time to learn in, and must give yourself heartily to it.

"There is the chapel bell ringing, now, and I must be off. The abbot will not be present at this service, Father; and if you will, you can see him now. I doubt not that he will grant your request, for I know that I anger him, every time I am in chapel. I am fond of music, and I have a voice like a bull; and, do what I will, it will come out in spite of me; and he says that my roaring destroys the effect of the whole choir."

So saying, he strode away.

"Do you wait outside the gates, my son," the priest said. "I shall be only a few minutes with the abbot; who, as Friar Roger says, will, I doubt not, be glad enough to grant him leave to abstain from attendance at the services."

In a short time, indeed, he rejoined Oswald at the gate.

"That matter was managed, easily enough," he said. "The abbot has, himself, a somewhat warlike disposition, which is not to be wondered at, seeing that he comes from a family ever ready to draw the sword; and he has, therefore, a liking for Friar Roger, in spite of his contumacies, breaches of regulations, and quarrels with the other monks. He is obliged to continually punish him, with sentences of seclusion, penance, and fasting; but methinks it goes against the grain. He said, at once, that he was delighted to hear that he had voluntarily undertaken some work that would keep him out of trouble, and that he willingly, and indeed gladly, absolved him from attendance in chapel, during the hours that he was occupied with you.

"'He is not without his uses,' he said. 'He is in special charge of the garden, and looks after the lay brothers employed in it. I will put someone else in charge, while he is busy, though I doubt if any will get as much work out of the lay brothers as he does; and indeed, he himself labours harder than any of them. With any other, I should say that tucking his gown round his waist, and labouring with might and main was unseemly; but as it works off some of his superabundant energy, I do not interfere with him.'"

"How ever did he become a monk, Father?"

"It seems that he was a somewhat sickly child, and his father sent him to the monastery to be taught, with a view to entering the Church. He was quick and bright in his parts, but as his health improved he grew restless, and at fifteen refused to follow the vocation marked out for him, and returned home; where, as I have heard, he took part in various daring forays across the border. When he was five-and-twenty, he was wounded well-nigh to death in one of these, and he took it as a judgment upon him, for deserting the Church; so he returned here, and became a lay brother. He was a very long time, before he recovered his full strength, and before he did so he became a monk, and I believe has bitterly regretted the fact, ever since.

"Some day, I am afraid, he will break the bounds altogether, throw away his gown, assume a breast plate and steel cap, and become an unfrocked monk. I believe he fights hard against his inclinations, but they are too strong for him. If war breaks out I fear that, some day, he will be missing.

"He will, of course, go down south, where he will be unknown; and where, when the hair on his tonsure has grown, he can well pass as a man-at-arms, and take service with some warlike lord. I trust that it may not be so, but he will assuredly make a far better man-at-arms than he will ever make a good monk."

The next morning, after practising for two hours with sword and pike, Oswald went down, at eight o'clock, to the monastery, and was conducted to friar Roger's cell. The latter at once began his instruction, handing him a piece of blackened board, and a bit of chalk.

"Now," he said, "you must learn to read and write, together. There are twenty-six letters, and of each there is a big one and a little one. The big ones are only used at the beginning of a sentence -- that is where, if you were talking, you would stop to take breath and begin afresh -- and also at the first letter of the names of people, and places.

"The first letter is 'A'. There it is, in that horn book, you see. It looks like two men, or two trees, leaning against each other for support; with a line, which might be their hands, in the middle.

"Now, make a letter like that, on your board. The little 'a' is a small circle with an upright, with a tail to it; you might fancy it a fish, with its tail turned up.

"Now, write each of those, twelve times."

So he continued with the first six letters.

"That will be as much as you will remember, at first," he said. "Now we will begin spelling with those letters, and you will see how they are used. You see, it is a mixture of the sounds of the two: 'b a' makes ba, and 'b e' be, 'c a' ca, 'd a' da, 'd e' de, and so on. Now, we will work it out."

Oswald was intelligent, and anxious to learn. He had been accustomed, when riding, to notice every irregularity of ground, every rock and bush that might serve as a guide, if lost in a fog, and he very quickly took in the instruction given him; and, by the time the convent bell rung to dinner, he had made a considerable progress with the variations that could be formed with the six letters that he had learned; and the friar expressed himself as highly satisfied with him.

"You have learned as much, in one morning, as many of the boys who attend schools would learn in a month," he said. "If you go on like this, I will warrant that, if Percy delays his return for two months, you will know as much as many who have been two years at the work. I have always said that it is a mistake to teach children young; their minds do not take in what you say to them. You may beat it into them, but they only get it by rote; and painfully, because they don't understand how one thing leads to another, and it is their memory only, and not their minds, that are at work."

The next day came news that the Scotch had crossed the border, and there was great excitement in the castle; but it was soon learned that the invasion was not on a great scale, neither the Douglases nor the Earl of March having taken part in it.

"There is no fear of our being attacked, here," Alwyn Forster said to Oswald. "The sheriffs of the county will call out their levies, and will soon make head against them. At the same time, we shall make preparations against any chance of their coming hither."

This was done. Vast quantities of arrows were prepared, stones collected and carried up to the points on the wall most exposed to attack; and orders sent out, by the governor of the castle in the Percys' absence, to the people for many miles round, that on the approach of the Scots all were to retire to refuge, the women and children taking to the hills, while the men capable of bearing arms were to hasten to the defence of the castle.

For a time, the Scots carried all before them, wasting and devastating the country. Oswald heard that they had captured, without resistance, his father's hold. He rejoiced at the news, for he feared that, not knowing the strength of the invading force, resistance might have been attempted; in which case all in the hold might have been put to the sword. He had no doubt, now, that his father and mother had retired with their followers to the hills, as they had always determined to do, in case of an invasion by a force too strong to resist.

Had the Percys been at home, they might have held out, confident that the Scotch would be attacked before they could effect its capture; but as all the northern lords, with their retainers, were away in the south, it would be some time before a force could be collected that could make head against the Scots.

A portion of the Scottish army laid siege to the castle of Wark, on the Tweed. This castle had always played a conspicuous part in the border wars. It had been besieged and captured by David of Scotland, in the reign of Stephen; and two or three years later was again besieged, but this time repulsed all attacks. David, after his defeat at the battle of the Standard, resumed the siege. It again repulsed all attacks, but at last was reduced to an extremity by famine, and capitulated.

The castle was demolished by the Scots, but was rebuilt by Henry the Second. In 1215 it was again besieged, this time by King John, who resented the defection of the northern barons; and it was captured, and again destroyed. In 1318 it was captured and destroyed by Robert Bruce. In 1341 it was besieged by David Bruce, but held out until relieved by King Edward, himself. In 1383 it was again besieged by the Scots, and part of its fortifications demolished. On the present occasion it was again captured, and razed to the ground.

Another portion of the Scottish army, plundering and burning, advanced along the valley of the Coquet. As they approached, the inhabitants of the district round Alnwick began to pour into the castle; but orders were issued that all the fighting men should join the force of Sir Robert Umfraville, the sheriff of the district, who was gathering a force to give the Scots battle.

"I fear that there is small chance of the Scots making their way hither," Oswald's instructor said, in lugubrious tones. "Sir Robert is a stout fighter, and the Scots, laden as they must be with booty, and having hitherto met with no resistance, will be careless and like to be taken by surprise. Methinks the abbot ought to send off a contingent, to aid Sir Robert."

Oswald laughed.

"I suppose he wants to keep them for more urgent work, and thinks that the Church should only fight when in desperate straits. However, Father, you may have an opportunity yet; for we cannot regard it as certain that Sir Robert will defeat the Scots."

Three days later, however, the news arrived that Sir Robert had attacked the Scots, at Fulhetlaw, and utterly defeated them; taking prisoner Sir Richard Rutherford and his five sons, together with Sir William Stewart, John Turnbull, a noted border reiver, and many others; and that those who had escaped were in full flight for the border.

The Scotch incursion had made no change in Oswald's work. He continued to study hard with the monk. As a rule, he fully satisfied his teacher; but at times, when he failed to name the letters required to make up a certain sound, the latter lost all patience with him; and, more than once, with difficulty restrained himself from striking him. Spelling in those days, however, had by no means crystallized itself into any definite form, and there was so large a latitude allowed that, if the letters used gave an approximate sound to the word, it was deemed sufficient.

The consequence was that Oswald's education progressed at a speed that would, in these more rigid days, be deemed impossible. He was intensely interested in the work, and even his martial exercises were, for the time, secondary to it in his thoughts. He felt so deeply grateful to his instructor that, even if he had struck him, he would have cared but little. In those days rough knocks were readily given, and the idea that there was anything objectionable, in a boy being struck, had never been entertained by anyone. Wives were beaten not uncommonly, servants frequently; and from the highest to the lowest, corporal punishment was regarded as the only way to ensure the carrying out of orders.

Oswald was slower in learning to write down the letters than he was to read them. His hands were so accustomed to the rein, the bow, and the sword that they bungled over the work of forming letters. Nevertheless, by the time the Percys returned, three months and a half after his arrival at the castle, he could both read and write short and simple words; and as these formed a large proportion of English speech, at the time, he had made a considerable step in the path of learning, and the monk was highly pleased with his pupil.

"I shall not be able to come tomorrow, Father," he said to the monk, one day. "The earl and Sir Henry will be back tonight, and my uncle says that I must keep near him, tomorrow; so that, if opportunity offers, he may present me to the knight."

"I feared it would come to that," the monk said. "I wish they had all stopped away, another three or four months; then you would have got over your difficulty of piecing together syllables, so as to make up a long word. 'Tis a thousand pities that you should stop altogether, just when you are getting on so well."

"I will come as often as I can, Father, if you will let me."

"No, no, lad. I know what it is, when the family are at home. It will be, 'Here, Oswald, ride with such a message;' or Hotspur, himself, may be going out with a train, and you will have to accompany him. There will always be something.

"Indeed, save but for your teaching, it is high time that the Percys were back again; for there has already been a great deal of hot work, on the border, and report says that the Scots are mustering strongly, and that there is going to be a great raid into Cumberland; so you will be busy, and so shall I. The lay brothers have made but a poor hand of it, while I have been busy. I went down in the evening, yesterday, to see them drill; and it was as much as I could do to prevent myself from falling upon them, and giving them a lesson of a different sort.

"As it was, I gave it to their instructor heartily, and was had up before the abbot on his complaint, this morning; and am to eat Lenten fare for the next ten days, which accords but ill either with my liking or needs."

In the evening, the courtyard was ablaze with torches as, amid the cheers of the garrison, the Earl of Northumberland and his son rode in, with a strong body of men-at-arms. The greater portion of the following with which they had met Henry of Lancaster on his landing, and escorted him to London, had long since returned to their homes; being released from service, when it was seen that no opposition was to be looked for from the adherents of Richard. The followings of the various nobles and knights of the northern counties had left the main body on the way home, and Northumberland had brought with him, to Alnwick, only the men-at-arms who formed the regular force retained under his standard.

Oswald was greatly struck with the splendid appearance, and appointments, of the earl and the knights who attended him, and with the martial array of his followers. Hitherto, he had seen but the roughest side of war; the arms and armour carried not for show, but for use, and valued for their strength, without any reference to their appearance. On the border there was not the smallest attempt at uniformity in appearance, polished armour was regarded with disfavour, and that worn was of the roughest nature, the local armourer's only object being to furnish breast and back pieces that would resist the strongest spear thrust. Of missiles they made little account, for the Scots had but few archers, and their bows were so inferior in strength, to those carried by the English archers, that armour strong enough to resist a spear thrust was amply sufficient to keep out a Scottish arrow.

There was not, even in the array of the Earl of Northumberland's men-at-arms, any approach to the uniformity that now prevails among bodies of soldiers. The helmets, breast and back pieces, were, however, of similar form, as the men engaged for continued service were furnished with armour by the earl; but there was a great variety in the garments worn under them, these being of all colours, according to the fancy of their wearers. All, however, carried spears of the same length, while some had swords, and others heavy axes at their girdles. The helmets and armour were all brightly polished, and as the lights of the torches flashed from them and from the spearheads; Oswald, for the first time, witnessed something of the pomp of war.

His uncle, as captain of the men-at-arms left in the castle, was invited to the banquet held after the arrival of the force. Oswald, therefore, was free to wander about among the soldiers, listening to their talk of what they had seen in London, and of the entertainments there in honour of the new king; exciting, thereby, no small amount of envy among those who had been left behind in garrison.

Oswald already knew that the earl had been appointed Constable of England, for life, and now heard that the lordship of the Isle of Man had since been conferred on him.



Chapter 4: An Unequal Joust.


"You must don your best costume tomorrow, Oswald," his uncle said, when he returned from the banquet. "Sir Henry Percy's first question, after asking as to the health of the garrison, was:

"'Has this nephew of yours, of whom you were speaking to me, come yet?'

"I told him that you had been here well-nigh four months, that you had been practising in arms with my best swordsmen, who spoke highly of you, and that the whole of your spare time had been spent at the monastery, where you had been studying to acquire the art of reading and writing, thinking that such knowledge must be useful to you in his service. I told him that brother Roger had reported that you had shown marvellous sharpness there, and could already read from a missal, barring only some of the long words.

"'Oh, he had the fighting monk for his master!' Sir Henry said, laughing. 'Truly he must have been a good pupil, if he has come out of it without having his head broken, a dozen times. The friar is a thorn in the abbot's flesh, and more than once I have had to beg him off, or he would have been sent to the monastery of Saint John, which is a place of punishment for refractory monks. But in truth he is an honest fellow, though he has mistaken his vocation. He is a valiant man-at-arms, and the abbot's contingent would be of small value, without him.

"'Well, I will see your nephew in the morning. His perseverance in learning, and his quickness in acquiring it, show him to be a youth of good parts, and intelligent; but until I see him, I cannot say what I will make of him.'"

Accordingly, the next morning the lad accompanied his uncle to Sir Henry's private apartment, and found the knight alone. Sir Henry, Lord Percy, was now about forty years old. He had received the order of knighthood at the coronation of Richard the Second, when his father was created earl; and, nine years later, he was made governor of Berwick and Warden of the Marches; in which office he displayed such activity in following up and punishing raiders, that the Scots gave him the name of Hotspur. He was then sent to Calais, where he showed great valour. Two years later he was made Knight of the Garter, and was then appointed to command a fleet, sent out to repel a threatened invasion by the French. Here he gained so great a success that he came to be regarded as one of the first captains of the age.

At Otterburn, his impetuosity cost him his freedom; for, pressing forward into the midst of the Scotch army, he and his brother Ralph were taken prisoners, and carried into Scotland. He had just been appointed, by King Henry, sheriff of Northumberland, and governor of Berwick and Roxburgh, and received other marks of royal favour.

Although of no remarkable height, his broad shoulders and long, sinewy arms testified to his remarkable personal strength. His face was pleasant and open, and showed but small sign of his impetuous and fiery disposition.

"So this is the young springal," he said, with a smile; as, with a quick glance, he took in every detail of Oswald's figure and appearance. "By my troth, you have not overpraised him. He bears himself well, and is like to be a stout fighter, when he comes to his full strength. Indeed, as the son of John Forster of Yardhope, and as your nephew, good Alwyn, he could scarce be otherwise; although I have not heard that either his father, or you, ever showed any disposition for letters."

"No indeed, Sir Henry; nor have we, as far as I have ever seen, been any the worse for our lack of knowledge on that head. But with the lad here, it is different. Under your good patronage he may well hope to attain, by good conduct and valour, a promotion where book learning may be of use to him; and therefore, when he expressed a desire to learn, I did my best to favour his design."

"And you did well, Alwyn. And since he has gained so much, in so short a time, it were a pity he should not follow it up; and he shall, if it likes him, so long as he is in this castle, have two hours every morning in which he can visit the fighting monk, until he can read and write freely.

"Now, young sir, the question is, how can we best employ you? You are too old for a lady's bower, but not old enough, yet, for an esquire."

"Nor could I aspire to such a position, my lord, until I have proved myself worthy of it. My uncle told me that he had suggested that I might be useful as a bearer of messages, and orders; and as I know every foot of the border, from near Berwick to Cumberland, methinks that I might serve you in that way. I ride lightly, know every morass and swamp, and every road through the fells; and have at times, when there was peace, crossed the Cheviots by several of the passes, to pay visits to my mother's sister, who is married to one of the Armstrongs, near Jedburgh. If your lordship will deign to employ me in such service, I can promise to do so safely, and to justify my uncle's recommendation; and shall be ready, at all times, to risk my life in carrying out your orders."

"Well spoken, lad. I like the tone of your voice, and your manner of speech. They are such as will do no discredit to my household, and I hereby appoint you to it; further matters I will discuss with your uncle."

Oswald expressed his thanks in suitable terms, and then, bowing deeply, retired.

"A very proper lad, Alwyn. I would have done much for you, old friend, and would have taken him in some capacity, whatever he might have turned out; but, frankly, I doubted whether John Forster, valiant moss trooper as he is, would have been like to have had a son whom I could enroll in my household, where the pages and esquires are all sons of knights and men of quality. It is true that his father might have been a knight, had he chosen, since the earl offered him that honour after Otterburn; for three times he charged, at the head of a handful of his own men, right into the heart of the Scottish army, to try and rescue me; but he has always kept aloof in his own hold, going his own way and fighting for his own hand; and never once, that I can recall, has he paid a visit to us here, or at our other seats. I feared that under such a training as he would be likely to have, the lad would have been but a rough diamond. However, from his appearance and bearing, he might well have come of a noble family."

"'Tis his mother's doing, methinks, Sir Henry. She is of gentle birth. Her father was Sir Walter Gillespie. He was killed by the Scots, when she was but a girl, or methinks he would scarcely have given her in marriage to my brother John. She went with a sister to live with an old aunt, who let the girls have their way, without murmur; and seeing that they had no dowry, for their father was but a poor knight, there were not many claimants for their hands; and when she chose John Forster, and her sister Adam Armstrong, she did not say them nay. She has made a good wife to him, though she must have had many an anxious hour, and doubtless it is her influence that has made the lad what he is."

"How think you I had best bestow him, among the pages or the esquires?"

"I should say, Sir Henry, as you are good enough to ask my opinion, that it were best among the esquires. It would be like putting a hunting dog among a lady's pets, to put him with the pages. Moreover, boys think more of birth than men do. The latter judge by merit, and when they see that the lad has something in him, would take to him; whereas were he with the pages there might be quarrels, and he might fall into disgrace."

"I think that you are right, Alwyn. He might get a buffet or two, from the esquires, but he will be none the worse for that; while with the pages it might be bickering, and ill will. He shall take his chance with the squires. Bring him to me at twelve o'clock, and I will myself present him to them, with such words as may gain their goodwill, and make the way as easy as may be for him."

Accordingly, at twelve o'clock, Oswald went to Hotspur's room, and was taken by him to the hall where the esquires, six in number, had just finished a meal. They varied in age from eighteen to forty. They all rose, as their lord entered.

"I wish to present to you this young gentleman, my friends. He is the son of John Forster of Yardhope, whose name is familiar to you all, as one of the most valiant of the defenders of the border against the Scottish incursions. None distinguished themselves more at the battle of Otterburn, where he performed feats of prodigious valour, in his endeavours to rescue me and my brother from the hands of the Scots. The earl my father offered him knighthood, but he said bluntly that he preferred remaining, like his father, plain John Forster of Yardhope. The lad's mother is a daughter of Sir Walter Gillespie, and he is nephew of Alwyn, captain of the men-at-arms here.

"He knows every foot of the border, its morasses, fells, and passes; and will prove a valuable messenger, when I have occasion to send orders to the border knights and yeomen. I have attached him to my household. You will find him intelligent, and active. He comes of a fighting stock; and will, I foresee, do no discredit to them in the future. I hesitated whether I should place him with the pages or with you, and have decided that, with your goodwill, he will be far more comfortable in your society, if you consent to receive him."

"We will do so willingly, on such recommendation," the senior of the esquires said; "as well as for the sake of his brave uncle, whom we all respect and like, and of his valiant father. The addition of young blood to our party will, indeed, not be unwelcome; and while, perchance, he may learn something from us, he will assuredly be able to tell us much that is new of the doings on the border, of which nothing but vague reports have reached our ears."

"Thanks, Allonby," Hotspur said. "I expected nothing less from you. He will, of course, practise at arms regularly, when not occupied in carrying messages; and you will be surprised to hear that he will go for two hours daily to the monastery, where he has, for the last three months, been learning reading and writing at the hands of Brother Roger, the fighting monk. It is his own desire, and a laudable one; and when I say that he has succeeded in giving Brother Roger satisfaction, you may well imagine that he must have made great progress."

A smile ran round the faces of the esquires, for Brother Roger's pugnacious instincts were widely known.

"Truly, Sir Henry, if brother Roger did not lose patience with him, it would be hard, indeed, if we could not get on with him; and in truth, this desire to improve himself speaks well for the lad's disposition."

When Hotspur left, Allonby said, "Take a seat, Master Oswald. But first, have you dined?"

"I took my meal an hour since, with my uncle," Oswald replied.

"Ay, I remember that your uncle sticks to the old hours. Tell us, were you with your father in that foray he headed, to carry off some cattle that had been lifted by the Bairds? We heard a report of it, last night."

"I was not with him, to my great disappointment; for he said that another year must pass, before I should be fit to hold my own in a fray. The affair was a somewhat hot one. Three of my father's men were killed, and some ten or twelve of those under other leaders; and my father and several of the band were wounded, some very sorely. It happened thus."

And he then told the details of the affair.

"It might well have been worse," Allonby said, "for, had the Bairds had time to assemble, it would have gone hardly with your father's party; especially as there is, as I have heard, a blood feud between him and them."

"They have scored the last success," Oswald said, "seeing that they accompanied Sir Richard Rutherford in his raid, nigh two months ago; and, as I hear, while the rest came on harrying and plundering Croquetdale, the Bairds and their gathering remained at our hold, which they found deserted, for indeed my father could not hope to defend it successfully, against so large a force; and there they employed themselves in demolishing the outer wall, and much of the hold itself; and would have completed their task, had it not been for the defeat inflicted upon the rest of the Scots by Sir Robert Umfraville, when they were forced to hasten back across the border. My father sent me a message afterwards, saying that he and my mother, with their followers, had been forced to take to the fells; and that, on their return, they found the place well-nigh destroyed; but that he was going to set to work to rebuild it as before, and that he hoped, some time, to demolish the Bairds' hold in like fashion. It will be some time before the place is restored; for, my father's means being limited, he and his retainers would have to turn masons; but as the materials were there, he doubted not that, in time, they would make a good job of it."

"Truly, it is a hard life on the border," the squire said, "and it is wonderful that any can be found willing to live within reach of the Scotch raiders. I myself have done a fair share of fighting, under our lord's banner; but to pass my life, never knowing whether I may not awake to find the house assailed, would be worse than the hardest service against an open foe.

"Now, Master Oswald, we will go down to the courtyard, and see what your instructors have done for you, in the matter of arms. With whom have you been practising, since you came here?"

"Principally with Godfrey Harpent, Dick Bamborough, and William Anell; but I have had a turn with a great many of the other men-at-arms."

"The three men you name are all stout fellows, and good swordsmen. As a borderer, I suppose that you have practised with the lance?"

"We call it by no such knightly term. With us it is a spear, and nought else; but all borderers carry it, both for fighting and for pricking up cattle; and from the time that I could sit a horse I have always practised for a while, every day, with some of my father's troopers, or with himself, using blunt weapons whitened with chalk, so as to show where the hits fell. Although in a charge upon footmen, our border spearmen would couch their weapons and ride straight at their foe; in skirmishes, where each can single out an enemy, and there is a series of single combats, they do not so fight, but circle round each other, trusting to the agility of their horses to avoid a thrust, and to deliver one when there is an opening. Our spears are nothing like so heavy as the knightly lances, and we thrust with them as with the point of a sword."

"But in that way you can hardly penetrate armour," one of the other esquires said.

"No, it is only in a downright charge that we try to do so. When we are fighting as I speak of, we thrust at the face, at the armpit, the joints of the armour, which in truth seldom fits closely, or below the breastplate. The Scotch use even less armour than do our borderers, their breast pieces being smaller, and they seldom wear back pieces. It is a question chiefly of the activity of the horses, as of the skill of their riders, and our little moor horses are as active as young goats; and although neither horse nor rider can stand a charge of a heavily-armed knight or squire, methinks that if one of our troopers brought him to a stand, he would get the better of him, save if the knight took to mace or battle-axe."

"Have you your horse with you, Oswald?"

"Yes, it is in the stable. I have gone out with it, every morning, as soon as the castle gates were opened, and have ridden for a couple of hours before I began my exercises."

"Do you take him in hand first, Marsden," Allonby said to one of the younger esquires, a young man of two or three and twenty.

Light steel caps with cheeks, gorgets, shoulder and arm pieces, and padded leathern jerkins were put on; and then, with blunted swords, they took their places facing each other. The squire took up a position of easy confidence. He was a good swordsman, and good-naturedly determined to treat the lad easily, and to play with him for a time before scoring his first hit.

He soon, however, found that the game was not to be conducted on the lines that he had laid down. Oswald, after waiting for a minute or two, finding his opponent did not take the offensive, did so himself; and for a time Marsden had all his work to do, to defend himself. Several times, indeed, it was with the greatest difficulty that he guarded his head. The activity of his assailant almost bewildered him, as he continually shifted his position, and with cat-like springs leapt in and dealt a blow, leaping back again before his opponent's arm had time to fall.

Finding at last that, quick as he might be, Marsden's blade always met his own, Oswald relaxed his efforts, as he was growing fatigued; and as he did so Marsden took the offensive, pressing him backwards, foot by foot. Every time, however, that he found himself approaching a barrier, or other obstacle, that would prevent his further retreat, Oswald, with a couple of springs, managed to shift his ground. When he saw that Marsden was growing breathless from his exertions, he again took the offensive, and at last landed a blow fairly on his opponent's helm.

"By my faith," the squire said, with a laugh that had nevertheless a little mortification in it, "I would as soon fight with a wildcat; and yet your breath scarce comes fast, while I have not as much left in me as would fill an eggshell."

"It was an excellent display," Allonby said.

"Truly, lad, your activity is wonderful, and you might well puzzle the oldest swordsman, by such tactics. Marsden did exceedingly well, too. Many times I thought that your sword would have gone home, but up to the last, his guard was always ready in time. As for yourself, we had scarce the opportunity of seeing how your sword would guard your head, for you trusted always to your legs, rather than your arms.

"Well, lad, you will do. Your arm is like iron, or it would have tired long before, with that sword, which is a little over heavy for you. As to your wind, you would tire out the stoutest swordsman in the Percys' train. I do not say that, in the press of a battle, where your activity would count for little, a good man-at-arms would not get the better of you; but in a single combat, with plenty of room, it would be a good man, indeed, who would tackle you; especially were he clad in armour, and you fighting without it. His only chance would be to get in one downright blow, that would break down your guard. As Marsden says, you fight like a wildcat, rather than as a man-at-arms; but as the time may come when you will ride in heavy armour, and so lose the advantage of your agility, you had best continue to practise regularly with us, and the men-at-arms, and learn to fight in the fashion that would be needed, were you engaged in a pitched battle when on horseback, and in armour."

"I shall be glad, indeed, to do so," Oswald said modestly. "I know that I am very ignorant of real swordsmanship, and the men-at-arms have me quite at their mercy, when they insist upon my not shifting my ground. At home, I have only practised with my father's troopers, and we always fight on foot, and with stout sticks instead of swords, and without defences save our head pieces; but fighting in knightly fashion I knew nothing of, until I came here."

"You will soon acquire that, lad. With your strength of arm, length of wind, quickness of eye, and activity, you will make a famous swordsman, in time.

"Ah! Here is Sir Henry."

"Have you been trying the lad's metal?" Hotspur asked, as he saw Oswald in the act of taking off his steel cap. Marsden had already done so.

"That have we, Sir Henry, and find it as of proof. Marsden here, who is no mean blade, has taken him in hand; and the lad has more than held his own against him, not so much by swordsmanship as by activity, and wind. It was a curious contest. Marsden compared Oswald to a wildcat, and the comparison was not an ill one; for, indeed, his springs and leaps were so rapid and sudden that it was difficult to follow him, and the fight was like one between such an animal, and a hound. Marsden defended himself well against all his attacks, until his breath failed him, and he was dealt a downright blow on his helm, on which I see it has made a shrewd dent. As for his blows, they fell upon air, for the lad was ever out of reach before the ripostes came. In his own style of fighting, I would wager on him against any man-at-arms in the castle."

"I am glad to hear it," Hotspur said. "I shall feel the less scruple, in sending him on missions which are not without danger. He will need training, to fit him for combat in the ranks. No doubt he has had no opportunity for such teaching, and would go down before a heavy-armed man, with a lance, like a blade of grass before a millstone."

"He thinks not, Sir Henry, at least not in a single combat, for by his accounts his horse is as nimble as himself; but of course, in charges he and his horse would be rolled over, as you say."

"He thinks not? Oh, well, we will try him! I have an hour to spare.

"Do you put on a suit of full armour, Sinclair, and we will ride out to the course beyond the castle.

"What will you put on, lad?"

"I will put on only breast piece and steel cap; but I only said I should have a chance against a lance, Sir Henry. I do not pretend that I could stand against any man-at-arms, armed with sword and mace; but only that I thought that, with my horse, I could evade the shock of a fully-accoutred man, and then harass and maybe wound him with my spear."

"Well, we will try, lad. Put on what you will, and get your horse saddled. It will be rare amusement to see so unequal a course. We shall be ready in a quarter of an hour."

Oswald went up to his uncle, and told him what was proposed. Alwyn, who had witnessed his exercises with the rough riders of his father, smiled grimly.

"If you can evade his first charge, which I doubt not that you can, you will have him at your mercy, with your light spear against his lance, and your moor horse against his charger; but put on the heaviest of your two steel caps, and strong shoulder pieces. 'Tis like enough that, in his temper, he may throw away his lance and betake him to his sword. I will demand that he carries neither mace nor battle-axe, and that you should only carry sword and spear. Your horse's nimbleness may keep you out of harm, which is as much as you can expect, or hope for. Put on a light breast plate, too, for in spite of the wooden shield to his lance head, he may hurt you sorely if he does chance to strike you."

Oswald saw that his horse was carefully saddled. He procured from his uncle a piece of cloth; and, removing the spearhead, wrapped this round the head of the shaft, until it formed a ball the size of his fist. This he whitened thickly with chalk.

In a few minutes Sinclair, who was the heaviest and strongest of the esquires, rode out into the courtyard in full armour. Sir Henry, with his own esquires, and several of the gentlemen of the earl's household, came down; and Hotspur laughed at the contrast presented by the two combatants: the one a mass of steel, with shield and lance, on a warhorse fully caparisoned; the other a slight, active-looking figure, with but little defensive armour, on a rough pony which had scarce an ounce of superfluous flesh.

"Now, gentlemen," he said, "we may be engaged in warfare with the Scots, before long; and you will here have an opportunity of seeing the nature of border fighting. The combat may seem to you ridiculously unequal, but I know the moss trooper, and I can tell you that, in a single combat like this, activity goes far to counterbalance weight and armour. You remember how Robert Bruce, before Bannockburn, mounted on but a pony, struck down Sir Robert Bohun, a good knight and a powerful one."

As the party went out, through the gates, to the tilting ground outside the walls, the men-at-arms, seeing that something unusual was going to take place, crowded up to the battlements, looking down on the ground.

"Now, gentlemen," Percy said, "you will take your places at opposite ends of the field; and when I drop my scarf, you will charge. It is understood that you need not necessarily ride straight at each other; but that it is free, to each of you, to do the best he can to overthrow his opponent."

As he gave the signal, the two riders dashed at full speed at each other; and, for a moment, the spectators thought that Oswald was going to be mad enough to meet his opponent in full course. When, however, the horses were within a length of each other, the rough pony swerved aside with a spring like that of a deer; and, wheeling round instantly, Oswald followed his opponent. The latter tried to wheel his charger, but as he did so, Oswald's spear struck him in the vizor, leaving a white mark on each side of the slit; and then he too wheeled his horse, maintaining his position on the left hand, but somewhat in rear, of his opponent; who was, thereby, wholly unable to use his lance, while Oswald marked the junction of gorget and helmet with several white circles. Furious at finding himself incapable of either defending himself, or of striking a blow, the squire threw away his lance, and drew his sword.

Hotspur shouted, at the top of his voice:

"A breach of the rules! A breach of the rules! The combat is at an end."

But his words were unheard, in the helmet. Making his horse wheel round on his hind legs, Sinclair rode at Oswald with uplifted sword. The latter again couched his spear under his arm and, touching his horse with his spur, the animal sprung forward; and before the sword could fall, the point of the spear caught the squire under the armpit, and hurled him sideways from his saddle.

Hotspur and those round him ran forward. Sinclair lay without moving, stunned by the force with which he had fallen. Oswald had already leapt from his horse, and raised Sinclair's head, and began to unlace the fastenings of his helmet. Hotspur's face was flushed with anger.

"Do not upbraid him, my lord, I pray you," Oswald said. "He could scarce have avoided breaking the conditions, helpless as he felt himself; and he could not have heard your voice, which would be lost in his helmet. I pray you, be not angered with him."

Hotspur's face cleared.

"At your request I will not, lad," he said; "and, indeed, he has been punished sufficiently."

By the time that the helmet was removed, one of the soldiers from the battlements ran out from the castle, with a ewer of water. This was dashed into the squire's face. He presently opened his eyes. A heavy fall was thought but little of in those days; and as Sinclair was raised to his feet, and looked round in bewilderment at those who were standing round him, Hotspur said good temperedly:

"Well, Master Sinclair, the lad has given us all a lesson that may be useful to us. I would scarce have believed it, if I had not seen it; that a stout soldier, in full armour, should have been worsted by a lad on a rough pony; but I see now that the advantage is all on the latter's side, in a combat like this, with plenty of room to wheel his horse.

"Why, he would have slain you a dozen times, Sinclair. Look at your vizor. That white mark is equal on both sides of the slit, and had there been a spear head on the shaft, it would have pierced you to the brain. Every joint of your armour, behind, is whitened; and that thrust, that brought you from your horse, would have spitted you through and through.

"Now, let there be no ill feeling over this. It is an experiment, and a useful one; and had I, myself, been in your place, I do not know that I could have done aught more than you did."

Sinclair was hot tempered, but of a generous disposition, and he held out his hand to Oswald, frankly.

"It was a fair fight," he said, "and you worsted me, altogether. No one bears malice for a fair fall, in a joust."

"The conditions were not at all even," Oswald said. "On a pony like mine, unless you had caught me in full career, it was impossible that the matter could have turned out otherwise."

"I often wondered," Hotspur said, as they walked towards the gate, "that our chivalry should have been so often worsted by the rough Scottish troopers; but now I understand it. The Scotch always choose broken ground, and always scatter before we get near them; and, circling round, fall upon our chivalry when their weight and array are of no use to them. Happily, such a misadventure has never happened to myself; but it might well do so. The Scotch, too, have no regard for the laws of chivalry; and once behind will spear the horse, as indeed happened to me, at Otterburn. 'Tis a lesson in war one may well take to heart; and when I next fight the Scots, I will order that on no account, whatever, are the mounted men to break their ranks; but, whatever happens, are to move in a solid body, in which case they could defy any attacks upon them by light-armed horse, however numerous."

At the gate of the castle, Alwyn Forster met them.

"You have given me a more useful addition to my following than I dreamt of, Alwyn," Hotspur said. "Did you see the conflict?"

"I watched it from the wall, Sir Henry. I felt sure how the matter would end. The lad is quick and sharp at border exercises. I have seen him work with his father's troopers. There were not many of them who could hold their own against him, and in fighting in their own way, I would back the moss troopers against the best horsemen in Europe. They are always accustomed to fight each man for himself, and though a score of men-at-arms would ride through a hundred of them, if they met the charge; in single combat their activity, and the nimbleness of their horses, would render them more than a match for a fully-caparisoned knight."

"So it seems," Hotspur said; "and yet, if Sinclair had but known that the lad was about to swerve in his course, which indeed he ought to have known -- for it would have been madness to meet his charge -- he too should have changed his course to his left, when a couple of lengths away; for he might be sure that the lad would turn that way, so as to get on his left hand, and in that case he would have ridden over him like a thunderbolt."

"Yes, Sir Henry, but Oswald would have had his eye on knee and bridle; and the moment the horse changed his direction, he would have been round the other way, like an arrow from a bow; and would have planted himself, as he did, in the squire's rear."

"Perhaps so," Hotspur said thoughtfully. "At any rate, Alwyn, the boy has given us all a lesson, and you have done me good service, by presenting him to me."



Chapter 5: A Mission.


For the next three or four months, Oswald was but little at the castle; Percy utilizing his services, in the manner most agreeable to him, by sending him on errands to various knights and gentlemen, in different parts of Northumberland, and to the fortified places held by the English across the Border. A fortnight after his contest with Sinclair, Sir Henry formally appointed him one of his esquires.

"You are young," he said, "for such a post; but as you have shown that you are well able to take care of yourself in arms, and as I perceive you to be shrewd and worthy of confidence, your age matters but little. As my messenger, you will be more useful travelling as one of my esquires, than as one without settled rank; and I can not only send written communications by you, but can charge you to speak fully in my name, and with my authority."

Oswald was not slow in finding out the advantages that the position gave him. On the first errands on which he had been sent, he had been treated as but an ordinary messenger, had been placed at dinner below the salt, and herded with the men-at-arms. As an esquire of Lord Percy, he was treated with all courtesy, was introduced to the ladies of the family, sat at the high table, and was regarded as being in the confidence of his lord. His youth excited some little surprise, but acted in his favour, because it was evident that Percy would not have nominated him as one of his esquires, had he not shown particular merit. In his journeys, he often passed near Yardhope, where the rebuilding of the wall and keep was being pushed on with much vigour; the inhabitants of the villages in the valley lending their assistance to restore the fortalice, which they regarded as a place of refuge, in case of sudden invasion by the Scots. His parents were both greatly pleased at his promotion, especially his mother, who had always been anxious that he should not settle down to the adventurous, and dangerous, life led by his father.

"By our Lady," John Forster said, "though it be but six months since you first left us, you have changed rarely. I speak not of your fine garments, but you have grown and widened out, and are fast springing from a boy into a man; and it is no small thing that Percy should have thought so well of you as to make you one of his esquires, already."

"It was from no merit of mine, Father, but because he thought that, as his messenger, I should be able to speak in his name with more authority than had I been merely the bearer of a letter from him."

"'Tis not only that," his father replied. "I received a letter but two days since from my brother Alwyn, written by the hand of a monk of his acquaintance, telling me that Lord Percy was mightily pleased with you; not only because you had set yourself to read and write, but from the way in which you had defeated one of his esquires in a bout at arms. Alwyn said that he doubted not that you would win knightly spurs, as soon as you came to full manhood. So it is clear that merit had something to do with your advancement, though this may be also due, to some extent, to the cause you assign for it. The monk who wrote the letter added, on his own account, that he had been your preceptor; and that, though he had often rated you soundly, you had made wonderful progress."

"The monk is a good teacher," Oswald laughed; "but he would have made a better man-at-arms than he will ever make a monk. I believe it pleased him more that I worsted Sinclair -- which indeed was a small thing to do, seeing that he had no idea of fighting, save of charging straight at a foe -- than at the progress I made at my books. He commands the contingent that the monastery sends, when Percy takes the field to repel an invasion; and, could he have his own will, would gladly exchange a monk's robes for the harness of a man-at-arms. I would wish for no stouter companion in the fray."

The speed with which he had performed his journeys, and the intelligence which he showed in carrying out his missions and reporting on their issue, earned for the lad an increasing amount of liking and confidence, on the part of his lord. It was not only that he delivered the replies to Hotspur's messages accurately; but his remarks, upon the personal manner and bearing of those to whom he was sent, were of still greater value to Percy. Naturally, all had promised to have their contingent of fighting men ready, in case of serious invasion by the Scots; but Oswald was able to gather, from their manner, whether the promises would surely be fulfilled; or whether, in case of trouble, the knights were more likely to keep their array for the defence of their own castles than to join Percy in any general movement.

One day, when Oswald had been engaged six months at this work, which had taken him several times into Cumberland and Westmoreland, as well as the north, Lord Percy summoned him to his private apartment.

"Hitherto you have done well, Oswald, and I feel now that I can trust you with a mission of far higher importance than those you have hitherto performed. 'Tis not without its dangers, but I know that you will like it none the less for that reason. You are young, indeed, for business of such importance; but it seems to me that, of those around me, you would be best fitted to carry it out. Your manner of speech has changed much, since you came here; but doubtless you can fall at will into the border dialect, which differs little from that on the other side; and you can pass, well enough, as coming from Jedburgh, or any other place across the border.

"All the world knows, lad, that George, Earl of March and Dunbar, was mightily offended at Rothesay breaking off the match with his daughter, and marrying the child of his rival Douglas; but now I am going to tell you what the world does not know, and which is a secret that would cost many a life, were it to be blabbed abroad, and which I should not tell you, had I not a perfect confidence in your discretion. The anger of March -- as he is mostly called on this side of the border, while in Scotland they more often call him Earl of Dunbar -- goes beyond mere displeasure with the Douglas, and sullen resentment against Rothesay. He has sent a confidential messenger to me, intimating that he is ready to acknowledge our king as his sovereign, and place himself and his forces at his disposal.

"I see you are surprised, as is indeed but natural; but the Marches have ever been rather for England than for Scotland, although they have never gone so far as to throw off their allegiance to the Scottish throne. It is not for us to consider whether March is acting treacherously, to James of Scotland; but whether he is acting in good faith, towards us.

"It was easy for him to send a messenger to me, since Scotland trades with England, and a ship bound for London might well touch at one of our ports on the way down; but the presence of an Englishman, at Dunbar, would not be so readily explained. His messenger especially enjoined on me not to send any communication in writing, even by the most trustworthy hand; since an accident might precipitate matters, and drive him to take up arms, before we were in a position to give him aid. Therefore, in the first place, I wish you to journey to Dunbar, to see the earl, and deliver to him the message I shall give you, and endeavour to inform yourself how far he is to be trusted. Say what he will, I can scarce bring myself to believe that he will really throw off his allegiance to Scotland; save in the event of a great English army marching north, when doubtless he would do what most Scotch nobles have always done, namely, hasten to give in his submission, and make the best terms he can, for himself. 'Tis a business which I like not, although it is my duty to accept a proposal that, if made in good faith, would be of vast value to the king.

"You must, after seeing the earl, return here with all speed, to bear me any message March may give you, and to report your impressions as to his sincerity, and good faith. 'Tis a month since I received his message. Since then, I have communicated with the king, and have received his authority to arrange terms with March, to guarantee him in the possession of his lordships, to hand over to him certain tracts of the Douglas country which he bargained for, and to assure him of our support. But he must be told that the king urges him to delay, at present, from taking any open steps; as, in the first place, he is bound by the truce just arranged, for the next two years; and in the second because, having no just cause of quarrel with Scotland, and being at present but newly seated on the throne, he would have difficulty in raising an army for the invasion of that country. The king is ready to engage himself not to renew the truce, and to collect an army, in readiness to act in concert with him, as soon as it is terminated.

"The earl has sent, by his messenger, a ring; which, on being presented at Dunbar, will gain for the person who carries it immediate access to him; and I shall also give you my signet, in token that you are come from me. You will carry, also, a slip of paper that can be easily concealed, saying that you have my full authority to speak in my name. You yourself can explain to him that I have selected you for the mission because of your knowledge of border speech, and because a youth of your age can pass unobserved, where a man might excite attention and remark, and possibly be detained, until he could render a satisfactory account of himself.

"Here are the conditions, set down upon paper. Take it, and commit them to heart, and then tear the paper into shreds, and burn them. As far as Roxburgh you can, of course, ride as my squire; but beyond, you must travel in disguise. This you had better procure here, and take with you; for although the Governor of Roxburgh is a trusty knight, it were best that no soul should know that you go on a mission to March; and I shall simply give you a letter to him, stating that you are engaged in a venture in my service, and that your horse and armour are to be kept for you, until your return."

Thanking Lord Percy for the honour done him, in selecting him for the mission, and promising him to carry it out, to the best of his power, Oswald retired and, making his way up to an inner room, set about learning the contents of the paper given him, which was, indeed, a copy of the royal letter to Percy. When he had thoroughly mastered all the details, and could repeat every word, he followed Sir Henry's instructions, tore the letter up, and carefully burned every fragment. Then he went out into the town, and bought garments suited for travelling unnoticed in Scotland, the dress being almost identical on both sides of the border, save for the lowland Scotch bonnet.

On his return, he found that Lord Percy had sent for him during his absence, and he at once went to his apartments.

"I have been thinking over this matter further," Sir Henry said. "The abbot came in, just as you left me; and, among other things, he mentioned that friar Roger had again fallen into disgrace, having gone so far as to strike the sub-prior on the cheek, almost breaking the jaw of that worthy man; and that, finding discipline and punishment of no avail with him, he was about to expel him, in disgrace, from the community. He said that he had only retained him so long on account of my goodwill for the fellow, and from the fact that he would, as I had often urged, be most valuable as leader of the abbot's forces, in case of troubles with the Scots, but that his last offence has passed all bearing.

"For the time I could say nothing, for discipline must be maintained, in a monastery as well as in the castle; but after the abbot had left me, and I was walking up and down in vexation over the affair -- for I like the rascal, in spite of his ways, and there is no one else who could so well lead the contingent of the monastery -- a thought occurred to me. I like not your going altogether alone, for the times are lawless, and you might meet trouble on the road; and yet I did not see whom I could send with you. Now it seems to me that this stout knave would make an excellent companion for you.

"In the first place, you like him, and he likes you; secondly, a monk travelling north on a mission, say from the abbot to the prior of a monastery near Dunbar, could pass anywhere unheeded; and in the third place, although as a peaceful man he could carry no military arms, he might yet take with him a staff, with which I warrant me he would be a match for two or three ordinary men; and lastly, I may be able to convince the abbot that he can thus get rid of him from the monastery, for some time, and avoid the scandals he occasions, and yet hold him available on his return for military service.

"What say you, lad?"

"I should like it much, Sir Henry. I could wish for no stouter companion; and although he may be quarrelsome with his fellows, it is, methinks, solely because the discipline of the monastery frets him, and he longs for a more active life; but I believe that he could be fully trusted to behave himself discreetly, were he engaged in outdoor work, and there can be no doubt that he is a stout man-at-arms, in all ways."

"I should not trust him, in any way, with the object of your mission. If I obtain the abbot's consent, I shall simply send for him, rate him soundly for his conduct, but telling him I make all allowances for his natural unfitness for his vocation; and that I have, as a matter of grace, obtained from the abbot permission to use his services for a while, and to suspend his sentence upon him, until it be seen how he comports himself; and, with that view, I am about to send him as your companion, on a commission with which I have intrusted you, to the town of Dunbar. I shall hint that, if he behaves to my satisfaction, I may persuade the abbot to allow him to remain in my service, until the time comes when he may be useful to the convent for military work; he still undertaking to drill the lay brothers, and keep the abbot's contingent in good order; and that, when the troubles are at an end, I will obtain for him full absolution from his vows, so that he may leave the monastery without the disgrace of being expelled, and may then take service with me, or with another, as a man-at-arms.

"I wish you to be frank with me. If you would rather go alone, matters shall remain as they are."

"I would much rather that he went with me, my lord. From the many conversations that I have had with him, I am sure that he is shrewd and clever, and that, once beyond the walls of the monastery and free to use his weapon, he would be full of resource. There is doubtless much lawlessness on both sides of the border, and although I should seem but little worth robbing, two travel more pleasantly than one; and the monk has taken such pains with me, and has been so kind, that there is no one with whom I would travel, with greater pleasure."

"Then I will go across to the monastery, at once, and see the abbot; and I doubt not that he will grant my request, for, much and often as brother Roger has given him cause for anger, I know that he has a sort of kindness for him, and will gladly avoid the necessity for punishing and disgracing him. If all is arranged, the monk shall come over here, and see you."

An hour later, Brother Roger came in to the captain's quarters.

"So you have been in trouble again, Brother Roger," Alwyn Forster said with a laugh, as he held out his hand to him.

"That have I, and an hour ago I was lying in a prison cell, cursing my hot temper; and with, as it seemed, the certainty of being publicly unfrocked, and turned out like a mangy dog from a pack. It was not, mind you, that the thought of being unfrocked was altogether disagreeable; for I own that I am grievously ill fitted for my vocation, and that fasts and vigils are altogether hateful to me; but it would not be a pleasant thing to go out into the world as one who had been kicked out, and though I might get employment as a man-at-arms, I could never hope for any promotion, however well I might behave. However, half an hour ago the cell door was opened, and I was taken before the abbot, whom I found closeted with Hotspur.

"The latter rated me soundly, but said that, for the sake of Otterburn, he had spoken for me to the abbot; and that as he would, for the present, be able to make use of me in work that would be more to my liking, the abbot had consented to reconsider his decision, and would lend me to him for a time, in hopes that my good conduct would, in the end, induce him to overlook my offences; and that, in that case, he might even be induced to take steps, of a less painful description than public disgrace, for freeing me of my gown.

"I naturally replied that I was grateful for his lordship's intercession; and that, outside monkish offices, there was nothing I would not do to merit his kindness. He told me that I was to report myself to your nephew, who would inform me of the nature of the service upon which I was, at first, to be employed."

"It is to undertake a journey with me," Oswald said. "I am going on a mission for our lord, to Dunbar. The object of my mission is one that concerns me only, but it is one of some importance; and as the roads are lonely, since March and Douglas quarrelled, and order is but badly kept on the other side of the border, he thought that I should be all the better for a companion. Assuredly, I could wish for none better than yourself, for in the first place you have proved a true friend to me; in the second, you have so much knowledge, that we shall not lack subjects for conversation upon the journey; and lastly, should I get into any trouble, I could reckon upon you as a match for two or three border robbers."

"Nothing could be more to my taste," the monk said joyfully. "I did not feel quite sure, before, whether I was glad or sorry that my expulsion was put off, for I always thought that it would come to that some day; but now that I learn for what service Hotspur intends me, I feel as if I could shout for joy.

"Get me a flagon of beer, good Alwyn. I have drunk but water for the last twenty-four hours, and was in too great haste, to learn what was before me, even to pay a visit to brother Anselm, the cellarer, who is a stanch friend of mine.

"And do I go as a man-at-arms, Master Oswald? For, as your mission is clearly of a private character, disguise may be needful."

"No, Roger, you will go in your own capacity, as a monk, journeying on a mission from the abbot to the head of some religious community, near Dunbar. I doubt not that Lord Percy will obtain a letter from the abbot, and though it may be that there will be no need to deliver it, still it may help us on the way. As you are going with me, I shall attire myself as a young lay servitor of the convent."

"I would that it had been otherwise," the monk said, with a sigh. "I should have travelled far more lightly, in the heaviest mail harness, than in this monk's robe. Besides, how can I carry arms, for use in case of necessity?"

"You can carry a staff," Oswald said, laughing; "and being so big a man, you will assuredly require a long and heavy one; and, even if it is heavily shod with iron, no one need object."

"That is not so bad, Master Oswald. A seven-foot staff, of the thickness of my wrist; with an iron shoe, weighing a pound or two, is a carnal weapon not to be despised. As you doubtless know, our bishops, when they ride in the field, always carry a mace instead of a sword, so that they may not shed blood; though I say not that the cracking of a man's skull is to be accomplished, without some loss thereof. However, if a bishop may lawfully crack a man's head, as an eggshell, I see not that blame can attach to me, a humble and most unworthy son of the church, if some slight harm should come to any man, from the use of so peaceful an instrument as a staff. And how about yourself, young master?"

"I can carry a sword," Oswald replied. "In times like these, no man travels unarmed; and as I go as a servitor, and an assistant to your reverence, there will be nothing unseemly in my carrying a weapon, to defend you from the attack of foes."

"You can surely take a dagger, too. A dagger is a meet companion to a sword, and is sometimes mighty useful, in a close fight. And, mark me, take a smaller dagger also, that can be concealed under your coat. I myself will assuredly do the same. There are many instances in which a trifle of that kind might come in useful, such as for shooting the lock of a door, or working out iron bars."

"I will do so," Oswald said, "though I hope there will be no occasion, such as you say, for its use."

"When do we start, Master Oswald?"

"Tomorrow, at daybreak. We shall ride as far as Roxburgh. I shall go on my own horse, which, though as good an animal as was ever saddled, has but a poor appearance. You had best purchase a palfrey, as fat and sleek as may be found, but with strength enough to carry your weight. I shall be amply provided with money; and if you find a bargain, let me know, and I will give you the means. Mind, buy nothing that looks like a warhorse, but something in keeping with your appearance."

That evening, Oswald had another interview with Percy, and received his final instructions, and a bag of money.

"Be careful with it, lad," he said; "not so much because of the use that it may be to you, but because, were you seized and searched by robbers, and others, the sight of the gold might awake suspicions that you were not what you seemed, and might lead to a long detention. Keep your eye on Brother Roger, and see that he does not indulge too much in the wine cups, and that he comports himself rather in keeping with his attire, than with his natural disposition; and if you have any difficulty in restraining him, or if he does not obey your orders, send him back, at once. Will you see him again this evening?"

"He is waiting for me in my apartment, now, my lord, having come for the money for the purchase of a palfrey, which I bade him get."

"Send him to me, when you get there."

When the monk appeared before Hotspur, the latter said, "See here, monk, I have saved you from punishment, and become, as it were, your surety. See that you do not discredit me. You will remember that, although my young esquire may ask your advice, and benefit by your experience, he is your leader; and his orders, when he gives them, are to be obeyed as promptly as if it were I myself who spoke, to one of my men-at-arms. He is my representative in the matter, and is obeying my orders, as you will obey his. The mission is one of importance, and if it fails from any fault of yours, you had better drown yourself in the first river you come to, than return to Northumberland."

"I think that you can trust me, my lord," the monk said, calmly. "I am a very poor monk, but methinks that I am not a bad soldier; and although I go in the dress of the one, I shall really go as the other. I know that my duty, as a soldier, will be to obey. Even as regards my potations, which I own are sometimes deeper than they should be, methinks that, as a soldier, I shall be much less thirsty than I was as a monk. If the enterprise should fail from any default of mine, your lordship may be sure that I shall bear your advice in mind."

"I doubt not that you will do well, Roger. I should not have sent you with my esquire, on such a business, had I not believed that you would prove yourself worthy of my confidence. I know that a man may be a good soldier, and even a wise counsellor, though he may be a very bad monk."

The next morning the pair rode out from the castle, at daybreak. Roger was dressed in the usual monkish attire of the time, a long loose gown with a cape, and a head covering resembling a small turban. He rode a compactly built little horse, which seemed scarce capable of carrying his weight, but ambled along with him as if it scarcely felt it. Oswald was dressed as a lay servitor, in tightly-fitting high hose, short jerkin girt in by a band at the waist, and going half-way down to the knee. He rode his own moorland horse, and carried on his arm a basket with provisions for a day's march. He wore a small cloth cap, which fell down to his neck behind. His uncle accompanied him to the gate, which was, by his orders, opened to give them egress.

"Goodbye, lad," he said. "I know not, and do not wish to know, the object of your journey. It is enough for me that it is a confidential mission for Hotspur, and I am proud that you should have been chosen for it, and I feel convinced that you will prove you have merited our lord's confidence.

"Goodbye, friend Roger! Don't let your love of fisticuffs and hard knocks carry you away, but try and bear yourself as if you were still in the monastery, with the abbot keeping his eye upon you."

Brother Roger laughed.

"You make a cold shiver run down my back, Alwyn. I was feeling as if I had just got out of a cold cellar, into the sunshine, and could shout with very lightness of heart. I am not in the least disposed to quarrel with anyone, so let your mind be easy as to my doings. I shall be discretion itself; and even if I am called upon to strike, will do so as gently as may be, putting only such strength into the blow as will prevent an opponent from troubling us further."

So, with a wave of the hand, they rode on.

"I had better strap that staff beside your saddle, and under your knee," Oswald said, when they had ridden a short distance. "You carry it as if it were a spear, and I have seen already three or four people smile, as we passed them."

Roger reluctantly allowed Oswald to fasten the staff beside him.

"One wants something in one's hands," he said. "On foot it does not matter so much, but now I am on horseback again, I feel that I ought to have a spear in hand, and a sword dangling at my side."

"You must remember that you are still a monk, Roger, although enlarged for a season. Some day, perhaps, you will be able to gratify your desires in that way. You had best moderate the speed of your horse, for although he ambles along merrily, at present, he can never carry that great carcase of yours, at this pace, through our journey."

"I should like one good gallop," Roger sighed, as he pulled at the rein, and the horse proceeded at a pace better suited to the appearance of its rider.

"A nice figure you would look, with your robes streaming behind you," Oswald laughed. "There would soon be a story going through the country, of a mad monk.

"Now, we take this turning to the right, and here leave the main north road, for we are bound, in the first place, to Roxburgh."

"I thought that it must be that, or Berwick, though I asked no questions."

"We shall not travel like this beyond Roxburgh, but shall journey forward on foot."

"I supposed that we should come to that, Master Oswald, for otherwise you would not have told me to provide myself with a staff."

They journeyed pleasantly along. Whenever they approached any town or large village, Oswald reined back his horse a little, so that its head was on a level with Roger's stirrup. They slept that night at Kirknewton, where they put up at a small hostelry. Oswald had intended going to the monastery there, but Roger begged so earnestly that they should put up elsewhere, that he yielded to him.

"I should have no end of questions asked, as to our journey across the border, and its object," Roger said; "and it always goes against my conscience to have to lie, unless upon pressing occasions."

"And, moreover," Oswald said, with a laugh, "you might be expected to get up to join the community at prayers, at midnight; and they might give you a monk's bed, instead of a more comfortable one in the guest chambers."

"There may be something in that," Roger admitted, "and I have so often to sleep on a stone bench, for the punishment of my offences, that I own to a weakness for a soft bed, when I can get one."

However, Oswald was pleased to see that his follower behaved, at their resting place, with more discretion than he could have hoped for; although he somewhat surprised his host, by the heartiness of his appetite; but, on the other hand, he was moderate in his potations, and talked but little, retiring to a bed of thick rushes, at curfew.

"In truth, I was afraid to trust myself," he said to Oswald, as they lay down side by side. "Never have I felt so free, since Otterburn -- never, indeed, since that unfortunate day when I was wounded, and conceived the fatal idea of becoming a monk. Two or three times, the impulse to troll out a trooper's song was so strong in me, that I had to clap my hand over my mouth, to keep it in."

"'Tis well you did, Roger, for assuredly if you had so committed yourself, on the first day of starting, I must have sent you back to Alnwick, feeling that it would not be safe for you to proceed with me farther. When we get upon the Cheviots, tomorrow, you may lift your voice as you choose; but it were best that you confined yourself to a Latin canticle, even there, for the habit of breaking into songs of the other kind might grow upon you."

"I will do so," Roger said, seriously. "Some of the canticles have plenty of ring and go, and the words matter not, seeing that I do not understand them."

The next morning they resumed their journey, crossed the Cheviots, which were here comparatively low hills; and, after four hours' riding, arrived at Roxburgh.

"Why do we come here?" Roger asked. "It would surely have been much shorter had we travelled through Berwick, and along the coast road."

"Much shorter, Roger; but Sir Henry thought it better that we should go inland to Haddington, and thence east to Dunbar; as, thus entering the town, it would seem that we came from Edinburgh, or from some western monastery; whereas, did we journey by the coast road, it might be guessed that we had come from England."

As before, they put up at a hostelry; and Oswald then proceeded, on foot, to the governor's house. Some soldiers were loitering at the door.

"What do you want, lad?" one of them asked, as he came up.

"I have a letter, which I am charged to deliver into the governor's own hands."

"A complaint, I suppose, from some worthy prior, who has lost some of his beeves?"

"Maybe the governor will inform you, if you ask him," Oswald replied.

"I shall pull your ear for you, when you come out, young jackanapes," the soldier said, hotly.

"That danger I must even risk. Business first, and pleasure afterwards."

And while the other soldiers burst into a fit of laughter, at the astonishment of their comrade at what he deemed the insolence of this young servitor of a monastery, he quietly entered. The guard at the door, who had heard the colloquy, led him into the governor's room.

"A messenger with a letter desires speech with you, Sir Philip," he said.

"Bid him enter," the knight said, briefly.

Oswald entered, and bowed deeply. He waited until the door closed behind the attendant, and then said:

"I am the bearer of a letter, sir, from Lord Percy to you."

The knight looked at him in surprise.

"Hotspur has chosen a strange messenger," he muttered to himself, as he took the missive Oswald held out to him, cut the silk that bound it with a dagger, and read its contents. As he laid it down, he rose to his feet.

"Excuse my want of courtesy," he said. "Lord Percy tells me that you are one of his esquires -- no slight recommendation -- and that you are intrusted with somewhat important a mission, on his part, to Dunbar, a still higher recommendation -- for assuredly he would not have selected you for such a purpose, had you not stood high in his regard. But, indeed, at first I took you for what you seemed, as the bearer of a complaint from some abbot; for in truth, such complaints are not uncommon, for whenever a bullock is lost, they put it down to my men.

"Where are your horses that Percy speaks of? You will, I hope, take up your abode here, as long as you stay in the town."

"Thank you, Sir Philip; but I shall go forward in the morning. I have already put up at the Golden Rose. It would attract attention, were I to come here, and it were best that I remain as I am; and indeed, I have brought no clothes with me, save those I stand in."

"Well, perhaps, as you do not wish to attract attention, it were best so; and I pray you inform Lord Percy of the reason why you declined my entertainment."

"I shall be glad, Sir Philip, if you will send down a couple of your men to fetch the horses up to your stables; as I shall start, as soon as the gates are open, tomorrow morning."

"I will do so, at once."

And the governor rang a handbell on the table.

"Send two of the men up here," he said, as an attendant entered.

A minute later a door opened, and two soldiers came in, and saluted. One of them, to Oswald's amusement, was the man with whom he had exchanged words, below.

"You will accompany this gentleman to the Golden Rose, and bring back two horses, which he will hand over to you, and place them in the stables with mine.

"Are you sure, Master Forster, that there is nothing more that I can do for you?"

"Nothing, whatever, I thank you, sir; and I am greatly obliged by your courtesy, and with your permission I will take my leave. I hope to return here in the course of a week, or ten days."

So saying, Oswald shook hands with the governor and went downstairs, followed by the soldiers, who had not yet recovered from their surprise at seeing Oswald seated, and evidently on familiar terms with their lord. Oswald said nothing to them, until he arrived at the Golden Rose. Then he led the way to the stables, and handed the horses over to them.

"I suppose that that pulling of the ear will be deferred, for a time?" he said, with a smile, to the soldier who had made the remark.

The man sheepishly took hold of the bridle.

"I could not tell, sir -- " he began.

"Of course you could not," Oswald interrupted. "Still, it may be a lesson, to you, that it is just as well not to make fun of people, until you are quite sure who they are. There, I bear no malice; get yourselves a stoup of wine, in payment for your services."

"I thought that there was something out of the way about him," the other man said, as they walked up the street with the two horses; "or he would never have turned upon you, as he did. It is evident that he is someone of consequence, and is here on some secret business or other, with Sir Philip. It is well that he did not bear malice, for you would have got it hot, from the governor, had he reported what you said to him."



Chapter 6: At Dunbar.


The journey passed without any incident of importance, but Oswald had reason to congratulate himself on having taken the monk with him. On one occasion, as they were passing over a wild heath, a party of eight or ten men, on rough ponies, rode up. They were armed with spears and swords. They reined up with exclamations of disappointment as Roger, who had rolled up his robe round his waist, for convenience of walking, let it fall round him.

"You have played us a scurvy trick, monk," the leader said, angrily. "Who was to guess it was a monk, who was thus striding along?"

"You would find it difficult to walk, yourself, with this robe dangling about your heels," Roger said.

"Whither are you bound, and whence are you going?"

"We are travelling to Dunbar, being sent to the convent of Saint Magnus there, and come from Roxburgh."

"'Tis a shame that so stalwart a fellow as you are should be leading a drone's life, in a convent; when every true Scotsman is sharpening his spear, in readiness for what may come when the truce with England expires."

"I am glad to hear that you are so well employed," Roger replied; "but methinks that, in days like these, it is sometimes useful to have a few men of thews and sinews, even in a religious house; for there are those who sometimes fail in the respect they owe to the Church."

"That is true enough," the men laughed. "Well, go thy way. There is naught to be gained from a travelling monk."

"Naught, good friend, save occasionally hard blows, when the monk happens to be of my strength and stature, and carries a staff like this."

"'Tis a goodly weapon, in sooth, and you look as if you knew how to wield it."

"Even a monk may know that, seeing that a staff is not a carnal weapon."

And rolling up his sleeves, Roger took the staff in the middle with both hands, in the manner of a quarterstaff, and made it play round his head; with a speed, and vigour, that showed that he was a complete master of the exercise.

"Enough, enough!" the man said, while exclamations of admiration broke from the others. "Truly from such a champion, strong enough to wield a weapon that resembles a weaver's beam, rather than a quarterstaff, there would be more hard knocks than silver to be gained; but it is all the more pity that such skill and strength should be thrown away, in a convent. Perhaps it is as well that you are wearing a monk's gown, for methinks that, eight to one as we are, some of us might have got broken heads, before we gained the few pence in your pocket.

"Come on, men. Better luck next time. It is clear that this man is not the one we are charged to capture."

And, with his followers, he rode off across the moor.

"I do not think that they are what they seem," Oswald said, as they resumed their journey. "The man's speech was not that of a border raider, and his followers would hardly have sat their horses so silently, and obeyed his orders so promptly, had they been merely thieving caterans; besides, you marked that he said you were not the man they were watching for."

"Whom think you that they are, then, Master Oswald?"

"I think it possible that they may be a party of Douglas's followers, led by a knight. It may be that Douglas has received some hint of March's being in communication with England; and that he has sent a party to seize, and search, any traveller who looked like a messenger from the south. Of course, this may be only fancy. Still, I am right glad that you were wearing your monkish robe; for, had I been alone, I might have been cross-questioned so shrewdly as to my purpose in travelling, that I might have been held on suspicion, and means employed to get the truth out of me."

At the small town where they stopped, next night, they learned that many complaints had been made, by travellers from the south, of how they had been stopped by a party of armed men on the border, closely questioned, and searched, and in some cases robbed. This had been going on for some weeks, and the sheriff of the county had twice collected an armed force, and ridden in search of the robbers, but altogether without success. It was believed that they were strangers to the district, and the description given of them had not agreed with those of any noted bad characters, in the neighbourhood.

"Certainly, Master Oswald," the monk said, "all this seems to support your idea. Money and valuables are soon found; but by what these men say of the way in which the clothes and belongings of these travellers were searched, it would seem to show that money was not the object of the band, but rather the discovery of correspondence, and that money was only taken as a cloak."

"I have no doubt that they were there to intercept someone, Roger, though it may not have been Percy's messengers; still, we are well rid of them, and I hope that we shall meet no more, on our way."

The hope was fulfilled, and they reached Dunbar without further interruption. Here they deemed it better to separate. The monk went to a convent, and gave out there that he was on the way to Edinburgh, being on a journey thither to see his aged father, who was in his last sickness. Oswald went to a shop, and bought clothes suited for the son of a trader in a fair position; and, changing his things at the inn where he had put up, made his way to the castle.

"I would have speech with the earl," he said, to the warder at the gate. "I have his orders to wait upon him."

"What is your name and condition?"

"That matters not. I am here by the earl's orders. He sent me a ring, by which it might be known that I am authorized to have access to him."

On seeing the ring, the warder at once called to one of the servitors, and bade him conduct Oswald to the earl's apartment.

"Whom shall I say?" he asked, when he reached the door.

"Give this ring to him, and say that the bearer awaits admittance to him."

The man entered the room and then, opening the door again, motioned to Oswald to enter. The earl, a tall and powerfully-built man, looked with a keen scrutiny at him.

"From whom come you, young sir?"

"From the holder of that ring, my Lord Earl," Oswald said, presenting the ring that Percy had given him. "My name is Oswald Forster, and I have the honour to be one of Lord Percy's esquires."

"Come you alone?" the earl asked.

"I came with a companion, a monk. I was in the disguise of a young servitor of his convent. We came on foot from Roxburgh."

He then unscrewed the handle of a dagger Percy had given him, for the purpose, and pulled out a small roll of paper, which he handed to the earl. It contained only the following words:

"Do not intrust undue confidence in the bearer. The matters you wot of are in good train; of them my messenger knows nothing."

"This was so writ by Sir Henry Percy," said Oswald, "in order that, if I were detained and searched on the way, and this paper found on me, I might not be forced, by torture, to say aught of my message."

"But this signet ring would have shown to whom you were coming."

"It was concealed in my staff, my lord, and could not have been discovered, had not that been split open. Had it been so, I should have admitted that Lord Percy had indeed committed the signet and the writing to me to carry, and had bid me travel as the servitor of a monk on his journey north; but that, more than that these were to be delivered to you, I knew nothing. Lord Percy selected me as his messenger partly because, from my youth, I should not be likely to be suspected of being a messenger between two great lords; and in the second place because, if arrested, and these matters found on me, the statement in the letter would be readily believed. It would not be supposed that important state secrets would be committed to a lad, like myself."

The earl made no reply, for a time, but sat with his eyes fixed on Oswald's face, as if he were reading him thoroughly.

"Then you do know the matters in question?"

"I do, my lord. I am the bearer of a further communication to you."

"Say on, then."

"Lord Percy bids me say that, on the receipt of your message to him, he forwarded it by one of his knights to the king at Westminster; and that the matter was discussed, by his majesty, with two or three of his most trusted councillors. After full consideration, the king has accepted your offer, and will grant all its conditions. He sent, my lord, also a document with his royal seal attached, engaging to observe all the conditions of the compact. This document Lord Percy holds, to be given to you on a convenient occasion; but he deemed it of so important a nature that it would be too hazardous to send it to you. The king, in a letter to Lord Percy, begged him to tell you that, so long as the truce continued, he could not collect an army to support you; but that, as the time for its termination approached, he would begin to do so, and would be in readiness to take the field, in the north, immediately you move in the matter."

The earl sat for some time, in thought.

"Do you know the conditions of the compact?" he asked, suddenly.

Oswald had expected this question, and felt sure that the earl, who was, when not inflamed by anger, a cool and cautious man, would highly disapprove of Hotspur's frankness; and might possibly detain him, if he knew that he possessed so important a secret. He therefore replied:

"As to such grave matters, it was not necessary that I should know more than I have said to you, my Lord Earl. As it is no secret that you and the Douglases have personal enmity, I deemed that the compact referred to our king giving you aid, should you need it against the Douglases."

The answer was apparently satisfactory. The earl asked no further questions, on this head.

"Were there other reasons than those you have stated why he chose you as his messenger?"

"Another reason he gave me, my lord, was that, as I came of a family who reside within a few miles of the border, and had relatives on this side whom I sometimes visited, my language was similar to that spoken in Roxburghshire; so that I could therefore pass as a Lowland Scot, without difficulty. No one, in fact, at the various places at which we have stopped, has taken me for aught but a countryman; though the monk with me was often taxed with being an Englishman, though belonging to a monastery at Roxburgh."

Again the earl was silent for some time.

"I must think over the message that I shall give you, for Percy," he said. "I like not the delay, though I see that there is good reason for it. As one of Hotspur's esquires, I would fain treat you with all courtesy, and lodge you here; but this might cause question as to who you are, and it were, therefore, better that you should lodge in the town. Have you put up anywhere?"

"I rested for an hour at the sign of the Lion, my lord; engaging a room there, in order to effect a change in my clothes. I left by the back entrance, in order that the change should not be observed."

"It were best that you fetched those you travelled in away, or rather that you returned unnoticed; and, as it is getting dark now, this can doubtless be managed; and, when you sally out, place that cloak over your shoulders to hide your dress as a servitor, and go to the other inn, the Falcon. Say, there, that you are staying for a few days in Dunbar, having come here on business with me; and that I bade you go there, so that I might know where to send for you, if necessary. You can pass for what you seem, a young trader who has come from Edinburgh to arrange, on the part of your father, a cloth merchant there, for a supply of stuffs for the clothing of my retainers."

Oswald carried out his instructions, walked about until it was quite dark, then entered the inn, made his way unobserved to the chamber where he had left his clothes, put these on, made the others up into a bundle, and then went downstairs again and paid his bill; saying, as he did so, that he had found the friends he came to see, and that they had room to take him in. After leaving the house he threw the cloak, which he had carried on his arm, over his shoulders; and put on the cap that belonged to his other dress, and then went to the Falcon Inn, and repeating to the landlord the statement the earl had made, was at once shown to a chamber, with some deference.

"Will your worship have supper here, or in the room below?"

"I will come down," he said. "It is dull work, sitting alone."

Having ordered his supper, with a flask of wine, Oswald again donned his attire as a trader, and went downstairs. Just as he entered the room, in which several persons were sitting, a soldier came in from the outer door. He looked round the room.

"I have a message, from the earl, for the person who was with him, this afternoon."

Oswald at once rose, and went across to him.

"The earl bade me tell you," the soldier said, in a low voice, "that his present furnisher is Robert Micklethwaite, and that his place of business is near the castle gate, at Edinburgh."

"Please thank the earl for the information," Oswald replied, and then returned to his seat.

He had indeed, while dressing, been wondering what name he should give. It was like enough that, in Dunbar, many might know the names of the principal traders in Edinburgh; and that, were he to give an unknown one, he might be questioned as to his place of business. The message, therefore, relieved him of this difficulty.

After he had finished his supper, which was an excellent one, he beckoned to the landlord.

"I am a stranger here, landlord," he said. "I pray you to drink a cup with me, and tell me the news of the place.

"You may know the name of Micklethwaite," he went on, as the landlord sat down, "and that he comes, or sends regularly, to arrange for the supply of cloth, its quality and price, required for the earl's retainers."

"Master Micklethwaite always puts up here, when he visits Dunbar," the landlord said. "I must have misunderstood him, for one day, when he was talking with me, he said that it was a trouble to him that he had no sons."

"Nor has he," Oswald said; "luckily for me, who am but a nephew."

"He is a good customer," the landlord went on, "and good company, too; but he cares not for French wines, and does not trouble my cellarer, much."

"He is a careful man," Oswald said, with a smile; "and though he is a good trencherman, he does not waste his money on such matters. However, he lets me have a freer hand than he uses himself; and asks not, when I return, for a close account of my outgoings.

"What do they say, here, as to the chances of another war with England?"

"I fear the worst," the landlord replied. "These wars are ruin to us, and we have had the English at the gates of Dunbar over many times, already; and the town sacked, and burnt over our heads, more than once. Though I do not say that it might not have been worse, for our earls have ever stood aloof, as much as possible, and have often inclined towards the English side. Still, even then it is bad enough, for the whole country, from Berwick, has often been wasted to check the progress of the armies, and our trade well-nigh ruined. A pest on all wars, say I!"

"And which way, think you, that the present earl's leanings would go?"

"I think not about it, one way or the other. My business is to sell food and liquor, the earl's to take part in affairs of state. In days like these, it is quite enough for each man to attend to his own business, without troubling about that of other people; more especially when that other is a powerful noble, who thinks little enough of slitting a tongue that wags too freely.

"No, no, lad; John Sanderson is no fool, and knows better than to open his mouth, touching the affairs of great nobles. I know not how it may be with you, and the burghers of Edinburgh, but here we are content to cool our own porridge, and let others take their food hot or cold, as they choose."

"I was not wishing you to give me so much your own ideas, as the common talk of the town; but I see that my question was indiscreet, and I ask your pardon."

"I know you meant no harm, lad, and that your question was just one that any young man of your age might ask, without thinking that there was harm in it, or that the answering of it might lead to harm. I can tell you that, whatever folk may think here in Dunbar, they say naught about it to their nearest neighbour. We can talk of war with England, that is too common a thing for there to be harm in it; and as no one knows aught, one man's opinion is as good as another's; but the talk is general, and assuredly no man asks his neighbour what this great lord will do, or how matters will go. There is no harm in two gossips wondering whether, if the English come, the town will hold out till help comes, or whether they will batter down the walls first.

"It is a kind of riddle, you see, and all the more that no one knows who may be by the king's side, when the storm breaks. A generation back, men might make a fair guess; but now it were beyond the wisest head to say and, for my part, I leave the thinking to those whom it concerns. You from Edinburgh ought to know more than we do, for in great cities men can talk more freely, seeing that no one lord has the place in his hands, and that the citizens have rights, and hold to them.

"The general thought is that we shall have war, directly the truce is over. Among us who live by peaceful trade, we still hope for peace; for we see not what good comes of war, save to those who make raids in England, and as often as not these get more hard knocks than plunder; but to the quiet trader it means loss, and may well mean ruin, if the English army again marches through Scotland. We can discover no reason why the two countries should not live peaceably together, each going about its own business. I have heard it said, before now, that it would be a good thing for both countries if the border districts on both sides were stripped altogether of their people, and allowed to lie desolate.

"Ay, it would be a rare thing, that. It is thieving loons, on both sides of the border, that keep up the ill feeling; and the loss would not be great, seeing that there are plenty of waste tracts where the people might be bestowed, and pass their time more profitably, in raising crops and cattle, than in destroying or carrying off those of their neighbours. However, young sir, that is not like to be, in our time."

"I am afraid not, Sanderson, and we must needs make the best we can of things, as they stand. I think that 'twould be well, if the English do come north again and capture Edinburgh, and ruin trade for years, to cross the seas to France, and take service there."

"Scarce spoken like a peaceful trader," the landlord laughed; "but I doubt not you would make a good soldier, and that a sword would suit your hand to the full as well as a yard measure.

"Well, it makes not so much difference, to me. Men must eat and drink, and though my wine would be drunk up without payment, and I should have to run the risk of being killed on the walls, if the English came; I should know that, in a short time, men would come and go as before, and that they will drink good wine if they have money to pay for it, and in six months my trade would be as brisk as ever; but men seem to think that, this time, it will be the Scots who will invade England, for the English barons have had enough of wars in France, and will be slow in furnishing their quota when called on; and that we shall carry fire and sword through the northern counties."

"That we may do, though Northumberland and Hotspur will doubtless have something to say to it. I fear it will be as it has been, many a time before. Our armies will march back with their plunder, the news of the damage done will inflame all England, and then a great army will march north. The nobles will hasten to make terms for themselves, and the harm and damage will fall upon quiet people, who had nought whatever to do with the invasion."

"True enough, young sir, true enough, though it is a shame that it should be said. Had the cities a voice in the matter of peace and war, you may be right sure that we should hear no more of invasions and troubles, from this side of the Border. I say not that there would be peace, for the claims of the English kings to authority in Scotland, although we have not heard so much of them since Bannockburn, are but in abeyance; and the first time that there is really peace, between them and France, you may be sure that we shall hear of them again, and then the towns as well as the country would join, heartily, in repelling an invasion."

"They never did so in the past time, Sanderson. They generally opened their gates at once, or if they closed them, it was because there was a strong garrison, under some knight or noble who, and not the townspeople, had the say in the matter. Now, methinks I will to bed, for I have had a long day's travel."

The next day passed without any message from the earl, but on the following morning one of the retainers from the castle came in, with the message that the earl desired the presence of Mr. Micklethwaite.

Oswald went up, at once. The earl was, as before, alone.

"I have been thinking, Master Forster, that it would be safer, both for you and for me, were you to tarry here for a while. You came through safely, it is true, but you might not have such good fortune on your return; and even though I sent no written answer, it would be enough, were Percy's signet found upon you, to ensure your imprisonment, and perhaps death. At any rate, they would have the means of wringing from you the mission of which you were in charge; while I could send equally well a message by sea, as I did before."

"I see that there might be some slight danger, my Lord Earl," Oswald said quietly; "but I, as well as another, might take passage down by ship touching at Berwick, or other port."

The earl's brow clouded.

"'Tis a matter to be thought over," he said, moodily. "A ship might be captured, seeing that there are often French freebooting vessels on the coast. And what were your orders from Lord Percy?"

"That I was to return, immediately I had conveyed his message to you."

"I would gladly hasten your departure," the earl said, after a moment's pause, "but you see, great issues hang upon this affair. However, I will think the matter over again, and will see how it can be best managed."

After leaving the castle, Oswald went to the convent where the monk was lodged, and asked for speech with Brother Roger. In a minute or two the latter came out.

"Are we off, young master?" he asked. "In truth, it is as bad here as at Alnwick; and, after a taste of liberty, I am longing to be out again; and indeed, I have had some trouble in accounting for my stay here, instead of continuing my journey to see my aged father."

"If it depended upon me, I would say that we would start forthwith; but what I have somewhat feared, all along, has come to pass. I was the bearer of a certain message of much importance, from Hotspur to the earl, and I fear that the latter will detain me. He thinks that I know more than I have said, which indeed is true, and likes not that one who is so entirely cognisant of his secret counsels, and intentions, should go free. He put it down to the fact that I might be captured, on my way back, and forced to confess the whole details of the mission with which I am charged. It is possible that this is so, but it is more likely that he dislikes that anyone should know secrets that concern his safety; and although he has not said as much, at present, I believe that it is his intention to hold me here as prisoner; though doubtless with due courtesy, as befits Percy's messenger and esquire; until affairs come to a head, which may not be for a year or two, yet."

"Is there a guard over you, at present?"

"Not that I know of, Roger, but it may be that the inn is watched. At any rate, he would try to overtake me, did I attempt to leave without his permission."

"Then, Master Oswald, I should say let us be off, at once."

"But how, Roger? On foot we should be speedily overtaken, and if not watched at present, doubtless I shall be, after my interview with the earl this morning. Were I to try and buy horses, I might be arrested at once. However, I have been thinking that the best plan would be for you to go round to the port, and to bargain for a passage for us to Edinburgh. Then we would slip on board quietly, half an hour before she sailed.

"Methinks it were as well that you did not go in your robes. I will purchase a dress suitable to a cattle drover, for you, and a similar one for myself. I will bring yours for you here, in an hour's time, if you will wait a hundred yards from the gate for me. Then you can go to some quiet spot and change your garments, and then go down to the port. I will be standing at the door of my inn, and as you pass say, without checking your pace, the hour at which a boat sails, today or tomorrow; and then do you be near the hotel, again, an hour before that time.

"Do not speak to me as I come out, but keep a short distance behind me; and if you see that I am followed by anyone, you must do your best to rid me of him. You had better bring your present garments along with you. They may be useful."

Roger assented joyously. The thought that, at any rate for a time, he was to get rid of his robes filled him with joy; and the possibility that there might be danger in the enterprise only added to his pleasure.

Feeling the need for great care, Oswald walked for some little time before entering a shop, passing through several quiet streets; and, when assured that he was not followed, he went into the booth of a clothier.

"I have occasion for two suits of clothes, such as would be worn by cattle drovers," he said. "I am about to travel and, having money about me, can best do so safely in such a garment. I want one suit to fit me, and another for a companion, who is a big stout man, a good deal above the ordinary height."

"'Tis a wise precaution, your honour, for the roads are by no means safe, at present. I can fit you, with ease, and will pick out the largest clothes I have in stock, for your companion."

The purchase was soon made. It consisted of a rough smock of blue cloth, reaching to the knees, and girded in by a strap at the waist; and breeches of the same material, reaching below the knees, with strips of gray cloth to be wound round and round the leg, from the knee to the ankle. In addition, Oswald bought two pairs of rough sandals, and two lowland bonnets. Each suit was done up, at his request, in a separate parcel; and then, retracing his steps, he joined Roger and handed his clothes to him.

"I will go outside the gates and change my things," Roger said, "and then go down to the port. I will then come to your hotel, as you said. If no ship sails until tomorrow, I have only to put my robe on over these garments, and return to the convent. If there is one sailing this evening, I shall not go back there again; but will be on the lookout for you, half an hour before the boat leaves the port."

"The nearer the time of sailing, the better, Roger; for if I am watched, and there is any trouble with the man who follows me, the sooner we are on board before any alarm is raised, the better. But I should hardly think a boat would start, in the evening."

"I don't know, Master Oswald. I was down at the port, yesterday, and the tide was high at three o'clock; and methinks that a boat would put out an hour or two before low tide, so as to take the water with it as far as New Berwick, and there catch the flood flowing into the Firth. In that case, the boat would put out at six, or maybe seven o'clock."

"I would that it had been two hours later, Roger. After dark, it were easy enough to silence a man without attracting much attention; but in broad daylight, it would not be so easily done."

"Not if we went straight from the inn to the port, Master, but there is no need for you to take that route."

"You are right, Roger. Indeed, it would be better not to do so, for were they to have an idea that we had escaped by water, the earl might send a fast boat after us. Therefore, when I come out I will turn off and go, by unfrequented streets and lanes, in the opposite direction. In that way you will be better able to see if I am followed, and may find some quiet place, where you can give a man a clout on the head that will rid us of him."

"Will you come out, Master Oswald, in your present attire, or in your disguise?"

"I will wear this cloak and headgear, and will put these leggings over the others, so that I shall have but to take them off and fling them aside, and to throw off my cloak and cap and put on this bonnet, all of which will not take a minute and can be done in a doorway or passage without attracting observation. I should be afraid to go out, in the drover's attire. The servants at the inn know me, now; and moreover, a man of such condition would not think of going to the Falcon. Were I to be noticed, coming out, it might be thought that I had entered it for some evil purpose."

"I shall be on hand, master. I had thought of not returning to the monastery, but I must do so, for I have left my staff there, and it will be as suitable for a drover as a monk. I shall go to the harbour, as soon as I have seen you; and if it is this evening a boat sails, I shall go back at once and bid them farewell, saying that a ship is sailing for Leith, and that I have taken passage in her."

Oswald returned to the inn and, half an hour later, went down to the doorway, where he stood as if idly watching the flow of traffic. A quarter of an hour later, he saw Roger approaching. He looked the character that he had assumed, to the life. He had dirtied his hands and face, and smudged his smock with stains of mud. He strolled along, with a free step and head erect. He did not look at Oswald as he passed, but said, "Boat sails at seven, tonight."

Oswald stood for some time longer. A short distance down the street, he observed two of the earl's retainers. They were standing, apparently looking at the goods in a mercer's window. After a time, they moved on a short distance, passed the inn, and stopped again to look in another shop, twenty or thirty yards away.

Then Oswald left the door. The landlord was standing in the passage, and beckoned to him to enter his private room.

"Young sir," he said, "I know not whether you have done anything that has displeased the earl, nor is it any business of mine; but you are a fair-spoken young gentlemen, and I would not that any ill came to you. I like not to meddle in the earl's affairs, for he would think nothing of ordering my house to be burnt over my head. However, I may warn you that he is making inquiries about you. One of his retainers has been here, two hours ago, with a confidential message from the earl, to inquire whether you had said anything about leaving, and to bid me send a message to him, secretly, should you do so."

"I thank you warmly, my good host," Oswald replied. "I have had no quarrel with the earl, but we have differed as to the value of the goods he requires. He would fain have them at last year's prices; but wool has gone up, and we could not sell them, save at a loss. It may be that he thinks I shall go away, and that if he finds I am about to do so he will send for me, and agree to my terms, which indeed are so low that they leave but little profit. However, it were well that you should let me know how much I owe you, and I will pay that, at once. Do not make up the account, but tell me roundly there or thereabouts; and then, should I leave suddenly, you can say truly that I had not asked for my bill, and that you were altogether ignorant of my intention of leaving."

"There can be no occasion for that," the host said. "You can pay me the next time you come, should you decide to leave suddenly."

"Nay, I would rather settle obligations, for if I do not do business with the earl, it may be some time before I return."

The landlord made rapid calculations, and named a sum, which Oswald at once handed to him, with warm thanks for the warning he had given him.

"I may stay here three or four days longer," he said meaningly, "as the earl may, at the last moment, come to an agreement as to the price of the goods. I should be sorry to return to my uncle without getting an order, for the earl has, for years, been one of our best customers."

The landlord nodded.

"I understand," he said. "It would be as well, perhaps, that you should say as much in the hearing of one of the drawers; so that, if questioned, I shall have a witness who can bear me out."



Chapter 7: Back To Hotspur.


It was still broad daylight when, at half-past six, Oswald left the inn and sauntered, at a leisurely pace, down the street. His eye at once fell on Roger's tall figure, and he also saw two retainers of the earl, loitering about. They were not the same men he had seen in the morning, but doubtless had relieved those on watch.

He took the first turning off the main street and, after passing through several lanes, found himself at the foot of the town wall. A narrow lane ran between it and a row of small houses. No one was about, and he thought that Roger would take advantage of the loneliness of the spot, to endeavour to rid him of his followers, whose footsteps he could hear some distance behind him. Presently, he glanced carelessly round. The men were some thirty or forty yards behind him; and coming up with them, at a rapid step, was Roger. A minute later, he heard a voice raised in anger.

"Where are you going, fellow? There is plenty of room to pass, without pushing between us. You want teaching manners."

Roger gave a loud laugh.

"Who is going to teach me?" he said.

"I will!" one of the men said, angrily placing his hand upon his sword hilt.

As he did so, he was levelled to the ground by a tremendous blow from Roger's staff. With a shout, the other soldier drew his sword; but, before he could guard himself, the staff again descended, and he fell senseless beside his comrade.

Roger at once knelt beside them, tore off strips of their garments and, rolling them up, pressed them into their mouths; and, with string which he had brought for the purpose, tied them in their place. Then, taking out a few pieces of cord he tied their hands behind them, and their ankles together; dragged them into a dark entry, and left them lying there.

The whole transaction had occupied but two or three minutes, and had attracted no attention, whatever. The soldiers' shout might have been heard; but there was no clashing of weapons, and a shout was too unimportant a matter for anyone within hearing to take any trouble about.

Oswald, seeing that Roger needed no assistance, had occupied himself with stripping off the outer pair of leggings; and had made these, with his cloak and cap, into a bundle; and, pressing the drover's cap down over his eyes, was ready by the time Roger came up to him.

"It was splendidly managed, Roger."

"It did well enough," the other said, carelessly. "It may be an hour before anyone stumbles over them; and, long before that, we shall be at sea."

They made their way back through quiet lanes until near the port, and then boldly went down to the side of a small craft.

"You are just in time, my men," the skipper said. "In another five minutes, we should be throwing off the ropes and hoisting sails. Now that you have come, we shall do so, at once. The tide is just right for us, and we have nothing further to stop for."

The boat was a large fishing smack, and had put into Dunbar but that afternoon, with the intention of disposing of the catch. Two others had, however, come in still earlier. The market being glutted, the skipper had determined to take his catch, which was a heavy one, on to Leith; and had agreed, for a very small sum, to carry the two drovers to that port.

Oswald and Roger aided in getting up the sails, and in a few minutes the smack was at sea. The wind was from the southwest, and the boat ran rapidly up the coast.

"The earl will be in a nice way, when he finds that you have gone," Roger said, as he stood in the stern to watch the rapidly receding towers of Dunbar. "There will be a hot hue and cry for you. The earl is not accustomed to be thwarted, and they say that he is a mighty hot-tempered man. I have no doubt that, as soon as his fellows bring him word of what has happened to them, and he finds that you have quitted the inn, he will send parties of horse out to scour the roads to Berwick and Haddington; and to search the country, far and near."

"He is welcome to do that," Oswald said. "My fear is that he will send down to the port, to inquire if any craft put out about the hour at which his men were attacked. But even if he does so, there is no great chance of our being overtaken. We are travelling fast, and in another hour it will be dark; and long before daybreak we shall reach Leith, having both wind and tide in our favour, all the way."

They kept an anxious watch, as long as there was light enough for them to make out if a vessel left Dunbar. Both fancied that they could see a sail, just as twilight was falling, but neither could be sure that it was not the effect of imagination. They were already ten miles away, and as the tide had now begun to make along the shore, it was certain that for some time, at least, a ship, however fast she might be, would gain but little upon them, until she had fairly entered the Firth. There would be no moon and, even should she overtake them, she might well pass them in the dark.

When they lay down, they agreed that they would keep awake in turns; and that, if they made out a ship apparently pursuing them, they would offer the skipper the full value for his boat, and betake themselves to it, and row for shore.

"The greatest danger," Roger said, "would be of their passing us, unseen; and then lying-to near the entrance of the port, and overhauling us as we came in."

"That is a danger that we cannot guard against. Can you swim, Roger?"

"It is years since I have done so," the monk replied, "but I used to do so, in the old days."

"There is an empty cask here, by my side," Oswald went on. "If we are challenged, the best plan would be to lower it down, quietly, into the water; and to hold on by it. The boat would certainly go some distance, before she had lost her way and brought up; and we should be out of sight of both ships, before they came together."

"That is a good idea. If we hear a hail, I will at once cut a good length of rope, and twist it round a barrel for us to hold on by. But I don't think there is any chance of our being overhauled."

"I agree with you in that respect; still, it is just as well to have our plans prepared, in case it should happen."

They kept a vigilant watch through the night, without catching sight of any craft proceeding in the same direction as themselves.

It was still dark when the helmsman hailed the skipper: "I see the lights of Leith ahead," and later they passed the beacon fire that marked the entrance to the port. Five minutes later Oswald and his companion, after paying the sum agreed on, stepped on shore.

"That danger is over. I did not think that there was any real cause for fear. I should like to see the earl, as his bands of horsemen ride in, today, with the news that they can hear nothing of us."

"I should like to hit him just such a clout, with my staff, as I gave his two retainers," Roger said. "Earl as he is, it was scandalous, and contrary to all usages, to arrest a messenger; especially when that messenger is an esquire of one of equal rank to himself, and his message, as I suppose, a friendly one."

"I don't so much blame him. He had no means of judging my discretion; and the consequences, to him and others, had I fallen into the hands of Douglas, or those of a marauding leader, might have been serious, indeed. I doubt not that, had I been content to stay with him, he would have treated me with all honour. I might even have done so, and have got him to send another messenger to Percy; but the latter bade me to return at once, and moreover said that he had another mission, as soon as I had carried the present one to a successful termination."

"And have you done so, Master Oswald?"

"Yes, I think so, Roger. I was to ascertain the earl's real intentions regarding certain matters, and I think that he means honestly to adhere to an offer he made. The very fear that he has shown, lest his intentions should be betrayed, seems to prove that he is most anxious that naught should occur to interfere with his plans."

"The Earls of Dunbar have ever been a treacherous race," Roger said earnestly, "and ready to betray their own countrymen, in order to curry favour with England, and continue in possession of their estates. However, as we have benefited from it, we need not grumble, if the Scots are contented.

"Now, Master Oswald, what are we to do next?"

"I should say that we had better find a corner to lie down, until daybreak. I don't think that either of us have slept. Then we will go into a tavern and breakfast, and afterwards go on to Edinburgh. I should like to see the town and castle, and the chance may never come again to me.

"Then, tomorrow morning, we will start in earnest. We shall have plenty of opportunities to talk over our plans, so let us lose no time, now, in looking for a bed."

Fortunately, they soon came upon some fishing nets, carelessly piled under the lee of a stack of timber. Here they threw themselves down, and were soon fast asleep.

When they woke, the sun was well up. Fishermen were preparing to get up sail; and those who had, like themselves, come in during the night, were commencing to unload their cargoes.

"Look there!" Oswald exclaimed, as he pointed to a vessel, from whose masthead floated a flag with the arms of the Earl of March. "She is just entering the port. They did chase us after all, you see, but they did not gain on our fishing boat."

"Well, methinks that we had better be off, at once," Roger said. "They will soon learn which boat has come from Dunbar, and find out from the men what were the disguises worn by us. So we had best lose no time in getting out of Leith."

"They would never dare to seize us, here," Oswald said.

"I don't know that. If they have strict orders to bring us back, they would not feel much hesitation in seizing us, wherever they found us; knowing well enough that the burghers of Leith would not concern themselves greatly about the capture of two drovers, who would probably be charged with all sorts of crime. Were it one of their own citizens, it would be different; but it is scarce likely that the burghers would care to quarrel, with a powerful noble, for the sake of two strangers of low degree. The gates will be open before this, and we shall be safer in Edinburgh than we are here."

Accordingly, they postponed their breakfast and, passing through the town without a pause, issued out by the south gate, and walked briskly to Edinburgh. As soon as they arrived, they found a small tavern, and partook of a hearty meal. Listening while they ate to the conversation going on around them, they found that the young Duke of Rothesay was, at present, staying at the castle.

"Men say that the disputes between him and his uncle, the Duke of Albany, have of late grown hotter."

"That might well be," another said. "Rothesay is a man, now. He has shown himself a brave soldier, and it is not likely that he would support, with patience, the haughtiness and overbearing manner of Albany. It was an evil day for Scotland when our good king, who was then but prince, lamed himself for life; and so was forced, on his accession, to leave the conduct of affairs to Albany, then Earl of Fife. The king, as all men know, is just and good, and has at heart the welfare of his subjects; but his accident has rendered him unfit to take part in public affairs, and he loves peace and quiet as much as Albany loves intrigues, and dark and devious ways. 'Tis a sore pity that the king cannot make up his mind to throw himself into the arms of Douglas, and call upon the nobility to join in expelling Albany from his councils; and to give the charge of affairs into the hands of Rothesay, or even to bestow upon him the kingly dignity, while he himself retires to the peaceful life he loves."

"That would have been better done," the other said, "before the young duke married; for many of the nobles, who would have otherwise supported him, would hold aloof, seeing that the accession of Rothesay would be but handing over the real power of the state from Albany to Douglas. Men say that the feud between March and Douglas grows hotter and hotter, and that the boldness with which March upbraided the king, for the breaking off by Rothesay of his marriage with Elizabeth of Dunbar, has so angered him, Rothesay, and Albany, who had aided in bringing about the match with Elizabeth Douglas, that 'tis like that March will, ere long, be arraigned for his conduct, and the threats that he uttered in his passion."

"Well, gossips, it matters little to us," an elderly man said. "Whether king or prince or duke is master, we have to pay; and assuredly, were Rothesay king, our taxes would not abate; seeing that he is extravagant and reckless, though I say not that he has not many good qualities. But these benefit, in no way, men like ourselves; while the taxation to support extravagance touches us all."

There was a murmur of assent from the little group who were talking, who struck Oswald as being farmers, who had come in from the country to sell cattle to the butchers of the town. They were interrupted in their talk by the landlord, who came across to them.

"My good friends," he said, "I pray you talk not so loudly concerning princes and nobles. It is true that we are a royal city, and that the burghers of Edinburgh have their rights and their liberties; nevertheless, it were dangerous to talk loud concerning nobles. We are quiet people all, and none here wear the cognizance of Douglas or Albany. Still, it would do me much harm, were it reported that there had been talk here concerning such powerful nobles; and though the Douglas might care little what was said of him, methinks that there are others -- I name no names -- who would spare neither great nor small who incurred their resentment."

"I knew not that we were talking loudly, John Ker; and methinks that none, save the two men at the near table, have heard our words; and they look honest fellows enough. Still, what you say is right, and while we may talk of these things by our firesides, 'tis best to keep a silent tongue, while abroad."

"You need not disquiet yourself about us," Roger broke in. "We have no communion with lords or princes; and, so that we can drive our herds safely down into Cumberland, we care not whether one noble or another has the king's ear. We have but just returned, from England."

"Well, man, I may put you in the way of getting a job, if you want one," the eldest of the party said. "I myself have a small farm, near Lavingston, and but breed cattle for the Edinburgh market; but I have a brother, at Lanark, who buys cattle up in the north; and, when there is peace between the countries, sends the droves down to Carlisle, and makes a good profit on their sales. I saw him but two hours ago, and he told me that he was daily expecting a lot of cattle from the north; and that he intended to send them on, without delay, to Carlisle. If you say to him that you have seen me, and that I recommended you to call on him, and see if he wanted any drovers to aid in taking them down; I doubt not he will take you on, unless he has already engaged men."

"I thank you for the offer," Roger said, "but our home lies near Roxburgh, and we intend to abide there for a time; for the roads are by no means safe, at present. Douglas is thinking more of his quarrel with Dunbar than of keeping down border freebooters. We escaped them this time; but we heard of their taking heavy toll from some herds that followed us, and of their killing two or three drovers who offered objection; so we have determined to abide at home, for a time, to see how matters go."

After taking a brief view of the town they started, in the afternoon, to walk to Dalkeith, where they slept; and, leaving there at daybreak, crossed a lofty range of hills, and came down into Lauderdale. They had no fear of any interruption such as they had experienced before -- as, had Douglas news of negotiations going on between March and England, he would not think it necessary to watch the road between Edinburgh and the border -- and late in the evening they arrived at Ancrum, on the Teviot, having done fully fifty miles, since starting.

Ten miles in the morning took them to Roxburgh. Here they put up at a small tavern, and Oswald donned the servitor's suit that he had brought with him from Dunbar; while Roger, to his great disgust, resumed his monk's gown, which he put on over the drover's suit.

Oswald then went to the governor's. His former acquaintance happened to be at the door, and endeavoured to atone for his former rudeness, by at once ushering him to the governor's room.

"Welcome back, Master Forster!" the latter said. "Your mission, whatever it was, is speedily terminated. From what you said, I had not looked for you for another fortnight."

"If I had not come when I did," Oswald said, "my absence might have been prolonged, for months. However, all has gone well, and I purpose starting at once for Alnwick, and would fain reach Wooler by nightfall."

"That you can do, easily enough. I will order the horses to be saddled, at once."

"I thank you, Sir Philip. I will mount here in the courtyard. I care not, now, what notice may be taken of me; seeing that there is but some ten miles to be ridden, to the frontier."

"Nor, I warrant me, will you meet with interference on the road," the knight said. "I have not heard of anyone being stopped for toll, for the past year, between this and the border."

A quarter of an hour later they left Roxburgh; and, travelling at an easy pace, arrived at Wooler before sunset; and on the following evening entered Alnwick. They could have reached it earlier, but Oswald thought it as well not to enter the castle until after dark, as he did not wish to be noticed in his present attire.

Fastening the horses to hooks in the courtyard, Oswald ran up to his apartment, which was next to that of his uncle.

"Welcome back, Oswald!" the latter said, as he opened his door on hearing his footsteps. "I had thought that you would be longer away."

"I am back sooner than I expected, Uncle. Will you order supper to be brought up here, for Roger and myself? We are both hard set; though, indeed, we had a meal of bread and cheese, at noon, at a wayside tavern."

"Brother Roger has behaved well?"

"Excellently. He has cracked but two sconces since we left, and these were on my behalf. He will sleep on some rushes in my room, tonight. He hates the thought of returning to the monastery, and has begged me, most earnestly, to ask Percy to continue him in his employment."

As soon as Oswald had donned his ordinary attire, he went to Lord Percy's quarters.

"You are back sooner than I had expected, Oswald," Hotspur said, as he entered. "Nothing has gone wrong, I hope?"

"Nothing, my lord, but I was forced to leave Dunbar, after but three days' stay there; for the earl was so fearful that I might be detected, on my way back, that he would have retained me with him until the time for action came; sending down another messenger, by sea, to you. As your orders were to return with all speed, I gave him the slip, and made my way back as quickly as possible."

"And March?"

"I think that the earl is in earnest in his professions, my lord; and that you can rely upon him for such aid as he can render. But, from what I heard in Edinburgh -- "

"In Edinburgh!" Hotspur said, in surprise; "what took you there?"

"I will tell you, my lord; but the point is that men said openly, there, that there was a report that he would be attainted, and deprived of his land, for treasonable words spoken by him to the king, the Duke of Albany, and the Duke of Rothesay. If this is so, he will have to fly; for assuredly he has, at present, no force gathered that could resist those of the king and Douglas."

"Give me an account of what has happened," Hotspur said, frowning. "I feared that March's impetuous temper would lead him into trouble, before we were in a position to march to his assistance; and I heard rumours of a stormy scene between him and Rothesay, when he learned that he had been fooled; but I knew not that the king, himself, was present."

Oswald related the story of his journey, and the interruption on the moor; and the reports, that he had afterwards heard, of the stoppage of all travellers coming from the south, by the same band.

"The leader was evidently above the rank of an ordinary marauder, and his followers obeyed him as men-at-arms would obey an officer; and it seemed to me, my lord, that Douglas must have heard a vague report that the earl was in communication with England; and sought to intercept some messenger, on whom he might find a letter, or from whom he could extract proofs of the earl's treachery."

"'Tis like enough," Hotspur said. "When a man is so rash as to upbraid the king, and still more Albany, he must needs fall under suspicion. Now, go on with your story."

When Oswald had brought his narration to an end, Percy said:

"You have done very well, Oswald, and have deserved the confidence that I placed in you. You have shown much circumspection, and you did well in escaping from Dunbar, as you did. The mad monk, too, seems to have behaved well. I doubted your wisdom in taking him, but he has certainly proved a useful fellow."

"I would petition, my lord, that you should continue him in your service; and that, should you employ me upon another mission, you will again allow me to take him with me. He is a shrewd fellow, as well as a stout one, and I could wish for no better companion; though I own that, since he put on his gown again at Roxburgh, and rode hither, his spirits have greatly failed him."

"I will arrange that with the abbot," Hotspur said; "but tell him that, while he is here, he must continue to wear his robe. His face is too well known for him to pass as a man-at-arms, without being recognized by half the garrison. The Lord Abbot would well object to one of his monks turning into a swaggering man-at-arms, at his very door.

"At any rate, I shall tell the abbot that, if he will consent quietly to the monk's unfrocking himself, until he can obtain for him release from his vows; I will scud him away to one of the other castles, whence I can fetch him, if you need him to accompany you on any errand, and where he can form part of the regular garrison. But the knave must be informed that it were best that he say nought about his former profession, and that he comport himself as quietly as is in his nature.

"I will give him a small command, as soon as may be; for although a very bad monk, he has proved himself to be a good soldier."

"I thank you greatly, my lord," Oswald said; "and will talk seriously to the monk, who will be delighted when he hears that the abbot will take steps to allow him to lay aside his gown."

Roger was, indeed, delighted when he heard the news; and still more so when, three days later, Oswald informed him that Hotspur had obtained, from the abbot, what was practically a release from his vows. The good abbot said that he felt that harm, rather than good, would ensue from keeping the monk a member of the monastery.

"He infects the lay brothers, with his talk," he said. "He is a good instructor in arms, but he teaches not as one who feels that it is a dire necessity to carry arms, but as one who delights in it. Moreover, he causes scandals by his drinking bouts, and does not add to the harmony of the place. At a time like this, when the Scots may, at any moment, fall across the border, such a fellow may do good service to his country; and it is surely better that a man should be a good soldier, than that he should be a bad monk. Therefore I will let him go, my lord; but keep him away from here. It would be a grave scandal, were he to be brawling in the town where he is known. Therefore, I pray you, take him elsewhere. I have striven long to make him a worthy member of his order, but I feel that it is beyond me; and it would be best, therefore, that he should go his own way. He may come to be a worthy soldier, and so justify me in allowing him to unfrock himself.

"As he is abiding in your castle, I pray you bid him present himself here, tomorrow. I would fain speak to him, and give him such advice, concerning his future conduct, as may be of benefit to him."

When Roger returned from the monastery, the next day, he wore a much more serious face than usual.

"The abbot has done me more good, by his talk this morning," he said to Oswald, "than by all the lectures and penances he has ever imposed on me. In truth, he is a good man, and I had half a mind to say that I would return to the convent, and do my best to comport myself mildly and becomingly.

"But I felt that it would not do, Oswald. The thing is too strong for me and, however I might strive, I know that when the temptation came I should break out again; and so, I held my peace."

"What did he say to you, Roger?"

"He said many things, but the gist of it was that there were as good men outside the walls of a monastery as there were within it, and that a soldier has as many opportunities -- indeed many more opportunities -- of showing himself a good man as a monk has. In battle, he said, a soldier must act as such, and fight stoutly against the enemy, and take life as well as risk his own; but after the fight is over he should show himself merciful, and if he cannot follow out the precept to love his enemies, he should at least be compassionate and kind to them. But above all, he should never oppress the helpless, should comport himself honourably and kindly to women and children, and, if necessary, draw sword in their defence against those who would ill use them. And, though the spoils of war were honourable and necessary, when captured in fair fight, yet the oppression and robbery of the poor were deadly crimes.

"'Comport yourself always, Roger, as if, though a soldier in arms, you were still a monk at heart. You are brave and strong, and may rise to some honour; but, whether or no, you may bear yourself as if you were of gentle blood, and wore knightly spurs. Not all who are so are honourable and merciful, as they have vowed to be. Remember, I shall hear of you from time to time, through my Lord Percy; and that it will gladden me to have a good account of you, and to feel that I have not done wrong in letting you go forth, from this house of rest, to take part in the turmoil and strife of the world.'

"He said more than this, but this is the pith of it. I knelt down, and swore that I would strive, to the utmost in my power, to do as he bade me; and he put his hands on my head, and bade me go in peace; and I tell you, I mean to prove to him that his words have not been in vain."

Two days later, Oswald started with Roger, and rode to Warkworth Castle, some ten miles away; bearing an order to the governor to add Roger to the strength of the garrison, telling him that he had shown himself to be a brave soldier, and a skilful one, and that he could place confidence in him, and appoint him to any sub-command that might become vacant.

On the way, they entered a wood. Here Roger took off his monastic garb, and clad himself in armour such as was worn by the garrison of Alnwick. The monk's clothes were made up into a bundle, and left in the wood, Oswald saying:

"I will carry them back with me, on my return, Roger. It may be that they may come in useful, yet, if you and I travel together again in the Percys' service."

A month passed, and then the Earl of March came, by sea, to Alnwick. Douglas and the regent had marched against him with an overwhelming force; and, as they were both personal enemies, he knew that his fate would be sealed if he fell into their hands, and he had therefore been driven to declare himself, openly, as a vassal of the English king.

On the day after his arrival he happened to be in Hotspur's room, when Oswald entered.

"Ah! ah!" he said, "This is your messenger, Percy.

"You left me with scant notice, sir."

And he smiled.

"I was forced to do so, my lord earl; for, in truth, I was not sure that you would not prevent me from following my lord's orders, to return after seeing you."

"You were right. In the first place, I was not sure that you were a true messenger; and in the second place, I feared that you might, on return, fall into the hands of the Douglases; who would speedily find means to wring from you an account of your mission. Therefore, I thought that it were best that you should tarry a while with me, at Dunbar.

"The young fellow has a good head, Lord Percy, and is as hard to hold as a wildcat. I put the matter of watching him into the hands of two or three of my men, whose wits I have tried more than once, and know them to be among the most trustworthy of my followers. This lad, however, outwitted them. How, they have never been able to explain; but my fellows were found, trussed up like fowls for roasting, in an alley into which they had been thrown; having, as they declared, been knocked down by a giant fellow, who sprung from they knew not where, just as they were about to lay hands upon your messenger. After they had vanished, none had seen him pass the walls, and we judged that he must have started in a craft that sailed up the Forth. Fearing that, if they landed, he might speedily fall into the hands of Douglas, I sent a vessel in chase; but they missed him, and indeed, from that time to this I knew not, save by your letter to me, whether he had reached here safely."

After a short stay, the Earl of March was about to return to Dunbar; when he heard that the king, himself, was coming north with an army for the invasion of Scotland, and would then confer with him, and consider the terms on which he proposed to transfer his allegiance to him. A month later the king arrived at Alnwick, and there George Dunbar, Earl of March, entered into an agreement with him; in which he renounced all fealty to the King of Scotland, in consideration for which he was granted an estate in Lincolnshire, and other revenues. It was also agreed that the subjects of the King of England should support the earl, in time of necessity; and should be supported by him, and received into his fortresses.

He was not, now, in a position to render any very efficient aid to the king; for Robert Maitland, his nephew, to whom he had committed the castle of Dunbar, had been summoned by Douglas, who had marched there with a strong force, by order of the king, and had surrendered the stronghold to him. However, he brought Dunbar's wife and family, and a considerable force of his retainers, safely across the border.

He and Percy, together, then made a raid into the Douglas territory; and penetrated as far as Haddington, and collected much spoil from the country round. Douglas, however, came suddenly upon them in great force, and they were obliged to retreat hastily across the frontier again, abandoning their baggage and booty.

The king's invasion was no more satisfactory. The Earl of March was unable to place Dunbar in his hands; and, as the Scots declined battle in the open, he laid siege to Edinburgh, but without success. Dunbar being closed to him, he was unable to obtain provisions, and was forced to fall back to England, having accomplished nothing.

During his invasion, he had shown much more leniency than had been the custom with his predecessors. He had taken what was necessary to support the army, but had abstained from wasting the country, destroying villages and towns, and slaughtering the country people; and, so far from embittering the animosity between the two nations, he had produced a better state of feeling; and a truce was, in consequence, concluded for a year, at Kelso, by special commissioners from both kings, on the 21st of December, 1400.



Chapter 8: Ludlow Castle.


Oswald Forster had not been present when, in June, 1400, the king arrived at Alnwick. A few days after the coming of the Earl of March, Hotspur received a letter from Sir Edmund Mortimer, the brother of his wife; asking him to send a body of men-at-arms, under an experienced captain who could aid him to drill newly-raised levies; for that one Owen Glendower had taken up arms against the Lord Grey de Ruthyn, and that turbulent men were flocking to his standard, and it was feared that serious trouble might ensue. Percy was in a position to send but few men, for with war with the Scotch imminent, he could not weaken himself by sending off a large force. However, he sent for Alwyn Forster.

"I need twenty picked men, for the service of Sir Edmund Mortimer, Alwyn. I would send more, were it not for the position of affairs here. What say you to taking the command of them?"

"I would gladly do so, my lord, if it be that there is a chance of something more lively than drilling hinds, and turning them into men-at-arms, which has been my business for years now, without a chance of striking a blow in earnest."

"I think that there will be a certainty of fighting, Alwyn. The Welshmen are growing troublesome again, and Sir Edmund thinks that there may be tough work, on the Welsh marches, and has written to me for aid.

"With the king coming hither, there is a chance that the Earl of March, and myself, will open the war by harrying the Douglas's lands. I can spare no great force, but even twenty tried men-at-arms would, no doubt, be welcome. As the king is going to march into Scotland, there is no fear that there will be any serious invasion by the Scots, and therefore you can be spared for a while. I think not that any of my knights would care to go in command of so small an array, but I thought that you might like to take it."

"I shall be right glad to do so, my lord."

"I shall send your nephew with you. He is a shrewd and gallant young fellow, and I know he would far rather be taking part in active service, against the Welsh, than spending his time in idleness, here. He has been too long used to a life on horseback to rest contented to be cooped up in a castle. Besides, there will be a good opportunity of distinguishing himself, and of learning something of a warfare even wilder, and more savage, than that in these northern marches."

"I should like much to have him with me, my lord. Methinks that he has the making of a right good knight; and, young as he is, I am sure that his head is better than mine, and I should not be too proud to take counsel of him, if needs be."

"That is settled then, Alwyn. Choose your men, and set off tomorrow morning. Ralph Peyton, your lieutenant, shall take the command of the garrison until you return."

Oswald was delighted when his uncle told him of the mission with which he was charged, and that he himself was to accompany him.

"You are to have the choice of the men-at-arms, Uncle?"

"Yes, Oswald. I know what you are going to say. You would like to have that mad monk of yours, as one of them."

"That should I, Uncle. You have no stouter man-at-arms in all your band, and he has proved that he can be discreet when he chooses, and did me good service in my last expedition."

"Very well, lad, we will take him. I will send one of the men over, at once, for him to join us on the road tomorrow. I shall choose young and active fellows, of whom we have plenty. I have never fought against the Welsh; but they are light footed, and agile, and their country is full of hills and swamps. The older men would do as good service here, were the castle besieged in our absence; of which, however, there is but slight chance; but for work against the Welsh, they would be of little use."

Hotspur himself spoke to Oswald, that evening.

"Here is a missive to give to Sir Edmund Mortimer. I have commended you to him, telling him that, though young, there is not one of my squires in whom I could more implicitly trust; and that you had carried out a delicate mission for me, with rare discretion and courage. Your uncle, as an old retainer, and a good fighter, and the captain of my garrison, goes in command of the men-at-arms, and in regular fighting one could need no better officer; but in such warfare as that against the Welsh is like to be, yours will be the better head to plan, and as my squire you will represent me. I have specially commended you to him, as one always to be depended upon."

"I am greatly beholden to your lordship," Oswald said, "and will try to justify the commendations that you have given me."

At daybreak on the following morning, the little party rode out from the castle. Oswald with his uncle rode in front; the former in the highest spirits, while the sturdy old soldier was himself scarce less pleased, at this change from the monotony of life in garrison.

"Years seem to have fallen off my shoulders, lad," he said, "and I feel as young as I did when I fought at Otterburn."

"That was a bad business, Uncle; and I trust that no such misfortune as that will befall us, this time."

"I hope not, indeed, Oswald. It was a sore fight, and we are scarce likely to have a pitched battle with these Welsh carls. They fight not much in our fashion, as I have heard; but dash down from their hills, and carry fire and sword through a district, and are off again before a force can be gathered to strike a blow. Then there are marches to and fro among their hills, but it is like chasing a will-o'-the-wisp; and like enough, just when you think you have got them cooped up, and prepare to strike a heavy blow, they are a hundred miles away, plundering and ravaging on our side of the frontier. They are half-wild men, short in stature, and no match for us when it comes to hand-to-hand fighting; but broad in the shoulder, tireless, and active as our shaggy ponies, and well-nigh as untamable. 'Tis fighting in which there is little glory, and many hard knocks to be obtained; but it is a good school for war. It teaches a man to be ever watchful and on his guard, prepared to meet sudden attacks, patient under difficulties; and, what is harder, to be able to go without eating or drinking for a long time, for they say that you might as well expect to find corn and ale on the crest of the Grampians, as you would on the Welsh hills."

"The prospect doesn't look very pleasant, Uncle," Oswald laughed. "However, their hills can scarcely be more barren than ours, nor can they be quicker on the stroke than the border raiders; and for such work, we of the northern marches have proved far more useful than the beefy men of the south."

"No doubt, no doubt; and maybe that, for that reason, Sir Edmund prayed Hotspur to send a detachment to his aid; for he would know that we are accustomed to a country as rough, and to a foe as active as he has now to meet.

"I wonder what has stirred up the Welsh now, knowing as they do that, although they may gain successes at first, it always ends in the harrying of their lands, and the burning of their castles and villages. They have been quiet for some years. But they are always like a swarm of bees. They will work, quietly enough, till they take offence at something; then they will pour out in a fury, attacking all they come across, and caring nothing about death, so that they can but prick an enemy with their stings. Maybe it is the report that the king is engaging in another Scotch war, and they think that it is a good time to gather spoil from their neighbours. They used to be mightily given to warring among themselves, but of late I have heard but little of this.

"It is a hundred years, now, since they were really troublesome, and rose under Morgan ap Madoc; and Edward the Second had himself to reduce them to submission, and build strong castles at Conway, Beaumaris, and other places. There have been one or two partial risings, since then, but nothing of much consequence. It may well be that the present generation, who have not themselves felt the power of English arms, may have decided to make another stroke for independence; and if so, it will need more than Mortimer's force, or that of the other border barons, to bring them to reason; and as for our little detachment, it will be but a drop in the ocean. However, it may be that this is a mere quarrel, between Mortimer and some of his neighbours.

"I have heard somewhat of the Welshman Owen Glendower, who lives in those parts. He has a grievance against Lord Grey of Ruthyn; who, as he says, unjustly seized a small estate of his. I know that he petitioned Parliament for redress, but that his petition was lately refused."

"'Tis strange that such a man should have known enough of English law to have made a petition to our parliament."

"Yes; but he is no common man. He went to England and studied at our universities, and even lived in the inns of court, and learned the laws of this country. Then, strangely enough, he became an esquire in the household of King Richard, and did good service to him; and when the court was broken up, on Richard being dethroned, he went away to his estate in Wales. Since then I have not heard of him, save as to this dispute with Lord Grey and his petition to Parliament thereon; but men who were at Richard's court have told me that he was a courteous gentleman, of excellent parts and, it was said, of much learning."

"Such a man might be a formidable enemy," Oswald said; "and if he has been robbed by Lord Grey, he might well head an insurrection, to recover his estates from that noble."

In the course of their ride they were joined by Roger, who warmly thanked Alwyn for having selected him as one of his band. The other soldiers received him heartily, for the fighting monk had been a familiar personage at Alnwick, and his mighty strength and jovial disposition rendered him very popular among the soldiers of the garrison. There had been general satisfaction among them, when it was known that he had laid aside his monk's gown, and had become one of the Percys' men-at-arms; and there had been many expressions of regret that he had been sent off, instead of forming one of the garrison of Alnwick. Two or three of them addressed him, as usual, as monk, but he said:

"Look here, comrades, I have been a monk, and a bad one, and the less said about it the better. I am no longer a monk, but a man-at-arms; and as I am not proud of my doings as a monk, I have given up the title, as I have given up the garb. Therefore I give fair notice that whosoever, in future, shall address me as monk, will feel the weight of my arm. My name is Roger, and as Roger let me be called, henceforth."

So saying, he fell into his place in the line, when the cavalcade continued their way.

The journey was a long one. Oswald had been well supplied with funds, and seldom found difficulty in obtaining lodgings for the party. The sight of an esquire, with a small troop of men-at-arms wearing the Percy cognizance, excited no curiosity as they rode south; but when they turned westward it was otherwise, and at their halting places Oswald and his uncle, who dined apart from the others, were always questioned as to their destination.

But when it was known that they were travelling to the castle of Mortimer, whose sister was the wife of their lord, none were surprised; for rumours were already current of troubles on the Welsh border; and when they entered Shropshire they heard that Owen Glendower, with a considerable force, had fallen suddenly upon the retainers of Lord Grey de Ruthyn, had killed many, and had reoccupied the estates of which he had been deprived by that nobleman.

On the fifteenth day after leaving Alnwick they arrived at Ludlow Castle, of which Mortimer was the lord. Oswald was at once conducted to the hall where the knight was sitting.

"I am bearer of a message from Sir Henry Percy," he said; "he has sent hither a party of twenty men-at-arms, under the command of the captain of his garrison, at Alnwick."

"I had hoped for more," the knight said, taking the missive and opening it; "but I can understand that, now the king is marching against Scotland, Percy cannot spare troops to despatch so long a distance. I trust that he and my sister, his wife, and the earl are in good health?"

"I left them so, sir."

The knight read Hotspur's letter.

"He speaks in terms of high commendation of you, young sir," he said, as he laid the letter down on the table. "Such commendation is rarely bestowed on one so young. I marvelled somewhat, when you entered, that Sir Henry Percy should have sent so young a squire; but from what he says, I doubt not that his choice is a good one; and indeed, it is plain that your muscles have had rare exercise, and that you can stand fatigue and hardship better than many older men. It is like that you will have your share, for the whole border seems to be unsettled. You have heard that this Glendower has boldly attacked, and driven out, Lord Grey's retainers from the estates he had taken.

"As to the rights of that matter, I have nought to say. Lord Grey manages the affairs with the Welsh in his own county of Denbighshire, and along the north; and I keep their eastern border, and I meddle not with his affairs, nor he with mine. I know that this Glendower is a supporter of King Richard, of whom there are many tales current; some saying that he escaped from Pomfret, and is still alive, though I doubt not that the report that he died there is true. We know that there is, in Scotland, a man whom it pleases Albany to put forward as Richard; but this, methinks, is but a device to trouble our king. Whether this Glendower believes in this man, or not, I know not; but certain it is that he would embrace any opportunity to prove his hostility to Henry, whom he professes to regard as a usurper. Whether it is on account of his holding such opinions, and foolishly giving expression to them, that Lord Grey thought fit to seize his estates I know not; nor, indeed, do I care. Now, however, that the man has taken up arms, and by force has dispossessed Lord Grey, the matter touches all of us who are responsible for the keeping of peace in the Welsh marches.

"Were it only a quarrel between Lord Grey and this man, it would matter but little; but, from all I hear, he exercises a strange influence over his countrymen, who deem that he has mysterious powers, and can call up spirits to aid him. For myself, I have never known an instance where necromancy or spirits have availed, in any way, against stout arms and good armour; but such is not, assuredly, the opinion of the unlearned, either in this country or in Wales. But these mountaineers are altogether without learning, and are full of superstitions. Even with us, a man more learned than the commonalty is deemed, by them, to dabble in the black art; and it may well be that this reputation Glendower has obtained is altogether due to the fact that he has much knowledge, whereas the people have none. However that may be, there is no doubt that the Welsh people are mostly ignorant; and that, at the call of this Glendower, men from all parts are hastening to join his banner. Even on this side of the border there are complaints that the Welsh servants are leaving, not openly and after a due termination of service, but making off at night, and without a word of warning.

"All this would seem to show that there is trouble on hand, and it behoves us to be watchful, and to hold ourselves in readiness; lest at any time they should, as in the days of old, cross the border, and carry fire and sword through Shropshire and Hereford. The royal castles in Wales could, doubtless, hold out against all attacks; but the garrisons would have to remain pent up within their walls, until succour reached them. Fortunately, most of them are situated near the sea, and could be relieved without the troops having to march through places where a heavily armed man can scarce make his way, and where these active and half-clad Welshmen can harass them, night and day, without ever giving them a chance of coming to close quarters.

"A messenger from Lord Grey arrived here, yesterday. Indeed, since the attack on his retainers, we have been in constant communication. At first he made light of the matter, and said that he should like to have the Welshman hanging from the battlements of his castle; but, during the last week, his messages have been less hopeful. Glendower had disappeared from the neighbourhood altogether, leaving a sort of proclamation to Lord Grey affixed to the door of his house; saying that, next time he heard of him, no mercy would be shown, and every man would be slain. He now says that rumours reach him of large gatherings, and that there are bonfires, nightly, on the hilltops. He doubts not that the troubles will soon be suppressed, but admits that much blood may have to be spilt, ere it is done.

"I can bear testimony to the bonfires, for from the top of the keep a dozen can be seen, any night, blazing among the hills."

"Of course, sir, your messenger, asking Lord Percy to send a body of men-at-arms here, was despatched before Glendower's attack on Lord Grey?"

"Certainly; but it is three months, now, since Parliament refused Glendower's appeal for justice against Lord Grey; and rumours have been busy, ever since. Some said that he was travelling through the valleys, accompanied by some of the harpers, who have always taken a leading part in stirring up the Welsh to insurrection. Some avow that he has retired to a fortress, and was there weaving designs for the overthrow of Lord Grey, and even of the whole of the English castles. Some say that he claims to be a descendant of Llewellyn, and the rightful king of Wales.

"There is some foundation for this, for I have talked to some of the better class of Welsh; who have, like Glendower, studied in our universities. The Welsh are, above all things, fond of long pedigrees, and can trace, or pretend to trace, the lineage of all their principal families up to Noah; and some of them admit that there is some ground for the claim Glendower is said to have made.

"Still, all these rumours make me feel uneasy. As we have had many years of quiet here, it has not been necessary to keep up more than a sufficient number of men-at-arms for the defence of this castle. I might have increased the force, for the people of these parts bear a deep animosity against the Welsh, and dread them greatly; as they may well do, from the many wrongs and outrages they have suffered at their hands. One reason why I have not taken on many men, since the talk of coming troubles began, is that, close to the border as we are, many have connections with the Welsh by business or marriage; and these, if enrolled in the garrison, might serve as spies, and give warning of any movement we might undertake. I had hoped that Percy could have spared me a hundred good men-at-arms. I would rather have had his men than others, because they have been trained in border warfare, by the constant troubles in Scotland; and would, moreover, come to me with a better heart than others, since Sir Henry's wife is my sister, and it is, therefore, almost a family quarrel upon which they have entered.

"Had I known, when I wrote, that the king was on his way north, I should have taken steps to raise my strength elsewhere, as of course Percy would have occasion to use every lance he could muster. Lord Grey has sent off a messenger to the king, begging him to denounce this fellow as an outlaw; and should he be troublesome, he himself may, after he has done with the Scots, send hither a force; for although we may hope, with the aid of the levies of the border counties, to drive back the Welsh in whatever force they may come, 'tis another thing to march into the mountains. The matter has been tried, again and again, and has always taxed the power of England to the utmost.

"'Tis of no use lamenting over spilt milk but, for my part, I regret that Parliament did not give a fair hearing to Glendower's complaint against Lord Grey. The refusal to do so was a high-handed one. It has driven this man to desperation, and has enlisted the sympathies of all Welshmen who have English neighbours; for they cannot but say, among themselves, 'If he is to be plundered and despoiled, and his complaints refused a hearing, what is to prevent our being similarly despoiled? 'Tis surely better to take up the sword, at once, and begin again the fight for our independence.'

"As it is, it may cost thousands of lives, immense efforts, and vast trouble before things are placed on their former footing.

"Doubtless, the captain of the men-at-arms you have brought is a good soldier, since Percy says that he is captain of his garrison at Alnwick!"

"He bears a high reputation in Northumberland, Sir Edmund. I may say that he is my uncle, and 'tis from his recommendation that Lord Percy, in the first place, took me into his household."

"I will go down and speak with him," the knight said. "I gave orders, as soon as I heard who had arrived, that proper entertainment should be given to all; yet it is but right that I should, myself, go down to thank them for having come so far; and to welcome their captain, whose experience will be of no small use to my own men, who have never been engaged in border war. Some have fought in France, but under conditions so different that their experience will aid them but little; save, indeed, if the Welsh grow so strong and so bold that they venture to attack this castle."

Percy's men, when the knight descended, had indeed sat down to supper with the retainers of the castle, while Alwyn was being entertained by the captain of his men-at-arms. All rose to their feet when Sir Edmund entered, but he waved his hand to them, to be seated.

"Finish your meal," he said, "and afterwards, if you will muster in the courtyard, I will inspect you, and see what stout Northumberland men Lord Percy has sent me."

He then went up to the top of the keep with Oswald, pointed out the distant hills, and told him what valleys and villages lay among them, and the direction in which such roads as there were ran. By the time they had descended, Percy's men were drawn up in the courtyard.

"This is my uncle, Captain Alwyn Forster," Oswald said, "of whom Lord Percy has written to you."

"I am glad to see so stout a soldier here," the knight said, holding out his hand to Alwyn; "and I am grateful to Lord Percy for sending, in answer to my request, one in whom he has such perfect confidence; and I specially thank you for having willingly relinquished so important a post, to head so small a following."

"I was glad to come, Sir Edmund, for I had rested so long, at Alnwick, that I longed for some brisk action, and fell gladly into my lord's view, when he requested me to come hither. I can answer for my men, for they are all picked, by myself, from among the stoutest of Sir Henry's following."

"That I can well believe," the knight said, as he looked at the twenty troopers. "Tall, strong men all; and as brave as they are strong, I doubt not. I shall be glad to have so stout a band to ride behind me, if these Welshmen break out.

"You are all accustomed to border warfare, but this differs a good deal from that in Northumberland. While the northern forays are mostly made by horsemen, it is rare that your Welshman adventures himself on horseback. But they are as active as your wild ponies, and as swift; and, if the trouble increases, they will give you plenty to do.

"I learn from your lord's letter that you will be, as usual, under pay from him while you are with me. I shall pay you as much more. 'Tis meet that, if you render me service, I should see that you are comfortable, and well contented."

There was a murmur of satisfaction among the men and, after recommending them to the care of the captain of the garrison, and bidding Alwyn speak in the name of his men, fearlessly, for anything that should be lacking, Sir Edmund left the courtyard.

The seneschal of the castle, Sir John Wyncliffe, requested Oswald to follow him. He first showed him the chamber, in one of the turrets, that he was to occupy; and then took him down to the hall, where two other knights, four esquires, and two or three pages were assembled, in readiness for the supper.

Mortimer, with his wife and two daughters, presently came down and took his place at the head of the table; at which the others sat down, in order of their rank. As a guest, Oswald was placed among the knights. Before sitting down, Sir Edmund presented him to his wife and daughters.

"This is one of Sir Henry Percy's esquires," he said, "and can give you more news of Sir Percy's wife; of whom, beyond saying that she sends her greetings to you all, Hotspur tells us nothing."

"Have you been long a member of Sir Henry Percy's household?"

"But a year, my lady."

"Hotspur speaks of him in very high terms, and says that he has rendered him great services, and that he has the highest confidence in him."

"To what family do you belong, sir?" the dame asked. "From my husband's sister, who was staying here some months since, I learned much of your northern families."

"I am the son of John Forster of Yardhope, who has the reputation of being as hard a fighter as any on the border. He is not a knight, though of fair estates; for, although Earl Percy offered him knighthood, for his services at the battle of Otterburn, he said that he preferred remaining plain John Forster, as his fathers had been before him. My mother was a daughter of Sir Walter Gillespie, and my uncle is captain of the garrison of Alnwick; and it was for his goodwill towards him, and my father, that Sir Henry appointed me one of his esquires, thinking, moreover, that I might be more useful than some, because I know every foot of the border, having relations on the Scottish side of it."

They now sat down to supper. After it was over, Sir Edmund took Oswald with him to his wife's bower.

"There," he said, "you can talk at your ease, and tell us how my sister, your mistress, is, and the children."

"Did you not say, Sir Edmund," his wife asked, "that it was the captain of his men-at-arms that Sir Hotspur sent hither, in command of the band?"

"That is so, dame."

"Then, surely, he should have been at our table."

"I asked him," Sir Edmund replied, "but he said that he would rather, with my permission, lodge with John Baldry; who is, like himself, a stout soldier, but who likes better his own society than that of the high table. He said that, except upon rare and special occasions, he always has been accustomed to take his meals alone, or with some comrades whom he could take to his room. As this is also John Baldry's habit, he prayed me to allow him to accept his invitation to share his room."

"What he says about his habits is true, my lady. I can well understand my uncle cares not for company where it would not be seemly for him to raise his voice, or to enter into a hot argument, on some point of arms."

"What were the services of which Sir Henry speaks?"

"It was a mission with which he charged me, and which involved some danger."

"By the way," Dame Mortimer said, "my sister-in-law wrote to me, some time since, telling us of a strange conflict that was held between one of the squires, and another who had been newly appointed; and who, on one of the mountain ponies, worsted his opponent, although the latter was much older, and moreover clad in full armour, and riding a heavy warhorse. Was it you who were the victor on that occasion?"

"I can scarce be said to have been the victor, my lady. It was, indeed, hardly a combat. But I maintained that one accustomed to the exercises in use among our border men, and mounted on one of our ponies, accustomed to move with great rapidity, and to turn and twist at the slightest movement of the rider's knee, would be a match for a heavy-armed knight in single combat; although a number would have no chance, against the charge of a handful of mailed knights; and Sir Henry put it to the proof, at once."



Chapter 9: The Welsh Rising.


For a time the garrison at the castle had but little to do. Lord Grey had taken no steps to recover the estates from which his retainers had been so unceremoniously ejected. He had, indeed, marched a strong force through them; but the Welsh had entirely withdrawn, and it would be necessary to keep so large a force unemployed, were he to reoccupy the land, that he abstained from taking any decisive action, prior to the return of the messenger whom he had despatched to inform the king of the forcible measures that Glendower had taken to recover the estate. It would have been no trifling step to take, to carry his arms into Wales, and so bring on a fresh struggle after so many years of peace; and he would not move in the matter, until he had the royal authority.

Henry lost no time in replying. Glendower had been an open supporter of Richard, and had retired from court rather than own his successor as king. He had made his complaints against Lord Grey before Parliament, and his appeal had been rejected by an overwhelming majority. His attack upon Lord Grey was, therefore, viewed in the light of an insult to the royal power; and, a fortnight after Oswald and his party arrived at Sir Edmund's, a messenger arrived with a royal order, to all barons holding castles on the border, to proclaim Owen Glendower an outlaw, and to take all measures necessary to capture him.

Sir Edmund shook his head, as he read the proclamation, copies of which were to be fixed to the castle gate, and in other conspicuous places.

"Lord Grey has stirred up a fire that it will be difficult to extinguish. It were as wise to kick over a hive of bees, when naked to the waist, as to set Wales in a ferment again. Had this proclamation been sent to me, only, I would have taken it upon myself to hold it over until I had, myself, made a journey north to see the king, and to submit to him my views on the subject; and to point out how dire might be the consequences, to the inhabitants of our marches, and how great would be the effort required, if Glendower should be supported by the whole of his countrymen, as I believe he will be. However, as it has been sent to all the keepers of the marches this cannot be done; and I shall, at once, send orders to the sheriffs of Shropshire, and Hereford, to warn the militia that they may be called out at any moment, and must hold themselves in preparedness, having every man his arms and accoutrements in good condition, and fit for service, according to the law. I shall also issue orders to my own tenants to be ready to take up arms, and to drive their herds away, and bring their wives and families into the castle, as soon as the beacon fire is lighted on the summit of the keep."

This was said to Oswald, to whom Sir Edmund had taken a strong liking, and to whom he spoke more freely than he might have done to his own knights and officers, as being in Earl Percy's service, and having no personal interest in the matters in debate.

"You yourself have heard the tales that have been brought in to me, showing how greatly the people have been stirred by the belief in Glendower's powers of necromancy; how blue flames have been seen to issue from every window and loophole of his house; how red clouds, of various strange shapes, hover over it; and mysterious sounds are heard throughout the night. For myself, I believe not these tales, though I would not take upon myself to say they are false, since everyone knows that there are men who have dealings with the powers of darkness. Still, I should have, myself, to see these things, before I gave credence to them. That, however, makes no difference in the matter; true or not, they seem to be believed by the Welsh, and cannot but increase his power.

"Well, we shall soon hear what reply he makes to the proclamation, of which he will certainly hear, within a few hours of its posting."

The answer, indeed, was not long in coming; for, within a week, a copy of the reply sent by Glendower to the king appeared, side by side with every proclamation put up, none knowing who were daring enough to affix them. In this, Glendower no longer spoke of his grievance against Lord Grey; but declared that, with the will of the people, he had assumed the sovereignty of Wales, to which he was legally entitled, by his descent from her kings. He called upon every Welshman in England to resort, at once, to his standard.

"The die is cast, now," Sir Edmund said, as he read the paper affixed to the castle gate. "It is no longer a question whether Glendower is wrongfully treated by Lord Grey; it is a matter touching the safety of the realm, and the honour of our lord the king. There is, I have now learned, some foundation for Owen's claim to be the representative of the kings of Wales, through his mother, Elinor. She was the eldest daughter of Elinor the Red, who was daughter and heiress of Catharine, one of the daughters of Llewellyn, the last Prince of Wales. For aught I know, there may be others who have a better claim than he; but at least he has royal blood in his veins.

"At present, that matters little. He has usurped the title of King of Wales, and is evidently a most ambitious and dangerous fellow; and none can doubt that this scheme has not just sprung from his brain, but has long been prepared, and that his quarrel with Lord Grey has but hastened the outbreak.

"I shall myself ride to Ruthyn, and consult with Lord Grey as to the measures to be taken. It may be that our forces may be sufficient to crush the movement, ere it gains strength; though I greatly doubt it. Still, it would be well that we should act in concert.

"Sir John Burgon and Sir Philip Haverstone, do you take half a dozen men-at-arms, and ride through the country, bidding all the tenants assemble here, next Saturday, in their arms and harness, that I myself may inspect them. You may tell them that a third of their number must be in readiness tonight, and must ride hither by morning. The others must, on an alarm being given, gather in strong houses, selected by themselves as the most defensible in their district, with their wives and families, so as to repel any attack the Welsh may make; leaving behind them the boys and old men, to drive out their flocks and herds, either towards the nearest castle, or to Hereford or Shrewsbury, as may be nearest to them."

When the knights had left, messengers were sent out to all the owners of castles in Radnor, Hereford, and Shropshire; bidding them assemble, in four days' time, at Ludlow. On the day of the meeting, nearly three hundred tenants and vassals presented themselves. To them Sir Edmund, having first inspected them and their arms, explained the situation. Then, each man was asked how many he could bring into the field, in accordance with the terms of his holding, and it was found the total amounted to nigh eight hundred men.

"I know not when the affair is likely to begin; and will, therefore, call only for a quarter of your force. Send your sons and unmarried men. At the end of a month they can return to you and, if needs be, you can send as many more in their places. It may be that I shall not require these; but, possibly, every man may have to come out; but you must bear in mind it is not for the defence of this town and castle that men are required, for the garrison and burghers can hold out against any attack, but to save your homesteads from destruction."

The news had created a deep sensation. Although none of those present had experienced the horrors of border warfare, there was not one but had heard, from their fathers, tales of burning, massacre, and wholesale destruction by the Welsh forays. But so long a time had passed, since the last serious insurrection, that the news that Wales might shortly be in arms, again, came as a terrible blow to them. All agreed to send in their proportion of men, at once, and to see that the rest were all ready to assemble, immediately the summons came.

The next day some forty knights, owners of the castles thickly scattered through the border counties, assembled in Ludlow Castle. There was a long consultation. Arrangements were made for the despatch of messengers, by those nearest to the frontier, with news of any Welsh raid. Points were fixed upon where each should assemble, with what force he could gather; thence to march to any threatened place, or to assemble at Ludlow Castle, Mortimer being the warden of the marches along that line of the border.

On the following day Sir Edmund rode, with two of his knights, to hold council with Lord Grey, at Ruthyn. The distance was considerable, and he was absent six days from his castle. Before he returned, an event happened that showed Glendower was in earnest, and intended to maintain his pretensions by the sword.

At daybreak, on the third day after Mortimer had left, a messenger arrived at the castle; with news that a large body of Welsh had, the evening before, entered Radnor by the road across the hills from Llanidloes, and were marching towards Knighton, burning the villages as they went, and slaying all who fell into their hands.

The horn was at once sounded, and Sir John Wyncliffe and the other knights hastily assembled in the courtyard. Here, after a short consultation, it was determined that a mounted party should be, at once, despatched to endeavour to harass the advance of the Welsh; the troop consisting of Alwyn's men-at-arms, twenty men of the garrison, and fifty mounted men who formed part of the new levy. Four hundred footmen were to follow, at once.

Sir John Wyncliffe at first thought of taking the command himself, but it was pointed out to him that his presence would be required, in Ludlow, to marshal the forces that would speedily arrive from all the country round. Sir John Burgon, therefore, a valiant knight, who had greatly distinguished himself against the French, was unanimously chosen by his companions as leader of the whole party; while with him rode Sir Philip Haverstone, and Sir William Bastow.

"This reminds one of one's doings at home, Oswald," his uncle said, as he formed up his little troop. "I trust the Welsh will not retreat, until we have had a taste of their quality; but I doubt much if they will prove as formidable foes as the Scotch borderers."

For a considerable portion of the distance, the roads led through forests, which at that time covered the greater part of the country. Oswald, at the invitation of the knights, rode with them at the head of the cavalcade. The way was beguiled by anecdotes, that had been passed down from mouth to mouth, of the last Welsh war.

They reached Knighton by nine o'clock. The enemy had not, as yet, come within sight of the town; but, throughout the night, the sky to the west had been red with the flames of the burning villages and homesteads.

The male inhabitants were all under arms. Many had already sent their wives and children, in waggons, towards Ludlow; but, as the town had a strong wall, the men were determined upon making a stout defence.

They crowded round the newly arrived troops, with loud cheers; which were raised, again and again, when they heard that, by midday, four hundred footmen would arrive to their assistance. It had been arranged that Sir Philip Haverstone should remain in the town, to take charge of the defence; and that the mounted men should, under Sir John Burgon, endeavour to check the Welsh plundering parties in the open. Sir William Bastow was to remain, to assist Haverstone in the defence of the town. There was no great fear of this falling; as, before the day was out, four or five thousand men would be assembled at Ludlow, and would be able to march to its relief. These matters being arranged, Sir John Burgon led his little troop out of the town.

The accounts of the Welsh forces were very conflicting, but the balance of opinion was that there were not less than four or five thousand of them. Beyond the fact that they were skirting the hills, and advancing towards Knighton, the terrified fugitives could say nothing, save of their own experiences. It was evident, however, that the Welsh force was not keeping together; but, after crossing the border, had broken up and scattered over the country, burning and slaying. Some of the bands had approached to within five miles of the town; and they might, not improbably, come in contact with fresh bands of the enemy, crossing the hills near the source of the Severn. As soon as they had sallied from the castle, and left the town behind them, Sir John halted his party.

"Now, men," he said, "there is one thing that you should remember -- these Welshmen are not to be despised. Doubtless you will be able to ride over them, but do not think that, when you have done so, you have defeated them. They will throw themselves down on the ground, leap up as you pass over them, stab your horses from below, seize your legs and try to drag you from your saddles, leap up on to the crupper behind you, and stab you to the heart. This is what makes them so dangerous a foe to horsemen, and at Crecy they did terrible execution among the French chivalry.

"Therefore be careful, and wary. Spit all you see on the ground, with your lances; and hold your swords ever in readiness, to strike them down as they rise up beside you. Keep in as close order as you can, for thus you will make it more difficult for them to rise from the ground, as you pass over."

He then formed his troop into two lines. In the centre of the front line he placed the twenty men-at-arms from the castle, with fifteen of the tenants on either hand. Oswald's troop formed the centre of the second line, with ten of the tenants on either flank. Another of the knights was in command in this line. They were to ride some fifty paces behind the first, to cut down all who rose to their feet after the first line had passed; and if the resistance were strong, and the first line brought to a stand, they were to ride up and reinforce them.

They had ridden some three miles, when they saw a column of smoke rise, half a mile away. The pace was quickened, and they had gone but a short distance when some panic-stricken men came running down the road.

"How many Welshmen have attacked your village?" Sir John asked.

"Hundreds of them, Sir Knight," one of the men panted out; "at least, so it seemed to me; but indeed, we were this side of the village when they rushed into it; and, seeing that nought could be done to resist them, we fled at once."

When within three hundred yards of the village they entered open ground, and at once formed up in the order the knight had directed. Oswald took his place by the side of his uncle, a couple of lengths in advance of their own troop.

Scarce a word was spoken in the ranks. Here and there dead bodies were scattered over the ground, showing that the pursuit of the fugitives had been maintained thus far. From the village the wild shouts of the triumphant Welsh sounded plainly; but mingled with these came, occasionally, a cry of pain, that seemed to show that either the work of slaughter was not yet completed, or that some of the villagers still held one of the houses, and were defending themselves until the last.

Every face was set and stern. The tenants knew that, at any moment, similar scenes might be enacted in their own villages; while the men-at-arms were eager to get at the foe, and take vengeance for the murders they had perpetrated.

"Be sure you keep your ranks," Sir John said; "remember that any who straggle may be attacked by a score of these wild men, and slain before others can come to their help. Ride forward in perfect silence, till we are within striking distance."

At a gallop, the troop swept down upon the village. As they reached the first houses, they saw that the road was full of wild figures. Some were emerging from the houses, laden with such spoil as could be gathered there, chiefly garments; others, with torches, were setting fire to the thatched roofs; while, in the middle of the village, a number were attacking a house somewhat larger and more massively built than the rest.

Sir John raised his sword, with the shout of "A Mortimer! A Mortimer!"

The shout was re-echoed by his followers, and a moment later they dashed into the midst of the Welsh. At first they swept all before them; but speedily the mountaineers, running out from the houses, gathered thickly on each side of the road and, as the first line passed, closed in behind it; and, running even more swiftly than the charging horses, strove to leap up behind. Some struck at the horses with their swords, hamstringing several of them, and slaying their riders as they fell.

"Ride, ride!" the knight in command of the second line shouted, and at even greater speed than before his followers rode hotly forward; and came, ere long, on the struggling mass, for the first line were now endeavouring to turn, so as to face their assailants.

With a great shout, the second line fell upon them, the war cries of "A Percy! A Percy!" being mingled with those of "A Mortimer!" Their approach had been unnoticed by the Welsh, and their onslaught was irresistible. The Welsh were hurled to the ground by the impetus of the charge, and the two lines joined hands.

"Forward again!" Sir John shouted, and the troop, dashing forward, were soon hotly engaged with the enemy, who were in strong force at the point where they were attacking the house. The orders of their commander were now impossible to follow. It was a fierce melee, where each fought for himself.

"Face round!" Oswald shouted. "Now, men, lay about you.

"A Percy! A Percy!"

The active little horses swung round instantly, and faced the crowd surging up against them. This was the style of fighting to which the border men were accustomed. Active as the Welsh were, the border ponies were as quick in their movements, wheeling and turning hither and thither, but keeping ever within a short distance of each other. The troopers hewed down the foe with their heavy swords; and, being partly protected by their armour, they possessed a great advantage over their opponents.

Oswald and his uncle fought slightly in advance of the others, lending a helping hand to each other, when the pressure was greatest. On one occasion a Welshman seized Alwyn's leg, while he was engaged with a foeman on the other side, and strove to throw him from his horse. Oswald wheeled his pony, and with a sweeping blow rid his uncle of his foe; but, at the same moment, a man leapt up behind him, while two others assailed him in front.

The Welshman's sinewy arms prevented him from again raising his sword, and he would have been slain by those in front, had he not, at the moment, slipped his right foot from his stirrup and thrown himself from his horse, his leg sweeping off the man who held him behind, and hurled him to the ground beneath him.

The Welshman's grasp instantly relaxed; but, as Oswald tried to rise, a blow fell upon his helmet, and four Welshmen threw themselves upon him. He threw his arms around two of them, and rolled over and over with them, thereby frustrating the efforts of their companions to strike or stab him, through some unguarded point in his armour; when suddenly there was a mighty shout, two tremendous blows were struck in quick succession, then there was a shout, "Hold them still, Master Oswald, hold them still!"

Oswald tightened his grasp on his assailants, who were now striving to rise. There was another crashing blow, and then his last opponent slipped from his grasp, and fled.

"Thanks, Roger," he said, as he leapt to his feet, "you were but just in time; another minute, and those fellows would have got their knives into me."

"I have had my eye upon you, master, all the time; and while doing a little on my own account, have kept myself in readiness to come to your aid, if need be."

Roger was fighting with a heavy mace, and the number of men lying round, with their skulls crushed in, showed with what terrible effect he had been using it. Oswald again leapt on to his horse, which had been too well trained to leave his master's side; and had indeed in no small degree aided him, by kicking furiously at the Welsh, as they strove to aid their comrades on the ground.

By this time the combat was well-nigh over. The protection afforded by Alwyn's band, against any attack on their rear, had enabled Sir John's men-at-arms and the tenants to clear the street in front of them; but the Welsh, though unable to hold their own in open fight, had now betaken themselves to their bows and arrows, and from behind every house shot fast.

The door of the house that had still resisted had been thrown open, and eight men had come out, followed by some twenty women and children.

"Do each of you leap up behind one of us!" Sir John shouted.

"Help the women up, men, then right-about, and ride out of the village. It is getting too hot for us, here."

The order was quickly obeyed and, placing the horses carrying a double burden in the centre, the troop rode out in a compact body. The Welsh poured out into the road behind them.

"Level your spears!" Alwyn shouted to his men; who had, by his orders, fallen in in the rear of the others.

The long spears were levelled and, with a shout, the twenty men rode down on their pursuers, bursting their way through them as if they had been but a crowd of lay figures; then, wheeling, they returned again, none venturing to try to hinder them, and rejoined the main body.

"Well done, indeed!" Sir John Burgon exclaimed, "and in knightly fashion. Verily, those long border spears of yours are right good weapons, when so stoutly used."

Once outside the village, the troop rode quietly on to the spot at which they had first charged. Then the villagers dismounted.

"You made a stout defence, men," Sir John said. "It was well that you had time to gain that house."

"It was agreed that all should take to it, Sir Knight," one of the men said; "but the attack was so sudden that only we, and these women, had time to reach it before they were on us; and, had it not been for your arrival, they must soon have mastered us, for they were bringing up a tree to burst in the door; and as none of us had time to catch up our bows and arrows, we had no way of hindering them. Still, methinks many would have fallen, before they forced their way in."

The men now fell in again. Their numbers were counted. The losses were by far the heaviest in the front line. Five of the castle men-at-arms, and fourteen of the levy were killed. Several others had gashes from the long knives and light axes of the Welsh. Five of the tenants in the second line had fallen, but none of Alwyn's band, although most of the latter had received wounds, more or less serious, in their combat with the Welsh.

"The loss is heavy," Sir John said, "but it is as nought to that inflicted upon the Welsh. I did not count them, as we rode back, but assuredly over a hundred have fallen, not counting those who were slain in that last charge of yours, Alwyn. Truly your men have fought gallantly, as was shown by the pile of dead, where your men-at-arms defended our rear.

"The Welsh will be moving, ere long. Half the village is already burning, and you may be sure that there is nothing left to sack, in the other houses. If they come this way we must fall back, for in the forest we shall be no match for them. If they move across the open country, we may get an opportunity of charging them, again."

He told two of his men to dismount, and to crawl cautiously along, one on each side of the burning village; and to bring back news, the moment the Welsh began to leave it. In twenty minutes both returned, saying that the enemy were streaming out at the other end of the village, laden with plunder of all kinds. There seemed to be no order or discipline among them, each trooping along at his pleasure.

"Good!" the knight said. "We will give them another lesson, and this time on more favourable terms than the last."

The troops formed into column, and galloped at a canter through the burning village. At the other end they came upon a number of stragglers, who were at once killed. Then they emerged into the fields beyond, and formed line. The plain was dotted with men, the nearest but a hundred yards away, the farthest nearly half a mile.

In a single line the horsemen swept along. The rearmost Welshmen turned round at the tramp of the horses, and at once, throwing to the ground the bundles that they carried, took to their heels with shouts of warning. As these were heard, the alarm spread among the rest, who, believing that their foes had ridden away through the forest, were taken completely by surprise.

A panic seized them. Leaders in vain shouted orders, their voices were unheard among the cries of the men. Some, indeed, gathered together as they ran; but the greater portion fled in various directions, to escape the line of spears vengefully following them.

Those unable to avoid the charge stood at bay, like wild animals. First shooting their arrows, they drew their short axes or their knives, as the horsemen came within a short distance of them. Few had a chance of striking, most of them falling, pierced through and through by the spears. Those who, by swiftness of eye, escaped this fate, sprung at the horses like wildcats, clinging to the saddles, while they strove to bury their knives in the riders' bodies.

Their back pieces now served the troopers in good stead, as did their superior personal strength. Some beat their assailants down on to the pommel of their saddles, and throttled or stabbed them; while in many cases, where they were hard pressed, the sword of a comrade rid them from their foes.

So the line held on its way, until they reached the head of the body of fugitives. Then in obedience to the shout of Sir John Burgon they turned, broke up into small bodies, and scoured the plain, cutting down the flying foe; and did not draw bridle, until what remained of the enemy had gained the shelter of the wood. Then, at the sound of their leader's trumpet, they gathered around him in the centre of the plain.

Two or three had fallen from the Welsh arrows, and not a few had received ugly slashes from their knives; but, with these exceptions, all had come scatheless through the fray. At least two hundred dead Welshmen were scattered on the plain.

"You have done your work well, men," Sir John said, "and taught them a lesson that they will not forget. Now, let us ride back to Knighton, and see how matters go there."

On arriving at the little town, they found that all was quiet, and that no bodies of Welsh had approached the town. The party of horse were again sent out, in various directions, the smoke serving them as a guide. The villages were found to be entirely deserted; but, pushing farther on, many fugitives came out from hiding places.

Their reports were all of the same character. The Welsh were in full retreat for their own country.

By the time the troops returned with the news to Knighton, the footmen from Ludlow had marched in, and were being entertained by the inhabitants; who, now that the danger had passed, had returned.

"Retired have they, Sir John?" his two fellow knights said, as he arrived with his following. "It was but a raid for plunder, then, and not an invasion. Doubtless, Glendower merely wished to warm their blood, and to engage them so far in his enterprise that they could no longer draw back. They must have carried off some hundreds of cattle and sheep, to say nothing of other plunder; and, had it not been for our having the news soon enough to get here before they retired, they would have got off scatheless. As it is, they have learned that even a well-planned foray cannot be carried out with impunity; but the loss of three hundred lives will not affect them greatly, when it is clear that they have murdered twice that number, as well as enriched themselves with plunder."

"I think not that we shall hear of them, again," Sir John said. "Glendower has shown us, without doubt, what are his intentions; and he may now wait to see what comes of last night's work. I expect that he will keep among the hills, where he can fight to better advantage; for horsemen are of little use, where there are mountains and forests."

After a consultation between the knights, it was agreed that two hundred of the footmen were to remain, for two or three days, at Knighton; in case the retreat of the Welsh might be a feigned one, intended to lull the inhabitants into a state of security, and then to make a sudden night attack upon the walls. The whole force remained until the next morning, and then, leaving Sir Philip Haverstone in command of the party remaining at Knighton, the rest, horse and foot, marched back to Ludlow.

"Your band have indeed distinguished themselves, Oswald," Sir John had said, on the previous evening, as they talked on the events of the day. "Truly they are as stout men as I have ever seen fighting. And you have escaped without a wound, though I marked that your armour and clothes were covered with mire, as if you had been rolling in the road."

"That is just what I have been doing, Sir John. One of them leaped on to the horse behind me, and pinioned my arms; while two or three others made at me, with axes and staves. The clasp of the fellow was like an iron band and, seeing that my only chance was to rid myself of him, I slung my leg over my horse, and we came down together, he undermost. Whether the fall killed him or not, I cannot say, but his arms relaxed. Half a dozen sprang on me, and in another minute I should have been killed, had not that big trooper of mine come to my aid, and with a mighty mace dashed out their brains, well-nigh before they knew that they were attacked."

"A stout fellow, indeed," Sir John said, "and one I should like to have to ride behind me, on the day of battle. I had marked him before, and thought that I had never seen a more stalwart knave; though methinks that he would look better, did he not crop his hair so wondrously short."

Oswald laughed.

"He does it not to beautify himself, Sir John, but to hide the fact that the hair on his crown is but of six weeks' growth."

And then he related the circumstances under which Roger came to be a member of his troop.

"By my faith, he has done well!" Sir John said. "A man with such sinews as that is lost in a cloister. He is a merry fellow, too. I have often marked him at the castle, and his laugh is a veritable roar, that would sound strange echoing along the galleries of a monastery. The abbot did well to let him go, for such a fellow might well disturb the peace and quiet of a whole convent.

"You say that he has skill in war?"

"Yes, Sir John. He has been the instructor in arms of the lay brothers, and of some of the monks, too; and he led the contingent of the abbey at Otterburn; and, although the day went against the English, he and his followers greatly distinguished themselves."

"If you would part with him, I would better his condition, Master Oswald; for, on my recommendation, Sir Edmund would, I am sure, make him captain of a company."

"I should be sorry, indeed, to part with him, Sir John, and the more so since he has saved my life today; but, even were I willing, I feel sure he would not leave me, as we have gone through some adventures together, and he believes that it is to me that he owes his escape from the convent."

"What were these adventures, Oswald?"

"It was a matter touching the Earl of March -- not Sir Edmund's nephew, now in the care of the king, but the Scottish earl, George, Earl of Dunbar, also bearing the title of Earl of March. Now that he has taken the oath to King Henry, there is no reason why I should not speak of it."

And he then gave them an account of his visit to Dunbar, and of his escape.

"And why did the earl wish to keep you?"

"Maybe, sir, that he had not then made up his mind, and thought that affairs might yet have been accommodated between himself, Douglas, and the Scottish king."

"Perhaps that was so," Sir John agreed. "He is a crafty, as well as a bold man. However, you were well out of Dunbar, and you and your monk managed the affair well. Think you that the earl is to be trusted?"

"I should say so. These great Scottish nobles deem themselves well-nigh the king's equal, and carry on their wars against each other as independent lords. His castle of Dunbar is in the hands of his bitterest enemy, and Douglas will come into no small portion of his estates. Without the aid of England he could not hope to recover them, and his interests, therefore, are wholly bound up with ours."

"'Tis strange that there should be two Earls of March, of different families and names; and, now that Dunbar has become a vassal of the king, it will make the matter stranger. However, at present no mistakes can arise, seeing that the one is an able warrior, and the other a mere boy. But in the future, were the two Earls of March at the same time at the court of our king, mistakes might well be made, and strange complications take place.

"Doubtless you are aware that Sir Edmund's nephew is, by right of birth, King of England. He was, you know, sprung from the Duke of Clarence, the elder brother of the Duke of Lancaster. The duke died without male issue, and his rights fell to Edmund Mortimer, Earl of March, the husband of his daughter Philippa. From their marriage was born the Roger Mortimer who was lord lieutenant of Ireland, during a part of King Richard's reign, and was killed in the wars of that country. He left two sons, of whom the elder was but eight or nine years old, when Richard was dethroned; and he and his brother are now living at Windsor, and are well treated there by the king.

"Had my lord's nephew attained the age of manhood, at the deposition of Richard, many would doubtless have supported his right to the throne; but for a child of eight to rule this realm, and keep in check the turbulence of the great lords, would be so absurd that no one even mentioned his name; and Henry, of course, ascended the throne as if by right of conquest."

"I have heard something of this before, Sir John; but as the Percys were among the chief supporters of Henry, the fact that there was one who had greater rights to the throne was never talked of, at Alnwick; although, by Percy's marriage with Sir Edmund's sister, he became uncle of the young Earl of March."

"I can understand that, and indeed Sir Edmund himself has never, in the most intimate conversation with us, expressed any opinion that the young earl would, if he had his rights, be King of England."



Chapter 10: A Breach Of Duty.


Two or three hours after the return of the force to Ludlow, Sir Edmund Mortimer returned, having ridden almost without a halt, since be received the news of the Welsh incursion. His knights met him in the courtyard.

"Well, my friends, I hear you have sent the Welsh back again, as fast as they came."

"We cannot say that, Sir Edmund," Sir John Wyncliffe replied. "Sir John Burgon went out, with ninety horse; and, coming upon a party of five or six hundred of them, killed half their number, and put the rest to flight; but their main body left of their own free will, and without any urging. 'Tis a pity that they were so hurried, for in another twenty-four hours we should have had some four thousand men on the march against them, besides those who first went on."

"Have they done much damage?"

"There is scarce a house left standing, between the hills on this side of Llanidloes, and Knighton. From what we can gather, they must have slain three or four hundred, at least. At first the total was put much higher; but, as soon as they retired, many fugitives made their way into Knighton; having slipped away in the darkness, when their villages were attacked, and concealed themselves in the woods, or among the rocks."

"There has been fighting up in the north, too," Sir Edmund said. "When I got to Ruthyn, I found that Lord Grey was away; but I talked over matters with his knights. I was to have left on the morning of the fifth day after leaving here, but at night Glendower's men raided almost up to the gates of the castle. Their plans were well laid; for, just at midnight, an alarm was given by a sentry on the walls. Everyone ran to arms, the instant the warder's horn was sounded; but when I reached the top of the walls, fires were bursting out in twenty places. It was not long before the knights rode out, with a hundred and fifty men-at-arms, but the Welsh were already gone. It seems that they had laid an ambuscade round every village and, on the signal being given, fell at once upon the sleeping inhabitants, put all to the sword, fired the houses; and in ten minutes from the first alarm made off, driving horses, cattle, and sheep before them.

"I was with the party, and we rode hard and fast, but we came up with none of them. Each party must have gone its own way, striking off into the hills. As soon as we returned to the castle I started, with my four men-at-arms, and we have lost no time on the road; especially after the rumour reached us that there had been a Welsh raid here, also.

"Now, Sir John Burgon, will you give me an account of the doings of your party?"

The knight reported their proceedings, after leaving Ludlow, and concluded:

"It is like that the story would not have so run, Sir Edmund, had it not been for the bravery shown by the northern men, under the young squire Oswald and his captain, Alwyn. So furiously did the Welsh assail us, in rear, that we should have suffered heavily, indeed, even if we had not met with a grave disaster; had it not been that this band covered our rear, while we charged forward, fighting so stoutly that the spot where they posted themselves was thickly covered with dead. I found time to look round, now and then, for they made but a poor resistance to our advance. Never did I see stronger fighting.

"I have questioned the men. All say that none fought more bravely than young Oswald, and his uncle gives him warm praise. The lad, however, would have lost his life, had it not been for that stout fellow, who stands half a head above his comrades, and is a very giant in strength. Oswald, himself, told me how it came about," and he repeated the account of the incident.

"It was a quick thought, to throw himself and the fellow who held him off the horse; though it would not have availed him, much, had not this stout man-at-arms been at hand. Still, in no case could he have defended himself, single handed, against five of these knaves; though doubtless he would have given a good account of some of them, had not his arms been held.

"Alwyn said that, three times during the fray, the young esquire saved his life, by cutting down men who were attacking him from behind, while he was occupied by other opponents in front."

"He will make a valiant knight, some day, Sir John. Sir Henry Percy would not have written so strongly about him, had he not good reason for feeling that he would not do discredit to his recommendation.

"Well, Sir Knights, you have all merited my thanks, for the manner in which you have discharged your duties, during my absence.

"Of course, you were perfectly right, Wyncliffe, in remaining here; until, at any rate, the knights brought in their following from the country round. It was important to save Knighton, but vastly more so to prevent their overspreading the whole country; which might, for aught we can tell, have been Glendower's object; and it is as well that Haverstone and Bastow should have remained at Knighton.

"Now, as I have not broken my fast, and have ridden since midnight without a stop, I will breakfast; and we can then talk over the plans to be pursued, for there is no disguising the fact that the Welsh are up in arms, and that we have long and heavy work before us.

"However, it is a matter too serious for us to undertake by ourselves, but is for the king himself to take in hand. A raid can be punished by a counter-raid; but now that Glendower has declared himself sovereign of Wales, and that everything points to the fact that the men of his nation are all ready to support him, it is a matter that touches his majesty very closely; and I doubt not that, as soon as he has finished this war with the Scots, he will march hither, at the head of his army.

"However, I shall send out a summons to the tenants of all my nephew's estates, in Herefordshire, and order them to hold themselves in readiness, should Glendower venture to invade us. But I think not that he will do so. He knows that these counties bristle with castles, in which the people could find refuge; and that, if he undertook to besiege them, he would speedily lose the best part of his army.

"None of his people have experience of war, and to besiege a strong place needs machines of all kinds, and of these Glendower has none, nor is it likely that he can construct them. Besides, while marching out he would be exposed to an attack, by the garrisons of these castles sallying out in his rear. Therefore, I think not that he will be foolish enough to undertake any great enterprises; though he may make raids, and carry off booty and cattle, as he has now done.

"Moreover, I cannot keep the vassals in the field longer than their feudal obligations compel them to stay, unless I pay and feed them; which might be done readily enough, for two or three months. But the war may last for years, and I must reserve my means, and strength, till they are urgently needed.

"Lord Grey will doubtless be of my opinion, but is sure to do what he can to capture Glendower; as he will consider him, not only as an enemy of the king, but as a personal foe. However, powerful as he is, I think not that he will venture, alone, to lead an army into the Welsh hills; until he receives assistance from the king."

Two days later, news came that the king, as soon as he heard of Glendower's proclamation, had sent orders to Lord Grey and Lord Talbot, to punish him.

"They will reach Chester, two days hence," Sir Edmund said. "After the raid they made here, I would gladly take some small share in punishing this rebel.

"You, Sir John Burgon, have had a full share of honour, by your defeat of him, the other day; therefore, I will send Sir William Bastow.

"Do you, Sir William, take thirty of the best mounted men of the garrison, together with Lord Percy's troop, and ride to Chester. I will give you a letter to Lord Talbot, saying that, being anxious to aid in the punishment of the rebel who has just raided my marches, I have sent you in all haste, with fifty stout men, to aid him in striking a blow; and, if possible, in effecting Glendower's capture, before he can do further harm to the king's loyal subjects."

Half an hour later, the troop mounted. Oswald was in high spirits, for Sir Edmund had spoken a few words to him, when telling him of the service to which he had appointed him.

"I am sending your troop with Sir William Bastow," he said, "chiefly in order that I may give you another opportunity of distinguishing yourself; and also because I am sure that Percy would be glad that his men should take part in an enterprise in which there may be honour, and credit. Lastly, because I would that my party should do me credit; and the fighting, the other day, showed me that your followers better understand warfare, of this kind, than do mine."

The troop arrived at Chester the second day after leaving, and rested their horses for twenty-four hours. On the arrival of the Earl of Talbot, and Lord Grey, Sir William Bastow called, at the inn where they put up, and delivered the letter from Sir Edmund Mortimer.

"'Tis well done of Sir Edmund," the Earl of Talbot said; "and although Ruthyn lies beyond his government of the marches, he is defending his own command, by aiding Lord Grey and myself against this presumptuous traitor. I will gladly take your clump of spears with me, among whom are, I see, a small party of Lord Percy's men-at-arms.

"I hear that Sir Edmund's men inflicted a sharp blow upon the Welsh, near Knighton. I met his messenger, bearing his report to the king, as we came along; and he gave me the particulars, from which it seems that the fight was, for a time, a hard one, and that the Welshmen fought, as they used to do, with much bravery."

"They did, my lord. I was not with the party that defeated them, having been left at Knighton to aid in the defence there, should the Welsh attack the town; but Sir John Burgon, who commanded, said that, in the village, they fought as if they cared not for their lives; though they made scarce any defence, when he fell upon them as they retired, in disorder. The success he gained he attributes, in no small degree, to Percy's little troop; led by their captain, a stout soldier who commands the garrison of Alnwick, and by a young squire of Sir Henry Percy, who, though but a lad, fought with extreme bravery.

"He is with me now. Sir Henry places great trust in him, and wrote most warmly, concerning him, to Sir Edmund Mortimer."

"We are just going to supper, sir," the earl said. "I hope that you will join us. And I pray you, tell me where this young squire is lodging, that I may send for him, at once; as I would fain learn, from his lips, some closer account of the fighting, which may be of utility to us, in our adventure."

Oswald arrived just as supper was brought in, and was introduced to the earl, and Lord Grey, by Sir William Bastow.

"Sit down with us, young sir," the earl said, kindly. "You are an esquire, I hear, of my good friend Sir Henry Percy. As you eat, I pray you tell me about this fight with the Welsh. Sir Edmund himself was not in command, I hear."

"No, my lord, he was away at the time, having ridden to Ruthyn, to hold council with Lord Grey."

"Ah! I had not heard that he had been there," Earl Grey said.

"He arrived the day before the Welsh raid on your estate, sir. Finding that you were absent, he intended to return home the next morning; but the matter delayed him, for a day, as he rode out with your knights to punish the marauders; who, however, made off before they could be overtaken."

"When you see him, I pray you give him my thanks, for so doing; and now, tell us what happened."

"Sir William Bastow can better inform you, sir, of what took place until we rode away from Knighton; where he remained, with Sir Philip Haverstone, to take command of the townspeople, in case the Welsh should arrive before strong aid should come."

Sir William then related the measures that had been decided upon, and the steps taken to call out the levies; and how he and his brother knights had ridden to Knighton, with the intent to hinder, as far as possible, the Welsh advance; until the footmen could reach the town, to be followed, shortly afterwards, by the troops that would come in from the castles of Radnor.

Oswald then continued the story, and gave an account of the fight in the village, and the manner in which the Welsh were attacked, while retiring with their booty, and completely routed.

"Their tactics have in nowise changed, then," the earl said, "since the days of Griffith and Llewellyn. Against a direct charge they were unable to stand; but they attacked, with fury, whenever there was an opportunity of fighting under circumstances when our weight and discipline gave us little advantage. I hear, from Sir William Bastow, that your little band covered the rear of Sir John Burgon's troop, and succeeded in keeping them at bay, until he had broken the resistance in front, and carried off a small party of villagers who were still defending themselves."

"That was so, my lord. Our men were all accustomed to border warfare; and had for the most part, before entering Percy's service, been often engaged in border forays; and had taken to soldiering after their own homes had been burnt, and their cattle driven off, by Scottish raiders. Therefore they were accustomed to fight each for himself, instead of in close order. Their horses, too, bred on the moors, are far more active and nimble than are the heavier horses of the south; and enter heart and soul into a fray, kicking and plunging and striking with their forelegs at any who approach to assail their riders. Thus it was that they were able to hold the Welsh carles at bay, far better than men otherwise trained and mounted would have been. Another thing is, that in these Border conflicts each man is accustomed to keep his eye on his neighbour; and, if he sees him hard pressed, to give him aid. Therefore it is not surprising that, while the men slew many of the Welsh, they themselves escaped with but a few cuts from blows and hatchets."

"But you yourself were unhorsed, Sir William tells me, and were in great peril. How did that come about?"

"Both my unhorsing, sir, and my rescue, were the result of what I just said, our habit of keeping an eye on our neighbours. A Welshman was on the point of attacking Captain Alwyn, when he was engaged with two others in front. I struck the man down but, as I did so, a Welshman sprang on to my horse, behind, and pinned my arms to my side; while four others rushed at me."

He then related how he had thrown himself and his assailant off his horse, and had been saved by Roger.

"It was a good device, and quickly carried into effect," Earl Talbot said; "though it was well that the man-at-arms next to you was watching you, just as you had watched his captain; else it must have gone hard with you. It is evident that, if you continue as you have begun, you will turn out a right valiant knight.

"Your narrative is useful, and I see that, when we fall in with the Welsh, it will be necessary to have a picked body of men-at-arms, whose duty shall be to cover the rear of the main attack; for it seems that this is the real point of danger. Should we come into conflict with them, I will assign to you a body of men-at-arms, who with Percy's men shall, under your command, fulfil that duty. This would at once be of signal benefit to us, and will give you another opportunity of distinguishing yourself, and winning your spurs when the time comes."

"I thank you greatly, my lord, and trust that I may so bear myself as to merit your approbation."

The next morning the force mounted, at daybreak. It consisted of two hundred horse, that the earl had brought with him; and which was to be joined, at Chirk, by a hundred and fifty of Lord Grey's men from Ruthyn, orders having been already sent on for them to hold themselves in readiness. This was to be done quietly, and without stir, as word would be sure to be sent to Glendower, were it to be known in the town that preparations had been made for an expedition. They were to start from the castle at ten o'clock at night, when the town would be wrapped in sleep, and would arrive at Chirk before daybreak.

On arriving at the castle, it was found that the troops from Ruthyn had duly come in. They were received by the seneschal of William Beauchamp, Lord of Abergavenny. Chirk Castle had passed through many hands, having been several times granted to royal favourites; being a fine building, standing on a lofty eminence, which afforded a view of no less than seventeen counties. It was square and massive, with five flanking towers, and its vast strength was calculated to defy the utmost efforts of the Welsh to capture it. It was but a short distance thence to the valley of the Dee, in which was the estate of Glendower, extending for some eight miles north, into what is now the neighbourhood of Llangollen.

As one of the detachments had arrived before daybreak, and the other two hours after dark, it was improbable that their advent had been noticed; and, at the request of the knight who commanded the troop from Ruthyn, the gates of the castle had been kept closed all day, no one being allowed to enter or leave.

At daybreak the next morning, the whole force sallied out. Three-quarters of an hour later, they dashed down into the valley at a point about half a mile distant from Glendower's dwelling.

This was a very large and stately building. Near it stood a guest house and a church, and all the appurtenances of a man of high rank. It was called Sycharth. Here Glendower maintained an almost princely hospitality; for, in addition to this estate, he possessed others in South Wales.

More especially bards were welcomed here. Some resided for months; others, who simply paused on their rambles through the country, remained but for a few days; but all were received with marked honour by Glendower, who was well aware of the important services that they could render him. Indeed, it was on them that he relied, to no small extent, to arouse the feelings of the populace; and his hospitality was well repaid by the songs they sung, in hall and cottage, in his praise; and by their prophecies that he was destined to restore the ancient glories of the country.

The house was surrounded by a moat and wall, but had otherwise no defensive works; as, for a hundred years, the English and Welsh had dwelt peaceably, side by side. Many of the castles were, indeed, held by Welshmen, and there were few garrisons but had a considerable proportion of Welsh in their ranks.

It was singular that Glendower should, after his defiance of the king, and the raids that had lately been made, have continued to dwell in a spot so open to attack, and within striking distance of the three great castles of Ruthyn, Chirk, and Holt. Certain it is that he kept no garrison that would suffice to offer a stout defence against a strong band, although the precaution was taken of keeping a watchman, night and day, in one of the turrets. The sound of his horn was heard by the horsemen, as soon as they began to descend the hill.

"A pest on the knave!" Lord Grey exclaimed. "He will slip through our fingers, yet."

It was scarce a minute later when a mounted man was seen to dash out, at full speed, from the other side of the building. He was evidently well mounted; and although the pursuit was hotly kept up, for two miles, he gained the forest while they were still a quarter of a mile behind him, and was lost to view; for although they beat the wood for some distance, they could find no traces of him.

When passing by the house, a detachment of a hundred men were ordered to surround it, and to suffer none to enter or leave it. On the return of the pursuing party the house was entered, and ransacked from end to end. The male retainers found in it were ruthlessly killed. The furniture, which showed at once the good taste and wealth of the owner, was smashed into pieces, the hangings torn down, and the whole place dismantled. Only two female attendants were found, and these were suffered, by Earl Talbot's orders, to go free.

"This is evidently the ladies' bower, when they happen to be here," Lord Grey said; as, an hour later, he entered a room in one of the turrets, which had been already plundered by the soldiers. "'Tis a pity that we did not find one or two of Glendower's daughters here. They would have been invaluable as hostages.

"We were too hasty, Talbot. We should have closely questioned some of the men, or those two women, and should have found means to learn whether they were staying here. It may be that it was so, and that they are, even now, concealed in some secret hiding place, hard by."

He at once called up several of his men, and set them to search every room in the turret, for some sign of an entrance to a secret chamber; but although the walls were all tapped, and the floors examined, stone by stone, no clue was found to such an entrance, if it existed.

The house, which was built entirely of stone, offered no facilities for destroying it by fire. The doors were all hewn down; the gates in the wall taken off their hinges, and thrown into the moat, being too massive to be destroyed by the arms of the soldiers. The outlying buildings were all burned down, the vineyard rooted up, and the water turned out of the fish pond. Then, greatly vexed at their failure to seize Glendower himself, the two nobles rode back to Chirk; leaving a hundred men, of whom the band from Ludlow formed part, under two of Earl Talbot's knights, to retain possession of the house, until it should be decided whether it should be levelled stone by stone; or left standing, to go, with the estate, to whomsoever the king might assign it.

By Lord Grey's advice, sentries were posted outside the walls, from nightfall till daybreak, to prevent any risk of surprise by Glendower, whose spies might take him word that the main body of the assailants had left. One of the great halls had been left untouched, to serve for the use of the garrison; and as an abundance of victuals were found in the house, and the cellar was well stocked with wines, it was but a short time before the garrison made themselves thoroughly comfortable.

As soon as it became dark, twenty men were placed on watch. Oswald, with his party, were to take the third watch, at midnight; and Mortimer's men-at-arms the second. The captain of each band was to place the men, at such points as he might select. Alwyn talked the matter over with his nephew.

"It seems to me," the former said, "that there is but a small chance of anyone trying to leave the castle; and at any rate, if they did so, it would scarcely be over the wall, for a splash in the moat would at once betray them. Moreover, I love not killing in cold blood, and should any poor fellows be stowed away somewhere, I should be willing enough to let them go free."

"I agree with you altogether, Alwyn," Oswald, who had not heard the talk between Grey and Talbot, concerning Glendower's daughters, replied heartily. "I would have gladly saved the men who were killed today. It is one thing to slay in battle, but to slaughter unresisting men goes altogether against my grain."

"Then as we are agreed on that, Oswald, I should say that we had best place the greater portion of our men well away from the wall. We can leave two at the gate, and set two others to march round and round the moat. I should say we had best plant the others, in pairs, a quarter of a mile round the house. It is vastly more important to prevent Glendower from recapturing his house, by surprise, than it is to take prisoners two or three fellows making their escape."

"I agree with you, Alwyn."

Accordingly, when they filed out from the gate, four were posted as Alwyn had suggested. The rest were disposed, in pairs, in a circle at a distance round the house.

"I will keep watch with Roger," Oswald said. "'Tis some time since I have had an opportunity for a talk with him. I will take the next post, if you like. The wood comes closer to the house, there, than at any other point; and there are patches, behind which an enemy might creep up. My eyes and ears are both good; and as for Roger, if he lifts that mighty voice of his in tones of alarm, it will reach the ears of all the others, and be the signal for them to run back to the gate, at the top of their speed."

"Very well, Oswald. I shall walk round the ground, and see that all are vigilant. We know not where Glendower's men were lying. It may hap they were twenty miles away, but even so he would have had plenty of time to have brought them up, by now. I don't think there is much chance of any of our men being surprised; most of them having, in their time, been so used to midnight rides across moor and hill, and so accustomed to see in the dark that, crafty as the Welshmen may be, I do not think there is a chance of their getting within a hundred yards of any of our posts, without being seen; especially as the moon is still half full."

"Do you think that there is any chance of our being disturbed, Master Oswald?" Roger said, as they took up their post under a low, stunted tree.

"I do not think so. If Glendower's spies have told him that the main body, of those who surprised him this morning, have returned to Chirk; he may be sure that enough have been left, to hold the place successfully against him and his wild followers, till assistance can reach us; and he would have nothing to gain by recapturing his house, for he could not hold it long against the force assembled at Chirk. Besides, he must know, well enough, that if he is to fight successfully, it must be in the woods. Whether he has studied the black art, or no, there is little doubt that he has turned his attention greatly to military matters, and that he is a foe who is not to be despised. He is playing a deep game, and will give us a deal of trouble, unless I am greatly mistaken, before we have done with him."

"I hear all sorts of strange stories of his powers, Master Oswald."

"Yes; but you see, Roger, the spirits who, as they say, serve him, cannot be of much use; or they would have warned him of the coming of Talbot, and we should not have taken him unawares, this morning."

"That is true enough," Roger said, in a tone of relief. "For my part, I am not greatly alarmed at spirits. The good abbot used to threaten me that I should be carried off by them, unless I mended my ways; but I always slept soundly enough, and never saw aught to frighten me. They used to say that the spirits of some of the dead monks used to walk in the convent garden, but though my cell looked down upon it, and I have often stood there by the hour, never did I see anything to frighten me.

"If the Welsh do come, what are we to do, master -- fight them?"

"By no means, Roger. Our duty is to watch, and not to fight. You must lift up your voice, and shout as loud as you can, and then we must run to the gate. There we can make a fight, till the rest join us. But, whatever you do, do not shout until I tell you. A false alarm would raise the whole garrison; and, if naught came of it, would make us a laughing stock."

While they were talking, both were keeping a close lookout on the ground in front of them, and also to the right and left, for the watches were two hundred yards apart, and they had to make sure that no party of the enemy slipped unseen between them. Suddenly Roger plucked Oswald's sleeve, and said in a whisper:

"Unless my eyes deceive me, master, I saw two dark figures flit from that clump of bushes, some forty yards away, to those next to them. There they go again!"

"I see them, Roger. It may be that they are spies, who have crept up close. Let us give chase to them."

"Shall I shout, master?"

"No, no. This is not an attack. Stoop as low as you can or, if they look back, they will see that great figure of yours, and be off like hares. Run as softly as you can."

Stooping low, they set off at a run and, being certain that the figures were making straight for the forest, they did not pause to get another glimpse of them, but ran straight on. They had gone some seventy or eighty yards, when they heard a stifled exclamation; and then, without further attempt at concealment, two figures rose from a bush twenty yards ahead, and fled for the forest. There was no more occasion for stooping and, at the top of their speed, Oswald and Roger pursued the fugitives.

These ran fast, but Oswald, who had outpaced his heavier companion, came up to them when within fifty yards of the edge of the forest; and, passing them, drew his sword and faced them.

"Surrender," he said, "or I will cut you down."

Instead of the fierce spring that he had anticipated, the two figures stopped suddenly, exchanged a word in Welsh, and then dropped their cloaks. To Oswald's astonishment, two young women stood before him. They evidently belonged to the upper class. Both were richly dressed. They wore heavy gold chains round their necks, and bracelets of the same metal; set, as Oswald noticed by the reflection of the moon, with jewels. They had also brooches, and their girdles were held in with massive gold clasps.

By this time Roger had come up, and stood staring with astonishment.

"Take these, good fellows," the girl said in English, as she began to unfasten her necklace. "Take these, and let us go. They will make you rich."

"I am an esquire of Sir Henry Percy," Oswald said, "and I rob not women. By your appearance, I should judge you to be daughters of Glendower."

"It would be useless to deny it," one of the girls said, proudly.

"Why do you come spying here?" Oswald said. "Surely, among your father's warriors, others better suited for such work might have been found."

"We were not spying," the girl replied. "We have lain hidden all day, and were but making our escape."

"How can that be, madam? We had a guard all round the castle, and know that none can have escaped."

"Being an esquire, you are a gentleman, sir, and will not disclose what I am about to tell you; though, indeed, now that our father's house is in your hands, it boots not much whether the secret is known. There is a secret passage from the castle that opens into these bushes, and it was through that that we issued out; having been in hiding all day, in the secret chamber from which it leads.

"Well, sir, we are your prisoners; and shall, I suppose, be sent to London, there to be held until our father is in the usurper's hands, which will not be, believe me, for years yet."

Oswald was silent. The two girls, some seventeen or eighteen years of age, both possessed singular beauty they had inherited from their father; and bore themselves with an air of fearlessness that won his admiration. He was still but a lad and, thinking of the years these fair girls might pass in a prison, he felt a deep pity for them. He drew Roger aside.

"What think you, Roger? Must we send these fair young girls to prison?"

"In faith, I know not, master. Having been shut up many a time in a cell, I have a sort of fellow feeling for prisoners; and indeed, two fairer maidens I have never seen. Our orders were to look after Welshmen, and see that they did not attack us. No word was said of Welsh women. And besides, they were running away, and not thinking of attacking us."

"That is all very well, Roger, but I cannot deceive myself. There is no doubt that it is our duty to take these two maidens prisoners, but my heart aches at the thought that they might pass years of their lives in a prison. They are not responsible for their father's misdeeds and ambition, and it may be that, if they are restored, Glendower may be induced to treat those who fall into his hands mercifully. None but ourselves know of this, and no one need ever know.

"I will risk it, anyhow," he said after a short pause. "I know that I am not doing my duty in letting them go; and that, were it ever known, I should lose all chance of further advancement, if indeed I did not lose my life. However, it need never be known, and my conscience would sorely trouble me, whenever I thought of them shut up in one of King Henry's prisons."

He turned to the girls again.

"Think you, ladies," he asked, "that were you in the king's hands, your father would make terms and submit himself?"

"Certainly not," the one who had spoken before said. "He has other children -- sons and daughters -- and he would not dream of abandoning his rights, and betraying his country, to obtain the liberty of two of us."

"In that case, then, your imprisonment would in no degree stop this war, or bring about a renewal of peace between the two countries?"

"Certainly not; and as for us, we would strangle ourselves in prison, did we think that any thought of us would turn our father from his noble purpose."

"Then in that case," Oswald said quietly, "it is clear that your captivity would do nought to bring about peace, or to allay the troubles that have now begun. Therefore I will take on me to let you go, though in so doing I may be failing somewhat in my duty. Only promise me that, in the future, you will use what influence you may possess with your father, to obtain kind treatment for prisoners who may fall into his hands."

The expression of haughty defiance, that they had hitherto worn, faded from the girls' faces.

"We shall never forget your kindness, sir," one said, in a low voice. "We thank you, with all our hearts; not so much for our own sake, as for our father's. He has been cruelly ill used. He has much to trouble him, and although I know that our captivity would not turn him from his purpose, it could not but greatly grieve and trouble him, and he has already troubles enough on his shoulders.

"Will you accept one of these jewels, as a token only of our gratitude for your kindness, shown this night to us?"

"Thanks, lady, but no gift will I take. I am failing in my duty, but at least it shall not be said that I received aught for doing so."

"Then at least -- " the girl began, turning to Roger.

"No, lady," the man-at-arms said. "I am neither knight nor esquire, but a simple soldier; but I take no presents for saving two maidens from capture and captivity. I have been a monk all my life, though now a man-at-arms. Never before have I had an opportunity of doing aught of kindness for a woman, and I am glad that the chance has fallen in my way."

"May I ask the name of one who has done us such kindness?" the girl said, turning to Oswald.

"It were best not, lady. It is a service that might cost me my head, were it to be bruited about. 'Tis best, then, that even you should not know it. I doubt not that you would preserve the secret; but you would perhaps mention it to your father, and it were best that it were known to none."

The girls were silent for a minute.

"Sir," the elder said, after exchanging a word or two with her sister, "we would ask a boon of you. The successes in a war are not always on one side. My sister and I will think often of one who has so greatly befriended us; and were you, by any accident of war, to fall into the Welsh hands, and should evil befall you, it would be a deep grief to us. We pray you then, sir, to accept this little gold necklet. Its value is small, indeed, but it was given to me when a child by my father. My name and his are engraved on the clasp. Should you, at any time of stress, send this to my father; right sure am I that, on recognizing it, he would treat as dear friends those who have done so much for his daughters. I pray you to accept it, and to wear it always round your neck or wrist; and if it should never prove useful to you, it will at least recall us to your thoughts."

"I cannot be so churlish, lady, as to refuse your token so offered; and though I hope that it will not be needful to use it as you say -- for, indeed, I expect to return very shortly to my lord in Northumberland -- it will be a pleasant remembrance of the service that a good fortune has enabled me to render, to two fair maidens. Be assured that I shall ever keep your necklet, for the sake of the givers.

"And now, farewell! We must be back at our post, for the captain of the guard will be going his round, and we might be missed."

"We shall never forget you, sir. May the blessing of God fall on you, for your kind deed!"

"May all good fortune attend you!" Oswald answered; and then, with Roger, he made his way back to his post; while the girls hurried on, and entered the forest.



Chapter 11: Bad News.


"This has been a strange adventure, Roger."

"A very strange one, master. Lord Grey would tear his hair, if he knew that those two pretty birds had been hiding in the cage all day, and he never knew it. However, I see not that it can do us harm. Nay, more, there is a probability that it may even benefit us, for if it should happen, by ill fortune, we should ever fall into the hands of the Welsh, and they should abstain from cutting our throats then and there, perchance these young ladies would repay the service we have rendered them, by taking us under their protection."

"It may be so, indeed, Roger, though I hope that I shall never hear more of tonight's adventure. We may reason as we will, but there is no doubt that, although we had no instructions touching the capture of women, we have failed in our duty."

"That will in no way trouble me, Master Oswald. When I was a monk, I failed in my duty scores of times, and am no whit the worse for it; rather the better, indeed, since it is owing to my failures that I am now a free man-at-arms, instead of being mewed up for life in a convent. I shall not sleep one wink less, for having saved two of the prettiest girls I ever saw from having been shut up, for years, in a prison."

"I am afraid your sense of duty is not strong, Roger."

"I am afraid not, master, saving in the matter of doing my duty in face of an enemy."

"You mean, Roger, that you will do your duty when it so pleases you, and not otherwise."

"I expect that is the way with a good many of us," Roger laughed. "I wonder whether Lord Grey had any idea that Glendower's daughters were in the house when we arrived there?"

"I know not, but I remember now that they had men searching, for some time, for signs of secret passages. Whether it was from any idea that Glendower's daughters might be hidden away, I know not."

"Truly it might have been," Roger said, "for I saw, among the spoil that was carried off when the others rode for Chirk, some silks and stuffs that looked like feminine garments.

"There is somebody coming across from the next post," he broke off. "Doubtless it is the captain. You would not tell him what we have done?"

"Certainly not, Roger. My uncle is an old soldier, and though he would not, for my sake, say anything about it, I think not that he would approve of what has been done. 'Tis best, at any rate, to keep it entirely to ourselves."

"All quiet here, as elsewhere?" Alwyn asked as he came up.

"All quiet, Uncle."

"'Tis well; for although methinks that we could hold the place against the Welshmen, we could hardly hope that some of our posts would not be cut off, before they could reach the house. It is well to keep watch, but the more I think of it, the more I feel that Glendower will scarce attack us. He could not hold the place, did he gain it; and it might well be that, after we were turned out again, the place would be destroyed, seeing that it would need two or three hundred men to be shut up here, in garrison."

After waiting half an hour, Alwyn again made the round of the posts, and then went in to rouse the party that were to relieve them. As soon as these issued out, the sentries were called in, and stretched themselves for three hours' sleep.

Before day dawned, a messenger rode in from Chirk, bearing Earl Talbot's orders for the evacuation of the house, as there could be no advantage in retaining it; and, were it empty, Glendower might return there, and afford them another opportunity for capturing him.

On the following day the party broke up. Lord Grey rode with his men to Ruthyn, and the forty men-at-arms from Ludlow returned to that town; where, a few days later, the news arrived that Glendower, with a large following, had established himself on the rugged height of Corwen, and was engaged in strengthening the ancient fortifications on its summit.

For a time there was quiet on the border, and then came the startling news that Glendower had suddenly surprised, plundered, and burnt to the ground the town of Ruthyn, where a fair was being held at the time. Then, having obtained great booty, and greatly injured his enemy Lord Grey, he again retired. It was evident that no local force of sufficient strength could be found to pursue Glendower into his fastnesses on the ranges of Berwyn and Snowdon, and nothing was done until, three months later, the king, on his return from Scotland, marched into Wales with the levies of Warwickshire, Leicestershire, and eight other adjacent counties, while orders were issued to the people of Shrewsbury, and other towns on the eastern border, to hold themselves in readiness to repel any movement of the Welsh in that direction.

The king, however, accomplished nothing. Glendower, with his following, took refuge among the forests of Snowdon; and the English army marched along the north coast, putting to the sword a few bands of peasantry, who ventured to oppose them; crossed to the Isle of Anglesey and, entering the Franciscan monastery of Llanfaes, slew some of the monks and carried the rest to England, and established a community of English monks in the convent. This was done because the Franciscans had been supporters of the late king, and were believed to have given aid and encouragement to Glendower.

The Welsh expedition was, therefore, no more successful than the Scotch had been.

For a time, matters settled down. Glendower was occupied in strengthening his position. So much had his reputation spread, that large numbers of Welshmen who had settled in England now sold their property, gave up their positions and abandoned their careers, and made their way across the border to join him. Still, for some months no operations were undertaken, on either side; and, a week after the return of the king and his forces, Sir Edmund Mortimer said to Oswald:

"I will no longer keep you and your following from your lord's side. I have largely strengthened my garrison, and twenty men, however valiant, are no longer of importance. As you know, I should not have asked Percy to aid me, had I not thought that, perchance, he might have come himself, bringing with him two or three hundred men; and that my sister might have accompanied him. Maybe, if matters go on quietly on the northern marches, he may be able to do so yet; but I fear that the Scotch will take advantage of the troubles here, and may, for aught I know, have entered into communication with Glendower, so that they may together harass the kingdom. I have written several times to him, telling him what good service you and his men have rendered; and that I would I had five hundred such good fighters with me, in which case I would undertake, single handed, to bring this fellow to reason.

"I have written a letter which I will hand you to deliver, saying that, as at present things are quiet and Glendower is in hiding among the mountains, I have sent you back to him; not without the hope that, should greater events take place, he himself will come hither, for a while, to give me the benefit of his knowledge of border warfare, even if he comes accompanied only by my sister and a dozen spears. I may tell you that, some two months since, he wrote saying that he should be glad to have you, and the captain of his garrison of Alnwick, back again; and I then wrote to him, saying that while the king was in Wales I would hold you, seeing that Glendower might make a great foray here, while the king was hunting for him in the north; but that, as soon as he left with his army, I would send you home."

Alwyn and the men were all well pleased when they heard that they were to return; for, since the raid on Glendower's house, their life had been a dull one, to which even the fact that they were receiving pay from Sir Edmund, as well as from Percy, was insufficient to reconcile them; and it was with light hearts that they started, on the following morning, for the north, arriving at Alnwick ten days after leaving. Sir Hotspur came down into the courtyard, as they rode into the castle.

"Welcome back, Oswald; and you, my trusty Alwyn!

"I thank you all, my men, for the manner in which you have borne yourselves, and that you have shown the men of the west how stoutly we Northumbrians can hold our own, in the day of battle. I am glad, indeed, to find that all that went have returned home; some bearing scars, indeed, but none disabled. I will instruct your captain to grant all of you a month's leave, to pay a visit to your families.

"You must sup with us tonight, Alwyn, and give us a full account of your doings, and also your frank opinion as to the state of things in the west, and the probability of long trouble with this strange Welshman, who has so boldly taken up arms, and defied the strength of England."

It was nearly a year since the party had left Alnwick, and Oswald had, in that time, greatly increased in height and strength. He was now eighteen, and as he was nearly six feet in height, and his figure had filled out greatly since he had left his home, he might well have passed as three or four years older than his real age. That evening, Alwyn gave a full account of their fray with the Welsh.

"These men fight stoutly, Alwyn," Percy said, when he had concluded his story.

"Right stoutly, Sir Henry, and were their discipline equal to their bravery, they would be formidable opponents, indeed; but as it is, they are quite unable to stand against men-at-arms in a set battle. In this respect they are by no means equal to the Scotch, but for surprises, or irregular fighting, I could wish to see no better men."

"It is an unfortunate affair," Percy said. "It seemed that we had finished with Wales, at Llewellyn's death, and that the two nations had become one. In London, and many other places, they were settled among us. Numbers of them studied at our universities, and in Shropshire, Radnor, Flint, and other border counties I have heard that most of the labouring men were Welsh, and have come to speak our language; and indeed, they form no small portion of the garrisons of the castles; so much so that I fear that, should the Welsh really ravage the border counties, 'tis like that not a few of the castles will fall into their hands by the treachery of their fellow countrymen in the garrisons.

"Sir Edmund speaks very highly of you, Oswald, not only for your behaviour in the fight, which was reported to him by Sir James Burgon, a knight well fitted to judge in such matters, but as an inmate of his castle. He said that, from your conversation, he has conceived a high opinion of you.

"At present things are somewhat quiet here, and it were well that you should, like your uncle, take a holiday for a time, and visit your father and mother. They have sent over, several times, for news of you."

The next morning Oswald mounted and rode off, attended by Roger, who had asked Oswald to take him with him, as he had no relations he cared to visit. Alwyn was going for a few days only, and indeed, would probably have declined to take a holiday at all, had not Oswald earnestly begged him to go with him.

"'Tis two years since you have been there," Oswald said.

"That is so, Oswald, but I have often been longer without seeing my brother; and, in truth, of late I have had so little to do, with but twenty men to look after, that I long for regular work and drill again. Still, it were best that I went with you. There are turbulent times on hand, both on this border, in Wales, and maybe in France. I may get myself killed, and your father's house may be harried again by the Bairds, and he may not succeed in getting off scatheless, as he did last time; and I should blame myself, afterwards, if I had not seen him, and shaken his hand, when I had an opportunity such as the present."

Oswald had seen so much, during the two years that had passed since he first left the hold that, as he rode towards it, it seemed strange that everything should be going on as if it was but the day before that he had ridden away -- the only difference being that the hold looked strangely small, and of little account, after the many strong castles he had seen.

As soon as they reached the moor, within sight of the hold, a horseman was seen to leave it, and ride at a gallop towards them.

"That is ever the way," Oswald said; "we like to know, when a visitor is seen, whether he comes as friend or foe."

As the moss trooper rode up, and was about to put the customary question, he recognized Oswald; and, wheeling his pony without a word, dashed off at full gallop, waving his spear and shouting, as he approached the hold.

They rode at a canter after him and, as they reached the entrance, his father and mother appeared at the door at the top of the steps. The latter ran down the steps and, as Oswald leapt from his horse, threw her arms round his neck.

"Thank God you are back again, my boy!" she cried; "though as yet, I can hardly believe that this tall fellow is my Oswald. But otherwise you are in no way changed."

"I think, Mother, that you are looking better than when I saw you last."

"I am well, dear," she said. "We have had a quiet year, and no cause for anxiety, and things have gone well with us; and it has been pleasant, indeed, for us to have received such good news of your doings, and to know that you stood so well with Hotspur."

Oswald now ran up the steps to greet his father, who was already talking with Alwyn, who had slipped off his horse and run to speak to his brother, while Oswald was occupied with his mother.

"Well, lad," John Forster said, laying his hand upon his shoulder, and looking him up and down, "you have grown well nigh into manhood. I always said that you would over top me, and though methinks that I have still three inches of advantage, you have yet time to grow up to look down on me.

"Well, you have done credit to us, boy, and your monkish reading and writing has not harmed you, as I was afraid it would. Alwyn tells me that no man of Percy's troop did better than you, in that fight with the Welsh; save, mayhap, that big man-at-arms down there, who, he tells me, cracked the skulls of four Welshmen who were trying to stab you, besides those he disposed of on his own account."

"I owe him my life, indeed, Father. He is a man after your own heart, strong and brave and hearty, even jovial when occasion offers. He can troll out a border lay with the best, and can yet read and write as well as an abbot. His name is Roger."

"Come up, Roger," John Forster shouted, "and give me a grip of your hand. You have saved my son's life, as he tells me; and, so long as you live, there will be a nook by the fire, here, and a hearty welcome, when you are tired of soldiering."

"In truth, you are a mighty man," he went on, after he and Roger had exchanged a grip that would have well nigh broken the bones of an ordinary man. "I have been looked upon as one able to strike as hard a blow as any on the border; but assuredly, you would strike a heavier one. Why, man, you must be five or six inches bigger, round the chest, than I am."

"You have been an active man from your youth," Roger replied, "ever on horseback and about, while I spent years with nought to do but eat and drink, and build up my frame, in a monastery."

"Oswald told us, in his letters, that you had been a monk; but had, with the consent of the abbot, unfrocked yourself."

"It was so," Roger replied, with a laugh. "Methinks that it was a happy day for the abbot, as well as for myself, when I laid aside my gown; for I fear that I gave him more trouble than all the rest of his convent. Besides, it was as if a wolf's cub had been brought up among a litter of ladies' lapdogs -- it was sure to be an ill time for both."

"And for how long are you at home with us, brother Alwyn?" John Forster asked, presently.

"I am here for a week only, John; but Oswald has leave for a month, seeing that, at present, there is no great chance of Hotspur needing his services. The Scotch are quiet since the king returned, I hear."

"Ay, they are as quiet as is their nature to be, but 'tis not likely to last long. I went not with the army, but I hear that Henry behaved so gently that the Scotch feel that it would be almost an act of ingratitude to meddle with us, for a time. However, that will not last long. Next spring they will doubtless be storming down over the hills again."

The holiday passed delightfully to Oswald. Roger enjoyed it even more. It was so long since the latter had been permitted the freedom of riding at will, over mountain and moor, that he was like a schoolboy enjoying an altogether unwonted holiday. He and Oswald scoured the country, sometimes returning late in the afternoon, but often staying for the night at the houses of one or other of Oswald's friends. Once they crossed the border, and rode to the Armstrongs', where they stopped for a couple of days, bringing Allan and Janet back with them; for Roxburgh was still held by the English, and unless when hostilities were actively going on, the people of the border, save the marauders, who were always ready to seize any opportunity that offered of carrying off booty, were on friendly terms, and maintained frequent intercourse with each other.

Alwyn had returned to Alnwick when his leave was up. He had spent his time quietly at the hold. He and his brother had discussed many plans by which its defences could be strengthened, but arrived at the same conclusion: that it could defend itself, at present, against any small party, but must yield, however much its defences were increased, at the approach of an invading army; since, even with the assistance of the inhabitants of the surrounding districts, it could not maintain itself until an army was gathered, and the invaders driven out.

Occasionally an afternoon was devoted to sports on the moor; and, on one occasion, John Forster sent messengers down to Yardhope, and other villages on the Coquet, and to the holds of his neighbours; inviting them to come to a gathering, at which there would be prizes for riding, wrestling, running, shooting, and feats of arms on horseback and foot, and at which all comers would be entertained.

The result was a gathering such as had not taken place, in that part of the country, for years. Over a thousand people assembled, comprising women as well as men. The sports began early, and the various events were all eagerly contested. Ralph Gray won the horse race, a horse which he had brought from the south being far superior, in speed, to any of the smaller border horses; although, had the trial been for endurance, it would have had but small chance with them. The shooting was close, one of Percy Hope's men winning at last. The quarterstaff prize was awarded to Long Hackett, one of John Forster's retainers. At wrestling Roger bore off the palm. Some of his opponents were, in the opinion of lookers on, more skilled at the sport; but his weight and strength more than counterbalanced this, and one after another tried, in vain, to throw him to the ground; succumbing, themselves, as soon as he put out his strength, and theirs began to be exhausted; when, drawing them up to him with irresistible strength, he laid them quietly on the ground.

Oswald himself carried off the palm in a mile foot race.

At one o'clock the sports were concluded. While they had been going on, a score of men were attending to the great joints roasting over bonfires, six bullocks having been slaughtered the day before. Ducks, geese, and chickens innumerable were also cooking; while, for the table in the hold, at which the principal guests sat down, were trout, game, and venison pasties. Here wine was provided, while outside a long row of barrels of beer were broached, for the commonalty.

Dinner over, there was singing and dancing. Alwyn had engaged, and sent from Alnwick, a score of musicians. These were divided into five parties, stationed at some little distance apart, and round these the younger portion of the gathering soon grouped themselves; while the elders listened to border lays sung by wandering minstrels. The days were shortening fast and, as many of those present had twenty miles to ride, by six o'clock the amusements came to an end, and the gathering scattered in all directions, delighted with the day's proceedings; which, although they would have been thought of but small account in the southern counties, were rare, indeed, in a district so thinly populated, and so frequently engaged in turmoil and strife.

Except in the running match, Oswald had engaged in none of the contests, he being fully occupied in aiding his mother in welcoming the guests, and seeing to their comfort; while his father, assisted by his friends, Hope, Gray, and Liddel, superintended the arrangements for the sports, and acted as judges. In the afternoon, Oswald and his cousins had joined heartily in the dances, and enjoyed the day to the full as much as their visitors.

Gatherings of this kind were not uncommon. Shooting, wrestling, and sword-playing for the men, and dancing on the green for the young people, took place at most of the village fairs; but the gathering at Yardhope was long talked about, as a special occasion, from the hospitality in which all were included, and the number of the heads of the border families who were present, and took part in the proceedings.

Oswald's mother had been the prime mover in the matter. She was proud of her son, and thought that it was a good occasion to present him to the countryside, as one who was now arriving at manhood, and was likely, in time, to make a figure on the border. John Forster had at first declared that it was wholly unnecessary, and that such a thing had never taken place in his time, or in his father's before him.

"That may be, husband," she said, "but Oswald has been away from us for two years, and it may be as much more before he returns. He is like to become a knight, before long -- Alwyn said that the lad was sure to win his spurs -- and it would be well that he should not slip out of the memory of folks here. Besides, we have his cousins, and it is well that they should carry back news that, in spite of the troublous times, we can yet be merry on suitable occasions.

"The cost will not be very great. The meat can scarcely be counted, seeing that we have as many cattle on the moor as can pick up a living there. Moreover, our neighbours all gave us a helping hand, to repair the hold after it was sacked last year, and 'tis but right that we should hold some sort of gathering, and this will do for the two purposes."

The last argument had more weight with John Forster than the former ones. Once having consented, he took as much interest in it as did his wife; and dug up the pot in which he stowed away any sums that remained, at the end of each year, over and above the expenses of the hold; and provided all that was required, without stinting.

Three days after the gathering, the Armstrongs returned home, and Oswald rode with Roger to Alnwick. The next three months passed quietly and uneventfully. Snow was lying deep on the Cheviots, and until spring there was little chance of the Scotch making a foray.

Oswald worked hard in the hall, where the knights kept themselves in exercise, practised with the young squires, and superintended the drilling and practice of the men-at-arms, of whom the number at the castle had been much increased; for none doubted that in the spring the Scots would, after Henry's invasion, pay a return visit to England, and that the northern counties would need a very strong force to hold them in check.

He was, several times, sent by Percy with messages to the governors of Roxburgh and Jedburgh, and to other commanders; calling upon them to be vigilant, and to send in lists of arms and stores required, so that all should be in good order to make a stout resistance, when the need came.

When he had received no special orders to return with speed to Alnwick, Oswald generally found time to pay a visit of a few hours to the Armstrongs. On these excursions Roger and another man-at-arms always rode with him, for it would not have been becoming for a squire, and messenger of Hotspur, to ride without such escort.

Alwyn had picked out, for Roger's use, one of the strongest horses in the castle. It was not a showy animal, having a big ugly head, and being vicious in temper; therefore, after some trial, it had been handed over to the men-at-arms, instead of being retained for the service of the knights. It had, at first, tried its best to establish a mastership over the trooper; but it soon found that its efforts were as nothing against the strength of its rider, and that it might as well try to shake off its saddle as to rid itself of the trooper, the grip of whose knees almost stopped its breathing. Oswald, too, was very well mounted, Sir Edmund Mortimer having presented him with one of the best horses in the stable, upon his leaving him.

Upon nearing Hiniltie one day, just as the new year had begun, Oswald was alarmed at seeing smoke wreaths ascending from the knoll behind the village upon which the Armstrongs' hold stood. Galloping on, he soon saw that his first impressions were correct, and that his uncle's tower was on fire. He found the village in confusion.

"What has happened?" he asked, reining in his horse for a moment.

"The hold was suddenly attacked, two hours ago," a man said. "A party of reivers rode through here. None had seen them coming, and there was no time for us to take our women and children, and hurry to the shelter of the hold. Adam Armstrong is away at Roxburgh. Young Allan, with what few men there were at the hold, had but just time to shut the gates; but these were hewed down, in a short time, by the troopers. There was a stout fight as they entered. Allan was cut down and left for dead, and the troopers were all killed. Dame Armstrong was slain, and her daughters carried off by the reivers; and these, as soon as they had sacked the house, set it alight and galloped off. Most of the men here were away in the fields, or with the flocks in the valleys, and we were too few to hinder them, and could but shut ourselves up in the houses, until they had gone."

Oswald had dropped his reins, in speechless dismay.

"It is terrible," he said, at last. "Aunt killed, Janet and Jessie carried away, and Allan wounded, perhaps to death!"

"Whence came these villains?" he asked suddenly. "From beyond the Cheviots? It can hardly be so, for this part is under the governor of Roxburgh, and no English raiders would dare to meddle with any here. Besides, my uncle has always been on good terms with them, holding himself aloof from all quarrels, and having friends and relations on both sides of the border."

"We believe that it was the Bairds," a man said. "There has long been a standing quarrel between them and the Armstrongs, partly about stolen cattle, but more, methinks, because of the relationship between the Armstrongs and your people" -- for Oswald's visits to his uncle had made his face familiar to the villagers -- "and they say that the Bairds have sworn that they will never rest, until they have slain the last of the Forsters."

"Where is Allan Armstrong?"

"They have carried him down to the last house in the village. The priest and Meg Margetson, who knows more of wounds and simples than anyone here, are with him."

"Has his mother's body been recovered?"

The man shook his head.

"The hold was on fire, from roof to cellar, before they left," he said. "I and others ran up there, directly they had galloped away. The house was like a furnace. And indeed, we knew not of her death until a boy, who had seen her slain, and had dropped from a window and hidden himself till they had gone, came out and told us. He, and two or three others, are the only ones left alive of those in the hold, when we arrived and saved young Allan; and indeed, whether he lives now, or not, I know not. The priest said, when we carried him in, that his state was almost beyond hope."

Oswald galloped on to the end of the village, leapt from his horse, and threw the reins to Roger, who had been muttering words that he certainly would not have found in the missals, or the books, of the monastery.

"Is there nothing to be done, Master Oswald?"

"Not at present. We must wait till my uncle returns."

Then he entered the house. He had met the priest frequently, during his stay with the Armstrongs; as he entered the room, he was standing by a pallet on which Allan was laid, while a very old woman was attending to a decoction that was boiling over the fire.

"Is there any hope, father?"

"I know not," the priest replied, shaking his head sorrowfully. "We have stanched the wounds, but his head is well nigh cleft open. I have some skill in wounds, for they are common enough in this unfortunate country, and I should say that there was no hope; but Meg here, who is noted through the country round for her knowledge in these matters, thinks that it is possible he may yet recover. She is now making a poultice of herbs that she will lay on the wound; or rather on the wounds, for he has no less than four."

"I think that he will live, young master," the old woman said in a quavering, high-pitched voice. "'Tis hard to kill an Armstrong. They have ever been a hardy race and, save the lad's father, have ever been prone to the giving and taking of blows. I watched by his grandfather's bed, when he was in as sore a strait as this; but he came round, and was none the worse for it, though the blow would have killed any man with a softer skull.

"A curse upon the Bairds, I say. They have ever been a race of thieves and raiders, and it is their doings that have brought trouble on the border, as long as I can remember."

"Has any gone to bear the news to Adam Armstrong, father?"

"Yes. I sent off a messenger on horseback, as soon as they had gone. Adam left early, and the man will meet him on his way back."

Half an hour later, indeed, Adam Armstrong rode in. Oswald met him outside. His face was set and hard, and Oswald would scarce have recognized the kindly, genial man who had always received him so heartily.

"There are hopes that he will live," Oswald said.

There was a slight change in the expression of Armstrong's face.

"'Tis well," he said, "that one should be saved, to take revenge for this foul business. All the others are gone."

"I hope we may rescue my cousins."

"We might as well try to rescue a young lamb, that had been carried off by an eagle," he said bitterly. "Even could an archer send a shaft through the bird's breastbone, the lamb would be bleeding and injured, beyond all hope, ere it touched the ground. We may revenge, Oswald, but I have no hope of rescue."

Then he went into the house, without further word.



Chapter 12: A Dangerous Mission.


Half an hour later, Adam Armstrong came out of the cottage where his son was lying. His mood had changed. He had gathered hope from Meg Margetson's confident assurances that there was ground for it.

"Now, let us talk of what had best be done, Oswald," he said, as he led the way into the next cottage, where the woman at once turned her children out, and cleared a room for him.

"What force could you gather, Uncle?"

"In my grandfather's time," he said, "two hundred Armstrongs, and their followers, could gather in case of need; but the family was grievously thinned, in the days when Edward carried fire and sword through Scotland; and for the last fifty years Roxburgh and these parts have been mostly under English rule, and in that time we have never gathered as a family. Still, all my kin would, I know, take up this quarrel; and I should say that, in twelve hours, we could gather fifty or sixty stout fighting men.

"But the Bairds would be expecting us, and can put, with the families allied to them and their retainers, nigh three hundred men under arms. Their hold is so strong a one that it took fifteen hundred Englishmen, under Umfraville, three weeks to capture it. It was destroyed then, but it is stronger now than ever.

"Could we get aid from Roxburgh, think you?"

"I fear not, Uncle. I know that the governor has strict orders not to give Douglas any pretext for invading us, and to hold his garrison together; since the earl may, at any moment, endeavour to capture the town before help could arrive. And even were he to send four or five hundred men, the Bairds could hold out for a fortnight, at least; and long before this Douglas would be down, with an army, to his rescue.

"I have been talking it over with my trusty companion, here, and he agrees with me that, unless a body of men-at-arms that would avail to capture the fortalice by a sudden assault can be raised, we must trust to guile rather than force; and I propose that he and I shall, at once, start for the hold and see how matters stand, and where the prisoners are confined, and what hope there is of getting them free. I propose to send my other man to Yardhope, to tell my father what has happened, and to ask him to warn his friends to be ready to cross the border, and to join any force you can gather for an attack on the Bairds. It is true that stringent orders have been issued that there is to be no raiding in Scotland, but my father would not heed that for a moment. The attack that has been made upon you, the killing of his wife's sister, the wounding of Allan, and carrying off of his nieces would be deemed, by him, a grievance sufficient to justify his disregarding all orders. Besides which, he has the old grievance against the Bairds, which is all the more bitter since they led the Scots to attack Yardhope. I can guarantee that, when he gets word from you as to the day and place, he will meet you there with at least a hundred spears. It is true that, with this force and that which you can bring, he could not hope to capture the Bairds' hold; but together you could carry sword and fire through his district, before he could gather a force to meet you in the field."

"I fear that would not do, Oswald. William Baird would be capable of hanging the girls from the battlements, when the first fire was lit."

Oswald was silent. From the tales he had heard of the ferocity of these dreaded marauders, he felt that it was more than probable that his uncle was right.

"It seems to me," he said, after a pause, "that it were best for you to send two men to Parton; which is, as I have heard, though I have never been there, ten miles south of the Bairds'. Let them give the name of Johnstone; and, at the tavern where they put up, say they expect a relative of the same name. As soon as I can find out how the affair had best be managed, I will give them instructions as to the plans I propose. One will carry them to you, and the other to my father. Will Parton be a good place for you to join forces?"

"As well as any other, Oswald. Your plan seems to me a good one. At any rate, I can think of nothing better. My brain is deadened by this terrible misfortune. Had I my own will, I would ride straight to the Bairds' hold and challenge him and his brothers and sons to meet me, one after another, in fair combat; and should be well contented if I could slay one or two of them, before being myself killed."

"I can quite understand that, Uncle. But your death would be, in no way, an advantage to the girls; nay, would rather render them more helpless, therefore I pray you to let me carry things out as I have planned."

His uncle nodded.

"I shall send out a dozen runners to my friends," he said, "and beg them to be here tomorrow morning, early. Then, when I have talked matters over with them, I shall ride to Roxburgh and lay the matter before the governor. I know that I shall get no help from him; but at least, when he hears of a gathering here, he will know that 'tis with no evil intention against the English."

Ten minutes later, Oswald's messenger started for Yardhope, with a full account of the step he was taking, and of the arrangements that had been made. This done, he had a long talk with Roger.

"Now, Roger," he said, "this will be the most dangerous business in which we have been concerned; and I should not venture to undertake it, did I not know that I could rely, absolutely, upon you."

"I will do my best, master, and will adventure my life all the more willingly, since it is in the service of Allan and Janet Armstrong. They were always pleasant and friendly with me, at Yardhope, and I like them for themselves, as well as because they are your cousins. Now, master, what is to be done?"

"Have you your gown with you, Roger?"

"No, master. I know you always told me to take it with me, thinking that it might come in useful, and I carried it under my saddle all the time we were in Wales; but, seeing that this was but a ride to Jedburgh and back, I thought that there would be no occasion for it."

"That is unfortunate, Roger, for it is upon this that we must depend to get an entry into the Bairds' hold."

"Well, master, I can doubtless get some rough cloth of the colour, at Jedburgh; and indeed, there is a small monastery about three miles hence on the road, and it may be that, if Adam Armstrong will go with us and say wherefore it is wanted, the prior will let him have one."

"I will see him at once. No time must be lost. While he is away, you must shave your head again."

Roger's face fell.

"'Tis hard, master, after it has grown so well to match the rest. Still, for so good a purpose I must even give in."

On hearing what was wanted, Armstrong mounted and rode off at once and, while he was away, one of the villagers shaved the top of Roger's head again. In an hour, Armstrong brought back a monk's gown.

"He was loath to let me have it even, for such a purpose, though I told him that you were once a monk of the order. Finally he said that his conscience would not allow him to lend it, but that he would sell it to me for six pennies, which I gladly gave him."

"It is dark now," Oswald said, "and I know not the road. Can you give me some man to put me on the way? We will not make straight for the Bairds', but will strike the road from Glasgow, some ten or twelve miles north of his place, so that we can come down from that direction. Then our guide, after taking us on to the road, had best take charge of the horses and lead them to Parton, there to remain with them until your messenger, and the one from Yardhope, arrive. It would be as well to have the horses there, for we cannot know what need we may have of them."

"That I will arrange at once, Oswald. Is there aught else?"

"Yes, Uncle, I must leave my armour and clothes here, and borrow others that will pass as a disguise."

"How would you go, Oswald?"

"In truth, it is a difficult matter. That of a minstrel would be the best passport, but I know nought of harp or other instrument. I might go as a vendor of philters and charms, a sort of half-witted chap, whose mother concocted such things."

"They would never let you into the Bairds' castle, Oswald."

"Then I must be a rough man-at-arms, one who had been in the service of the Earl of March; and who, when he turned traitor and went over to the English, found himself without employment; and asked nothing better than to enter the service of someone who will give him bread and meat, in return for any services that he can render, whether in hunting up any cattle among the hills, or striking a shrewd blow in the service of his employer, if needs be."

"That must do, if we can think of nothing better, Oswald. I will speedily bring you the things you require, as they will be found in every house in the village; and some, alas! will be needed no more by those who wore them."

"They must be of good size, Uncle."

"Ay, ay, lad. There must have been some tall fellows, among those they slew today."

Half an hour later, Roger and Oswald mounted. His uncle sent two of his men with them, saying that it would look strange were one man to come, with two horses, to Parton; but that two, saying that their masters would follow, would seem a more probable tale.

"They will, if they can, find some quiet farmhouse a mile out of the village, and there get lodgings for themselves and beasts. You can arrange with them to take up their station on the road, so that you can, if needs be, find them."

It was with a sigh that Roger flung himself into the saddle. It was not the horse on which he had ridden there, but a strong, shaggy pony.

"He does not look much," one of the men said, "but there is no better horse, of the sort, in the country. He has both speed and bottom, and can carry you up or down hill, and is as sure-footed as a goat."

Roger had assented to the change, for his own horse was as unlike one that a monk would have bestrode as could be well imagined. He had obtained a stout staff, to which the village smith had added two or three iron rings at each end, rendering it a formidable weapon, indeed, in such hands.

"It reminds me of our start for Dunbar, master," he said. "One might have a worse weapon than this;" and he swung it round his head, in quarterstaff fashion; "still, I prefer a mace."

"That staff will do just as well, Roger. A man would need a hard skull, indeed, to require more than one blow from such a weapon."

Now that Adam Armstrong had done all that there was to do, he went again to the cottage where Allan lay. He had paid several visits there, in the afternoon; but there was nought for him to do, and no comfort to be gained from the white face of the insensible lad. Meg assured him, however, that he was going on as well as could be expected.

"He is in a torpor, at present," she said; "and may so lie for two or three days; but so long as there is no fever he will, I hope, know you when he opens his eyes. There is nought to do but to keep wet cloths round his head, and to put on a fresh poultice over the wound, every hour."

Now Armstrong took his place by his son's pallet. For a time, the work of making preparations for Oswald's departure, and of sending off messages to his friends, had prevented his thoughts from dwelling upon his loss. Throughout the night, the picture of his home, as he had left it when he rode out that morning; and the thought that it was now an empty shell, his wife dead, his daughters carried off, and his son lying between life and death, came to him with full force, and well nigh broke him down.

In the meantime, the little party were making across the hills, and before morning they came upon the northern road, fifteen miles from the Bairds' hold. Here Oswald and Roger dismounted. It was arranged that the men should return with the horses into the hills, and should there rest until late in the afternoon, and then mount and ride for Parton. One or other of them was to come down, at seven o'clock each evening, to the road half a mile from the village; and was there to watch till nine. If no one came along, they were then to return to their lodging.

"I feel stiff in the legs, master," Roger said; "a fifty-mile ride, up and down the hills, is no joke after a hard day's work."

"They will soon come right again, Roger. I feel stiff, myself, though pretty well accustomed to horse exercise. However, when we present ourselves at the hold, dusty and footsore, we shall look our characters thoroughly."

Neither were sorry when they arrived at a small village, a quarter of a mile from the Bairds' hold. They went in together to the little ale house, and vigorously attacked the rough fare set before them.

"Hast thou travelled far?" their host asked, as he watched them eating.

"Indifferently far," the monk said: "'tis five-and-twenty miles hence to Moffat, and it would have seemed farther to me, had not this good fellow overtaken me, and fell in with my pace. He is good company, though monkish gowns have but little in common with steel pot and broadsword; but his talk, and his songs, lightened the way."

"Whither are you going, father?"

"I am making my way to Carlisle," he said. "I have a brother who is prior in a small monastery, there, and it is long since I have seen him. Who lives at the stronghold I saw on the hills, but a short distance away?"

"It is the hold of William Baird, the head of that family; of whom, doubtless, you may have heard."

"I have heard his name, as that of a noted raider across the border," the monk said; "a fierce man, and a bold one. Has he regard for the church? If so, I would gladly take up my abode there, for a day or two; for in truth I am wearied out, it being some years since my feet have carried me so long a journey."

"As to that, I say nothing," the host said. "It would depend on his humour whether he took you in, or shut the gates in your face without ceremony; but methinks, at present, the latter were more likely than the former; for his hold is full of armed men, and I should say it were wisest to leave him alone, even if you had but the bare moor to sleep upon."

"Nevertheless, I can but try," the monk said. "He may be in one of those good tempers you spoke of. And I suppose he has also a priest, in his fortalice?"

"Ay, the Bairds are not -- but I would rather not talk of them. They are near neighbours, and among my very best customers."

As he spoke, four armed men came in at the door.

"Good day, Wilson! Whom have you here? An ill-assorted couple, surely. A monk, though a somewhat rough one, and a man-at-arms."

"Fellow travellers of a day," Roger said calmly. "We met on the road, and as I love not solitude, having enough and to spare of it, I accosted him. He turned out a good companion."

"You are a man of sinew yourself, monk, and methinks that you would have made a better soldier than a shaveling."

"I thought so sometime, myself," the monk said; "but my parents thought otherwise, and it is too late to take up another vocation, now."

"Is that staff yours?" the soldier asked, taking it up, and handling it.

"Yes, my son. In these days even a quiet religious man, like myself, may meet with rough fellows by the way; and while that staff gives support to my feet, it is an aid to command decent behaviour from those I fall in with. I have not much to lose, having with me but sufficient to buy me victuals for my journey to Carlisle; where, as I have just told our host, I am journeying to see a brother, who is prior at a convent there."

"This fellow -- where did you fall in with him?"

"He overtook me some twenty miles north, on the road to Glasgow."

"And are you travelling to Carlisle, too?" the man said to Oswald.

"Nay," he said, "I purpose not going beyond the border. I have lost my employment, and have tried, in vain, to find another as much to my liking. I have come south to seek service, with one who will welcome a strong arm to wield a sword."

"Hast tried the Douglas?"

"No," he said, "the Douglas has men enough of his own, and methinks I should not care to be mewed up in one of his castles. I have had enough of that already, seeing that I was a man-at-arms with George Dunbar, till he turned traitor and went over to the English."

"You look a likely fellow; but, you know, we do not pay men, here, to do our fighting for us. 'Tis all very well for great nobles, like Dunbar and Douglas, to keep men always in arms, and ready to ride, at a moment's notice, to carry fire and sword where they will. War is not our business, save when there is trouble in the air, or mayhap we run short of cattle or horses, and have to go and fetch them from across the border. It is true that there are always a score or two of us up there, for somehow the Bairds have enemies, but most of the followers of the house live on their holdings, raise cattle and mountain sheep, grow oats, and live as best they can."

"For myself, I would rather live with others," Oswald said. "I am used to it, and to live in a hut on the moors would in no way be to my fancy; and if I cannot get a place where I have comrades to talk to, and crack a joke with, I would rather cross the seas, take service with an Irish chieftain, or travel to Wales, where I hear men say there is fighting."

"You need not go very far, if it is fighting that you want," the man said. "Those who ride with the Bairds have their share, and more, of it. If you like to stop here a day or two, I will take an opportunity to talk to William Baird, or to one of his sons, if I find a chance; but I cannot take you up there, now. At the best of times they are not fond of visitors, and would be less so than usual, now."

Other armed men had come in, while the conversation was going on. No further attention was paid to the travellers. The others, sitting down at a table across the room, talked among themselves.

"I care not for the work," one said presently, raising his voice to a higher pitch than that in which the others had spoken. "Across the border, I am as ready for work as another; but when it comes to Scot against Scot, I like it not."

"Why, man," another said, "what qualms are these? Isn't Scot always fighting against Scot? Ay, and has been so, as far back as one has ever heard. It does not take much for a Douglas or a Dunbar to get to loggerheads; and as to the wild clans of the north, they are always fighting among themselves."

"Yes, that is all very well," the other said, "and there is no reason why neighbours should not quarrel, here; but I would rather that they each summoned their friends, and met in fair fight and had it out, than that one should pounce upon the other when not expected, and slay and burn unopposed."

"Ay, ay," two or three others of the men agreed. "It were doubtless better so, when it is Scot against Scot."

"'Tis border fashion," another put in. "There is no law on the border, and we fight in our own fashion. Today it is our turn, tomorrow it may be someone else's. We follow our chiefs, just as the northern clansmen do; and whether it is a Musgrave or a Baird, a Fenwick or an Armstrong, he is chief in his own hold, and cares neither for king nor earl, but fights out his quarrel as it may please him. I am one of William Baird's men, and his quarrel is mine; and whether we ride against the King of Scotland or the King of England, against a Douglas or a Percy, an Armstrong or a Musgrave, it matters not the value of a stoup of ale."

"That is so, Nigel, and so say we all. But methinks that one may have a preference for one sort of fighting over another; and I, myself, would rather fight a matter out, man against man, than fall suddenly on a hold, where none are ready to encounter us."

Roger, during a pause in the conversation at the other table, got up from his seat and stretched himself.

"Well, friend," he said to Oswald, "I will go up and see if they will make me welcome, at the hold. If they do, I may see you no more. If not, I shall return here to sleep. Therefore I bid you good day, and hope that you may find such service as will suit you. Benedicite!"

And, paying for his refreshment, Roger took his staff from the corner, and went out.

"A hearty fellow, and a stalwart one," the man who had spoken to him said. "I should not care to have a crack over the crown, with that staff of his. You met him coming down from the north, comrade?"

"Yes, some twenty miles away. It was near Moffat that I overtook him. I would rather drink with him than fight with him. Seldom have I seen a stronger-looking man."

"I am of your opinion, comrade; and some of these monks are not bad fighters, either. There have been bishops who have led the monks to battle, before now, and they proved themselves stout men-at-arms."

After the others had gone out, Oswald strolled through the village, and then mounted an eminence whence he could take a view across the valley, and of some of the hilltops to the northeast. On one of these, two miles away, he could make out a man standing by a horse. He watched him for some little time, but beyond taking a few steps backwards and forwards, the man did not move.

"He is a lookout," he said to himself, "and is no doubt watching some road from Kelso and Jedburgh. Baird will hardly think that the Armstrongs can have so soon gathered a force sufficient to attack him, but he may have thought it as well to place one of his men on the watch.

"I wonder how Roger is getting on! I think they must have taken him in, or he would have been back before this."

Roger had walked quietly up the hill on which the Bairds' hold was perched. A man stepped forward from the gate, as he neared it.

"None enter here," he said, "without permission from the master."

"Will you tell him that a poor monk, of the order of Saint Benedict, on his way from his convent at Dunbar to one near Carlisle, of which his brother is prior, prays hospitality for a day or two, seeing that he is worn out by long travel?"

The sentry spoke to a man behind him, and the latter took the message to William Baird. The latter was in a good humour. He himself had not taken part in the raid on the Armstrongs, which had been led by Thomas Baird, a cousin; but the fact that the latter had been entirely successful, and had burned down Armstrong's house, and brought back his daughters, had given him the greatest satisfaction. There was a long-standing feud between the two families, and the fact that the Armstrongs were on good terms with their English neighbours, and still more that one of them had married the sister-in-law of a Forster of Yardhope, had greatly embittered the feeling, on his side. He had long meditated striking a blow at them, and the present time had been exceptionally favourable.

Douglas had his hands full. He was on ill terms with Rothesay, whose conduct to his daughter had deeply offended him. The newly-acquired land of the Earl of March gave him much trouble. He was jealous of the great influence of Albany, at court; and was, moreover, making preparations for a serious raid into England. It was not likely, then, that he would pay any attention to the complaints the Armstrongs might make, of any attack upon them; especially as their aid was of small use to him, while the Bairds could, at any moment, join him, in an invasion across the border, with three hundred good fighting men.

William Baird had not, as yet, even considered what he should do with his captives. He might give them in marriage to some of the younger men of his family, or he might hold them as hostages. As to injuring them personally, he did not think of it. Slaughter in a raid was lightly regarded, but to ill-treat female prisoners would arouse a general feeling of dissatisfaction along the border. Reprisals might be made by the Armstrongs and their friends, and in any case, there would be such widespread reprobation excited, as William Baird, reckless as he was, could hardly afford to despise.

Therefore, when Roger's request was brought to him, he said at once:

"Take him up to Father Kenelm. Tell him to look after the monk's comfort. This evening he can bring him down to the hall, and I will question him as to his journey."

Roger followed the man through the courtyard. He paid, apparently, no attention to what was going on there, but a quick glance enabled him to perceive that the hold was full of men. He followed his guide up a winding stair, to a turret on the wall, the lower story of which was inhabited by the priest.

The soldier knocked at the door, and on its being opened by the priest, he gave Baird's message to him. He was a tall man, spare and bony. He himself was a Baird, and report said that, in his youth, he had ridden on many a foray in England. But fighting men were common in the family, and it had been thought well that one should enter the church, as it was always good to have a friend who could represent them there and, should any complaint be made, explain matters, and show that the family were in no wise to blame. And moreover, as it was necessary to have a priest at the chief fortalice of the family, it was best that it should be one who would not be too strict in his penances, and could be conveniently silent as to the doings within its walls.

The priest had accepted the role not unwillingly. He was an ambitious man, and saw that, as one of the fighting Bairds, there was but small opportunity of rising to aught beyond the command of one of the holds. Douglas regarded them with no friendly eye, for their breaches of the truces brought upon him constant complaints from the English wardens, who might, some day or other, lead a force to punish the family, which had been one of the few exempted from the general pardon, at the last truce. As a priest he would have better opportunities, for the Bairds had much influence along the border; and might, some day or other, exert it in his favour.

So far, no such opportunity had occurred. It had been a disappointment to him that Henry, in his last invasion, had kept along the eastern coast; and he hoped that the war, which assuredly would, ere long, break out violently, would give him the chance he longed for; and he might be sent by his uncle to Douglas, with offers of service, or might even go north, and have an interview with Albany.

Once fairly away from Liddesdale, he was resolved that it would be a long time, indeed, before he returned. He was now some thirty years of age, with a hard, keen face.

"Well, brother," he said, "it is not often that any of your order sojourn here. I am glad to have one with whom I can converse, of other matters than arms and armour, forays and wars."

"These matters are, indeed, too much in men's mouths," Roger said; "though I own that I, myself, in some degree am interested in them; for, had I had the choice of a vocation, I would rather have been a man-at-arms than a monk."

"I wonder not at that," the other said, "seeing that nature has been bountiful to you, in the matter of height and strength; and I doubt not that you could, in case of need, use that staff you carry with good effect."

"Methinks that I might do so, but happily none have molested me on my way, seeing perhaps that my wallet was not likely to be a full one; and that, mayhap, it was hardly worthwhile to meddle with me, with so small a prospect of plunder."

"But come in, and sit down," the priest said. "My uncle has consigned you to my care. We shall sup in half an hour."

"I shall not be sorry," Roger replied, "for though I broke my fast on black bread and small beer, down in the village, 'tis but poor nourishment for a man who has travelled far, and who has a large frame to support."

"But how come you to be here?"

Roger again repeated his story.

"It would have been shorter for you to have travelled down through Berwick, brother."

"The difference was not great," Roger replied; "and I had to carry a message to Edinburgh, and from there it was shorter to keep west of the Pentlands, and come down to Lanark, and thence through Moffat."

"Yes, I suppose it is as short. And you had no trouble on your way?"

Roger shook his head.

"No; I generally join some traveller or other, and that makes the journey pass all the quicker. I came down here today with a stout young fellow, who overtook me this side of Moffat. He was somewhat out at elbow, and I looked askance at him at first; but he turned out a blithe companion, and we got on well together. He could troll a good song, and my own voice is not wanting in power. It was curious that he also was from Dunbar, though not immediately; having, it would seem, wandered for some time, on the lookout for service."

"What was he, a cattle drover?"

"No, he had been a man-at-arms, of George of Dunbar -- at least, so I understood -- and when the earl fled, and Douglas took possession of Dunbar, he lost his living. He told me that he had made his way down here in hopes of finding employment on the border, where blows were common, and a good blade was of more use than it was farther north. I said that he might have found employment under Albany, or under some other great lord; but he said that he had seen the Earl of March a fugitive, and that he cared not to enter the service of another noble, who might, in turn, be ousted from his place and lose his life; but as for Albany, he thought, from what he heard, that he would rather serve him than any other master.

"I said, 'Why not Rothesay, who would be King of Scotland?'

"He laughed lightly, and said as Rothesay had managed to get upon ill friendship, not only with the Earl of March but with Douglas, and, as he heard, with Albany, he thought that his chances of becoming King of Scotland were not worth considering."

"He must be a bold varlet, thus to speak irreverently of great ones."

"I think not that he was bold," Roger said, "but only a merry, thoughtless young fellow, who in such company as mine let his tongue loose, and said what first came into his head. As to the matter, methought he spoke not without warrant."

"And he came from the north, now?"

"I know not whence he came last, but I think that he was at Edinburgh, and had taken service there, when the English king sat down before it; but, as you know, nought came of the siege."

At this moment a horn blew.

"There is supper," the priest said. "We will go down."

The meal was laid in the hall; which, however, was not large enough to contain more than the ordinary retainers of the hold. These, and the men who had come in at the summons of Baird, were provided for in the courtyard, the table being occupied entirely by members of the Baird family, and others who always acted with them. These had not yet taken their seats, when the priest entered with his companion, whom he at once took up to Sir William Baird.

"By Saint Andrew! Monk, I have seen no finer figure, for many a day. A pity that a monk's gown should clothe such limbs as yours."

"That has always been mine own opinion," Roger said, with a heartiness that raised a smile on the hard faces of the men standing round.

"You look as if you had carried arms."

"I did so, in my wild youth," Roger said, "and had no thought of ever donning monk's hood; but I was grievously wounded, in a foray in Northumberland, and when I reached my home at Lauder, I well nigh died of the fever of the wound; and I swore that, if my life was saved, I would become a monk. I got well, and I kept my vow; but methinks, had I but known how dull the life was, I would rather have died of the fever."

As this story was perfectly true, save the name of his birthplace, Roger spoke so heartily that no one doubted his story.

"And your monastery is at Dunbar?

"You have been at Dunbar, Rotherglen. Ask him where the convent stood."

As Roger had stayed there, when with Oswald he was at Dunbar, he was able to answer this, and other questions, satisfactorily. The party then took their places at table, the priest and Roger sitting at the bottom of it. The conversation at the upper end naturally turned on the foray, and a general disbelief was expressed, as to the chance of the Armstrongs retaliating.

"'Tis out of the question," one of the Bairds said, "they could not raise fifty men. Doubtless they will send a complaint to Douglas, but he has his hands well full; and is not likely to quarrel with us about such a trifle, when he may want our aid, at any moment, either against Albany or against the English."

"What do you intend to do with the girls?"

"I have not settled yet," William Baird said, shortly. "At any rate, for the present I shall hold them as hostages. I don't think that anything is likely to come of the affair; but if we should hear of any force approaching, likely to give us trouble, we could send word to them that, if an arrow is loosened at our walls, we will hang the girls out as marks for their archers. I fancy that will send them trooping off again, at once."

As soon as the meal was over, and the carousal began, the priest rose and, accompanied by Roger, retired to his chamber.



Chapter 13: Escape.


Oswald, who was thoroughly fatigued with the events of the last thirty-six hours, slept soundly, on an armful of rushes that his host threw down in a corner of the room for him. At eight o'clock, the man who had spoken to him on the previous evening came in.

"I have spoken to William Baird," he said. "I told him that you seemed a likely fellow. He called down the monk, and asked him several questions about you; and he told me, at last, that I could bring you up to see him. So come along, at once."

"Thanks, comrade," Oswald said, as he slung his long two-handed sword from his shoulder.

"A likely-looking young fellow, indeed," Baird said to Rotherglen, whom he had sent for to be present; "over six feet and, I should fancy, has not attained his full width.

"So you would fain take service with me?" he said.

"I want a master," Oswald replied, "and from what I hear, I am more likely to see fighting, under you, than under any other on the border."

"And you were with George Dunbar?"

"I was," Oswald replied. "But indeed, the service was not altogether to my taste, for we were always pent up in Dunbar; and, save in a street broil, there was no need to draw a sword. I was glad enough to leave his service, though in truth, I have fared but badly, since."

"Now do you question him, Rotherglen."

A number of questions were put to Oswald, concerning the names of the streets, the direction, the name of the principal inns, and the approaches to the castle. All these were satisfactorily replied to.

"He knows Dunbar, there is no question about that.

"And you can use your arms?"

"I think so."

"We will have a trial," Baird said. "A man is no use to me, who cannot use his weapon. Send Robert here."

In a minute, one of the young Bairds entered. He was a man of about twenty-five, tall and sinewy, and was accounted the best swordsman of his family.

"Cousin Robert," William Baird said, "this young fellow would enter our service; but before I take him, I must see that he knows his business. Do you take a turn with the sword with him.

"No, no, not a two-handed sword; I don't want him to be slain. Take a couple of swords from the wall. Give him another steel cap, and full body armour. That of his own would not keep out a good, downright stroke."

By the time that Oswald was armed, a number of the Bairds and their friends had assembled in the hall, hearing of what was going to take place.

"A fine young fellow, truly," Rotherglen said. "In height and width, he matches Robert well, though of course your cousin must be the more powerful, seeing that he is some four or five years older than this young fellow; who, when he reaches his age, bids fair to be well-nigh as strong a man as that monk."

Roger had just entered, with the priest.

"Well, monk," Baird said, "we are going to try the mettle of your companion of yesterday."

"I answer not for his mettle," Roger said; "but if he fights as well as he talks, he will not do discredit to himself."

As they took their places, facing each other, the lookers on, men well qualified to judge of strength and sinew, murmured to each other that it would be difficult to find a better-matched pair. They were about the same height, both stood lightly on their feet, and their figures seemed full of life and activity. Both were smiling, Robert Baird with a smile of confidence, and of assurance in his skill; while Oswald's face expressed only good temper and, as the others took it, a belief that he would, at any rate, be able to make such a defence as would assure his being taken into the Bairds' service.

The first rally, indeed, proved more than this. Robert Baird had at once taken the offensive, and showered his blows heavily down, while springing backwards and forwards with wonderful quickness and activity; but Oswald's blade ever met his, and he did not give way an inch, even when Baird most fiercely attacked him. Then suddenly he adopted the same tactics as his opponent, and pressed him so hotly that he was, several times, obliged to give ground. Oswald could twice have got in a heavy blow, but he abstained from doing so. He could see that his antagonist was a favourite among his kinsmen, and felt that, were he to discomfit him, he would excite a feeling of hostility against himself. Both, panting from their exertions, drew a step backwards and lowered their swords.

"Enough!" William Baird said, "The matter need be pushed no further. 'Tis long since I have seen so good a bout of swordplay. This young fellow has learned his business, and if, in other respects, he does as well, he will make a good recruit, indeed.

"What say you, lad? Will you join us for a month, till you see whether you like our service, and we can judge how your service will suit us? For that time you will have your living here, and drink money. After that, if we agree, you can either be a retainer here, or we will give you a holding on the moor, build you a shelter, give you a horse, and, after our next foray, a clump of cattle."

"That will suit me well," Oswald said; "and I like well the month of trial you propose."

"I will take him, if you will let me, Uncle, as my own man," Robert Baird said. "If, at the end of the month, he chooses service with us, and likes better to follow a master, with half a dozen men, than to live alone on the moors. Methinks he would make a cheery companion, and one I could take to, heartily; and indeed, during the long winters, 'tis no slight thing to have one merry fellow, who can keep one alive, and of whose mettle and skill you are well assured."

"So let it be, then, Robert. You have tried him, and yours should be the advantage. But for the month he shall remain here, under Malcolm's eye."

Oswald went down with the man, who was Baird's right hand in the hold.

"What will be my duties?" he asked.

"To keep your arms and armour ready for service."

"That will be an easy task, methinks; for I see that instead of being polished and bright, as were ours at Dunbar, the others keep their steel caps and back pieces painted a sombre colour."

The other nodded.

"Yes, our arms are for use and not for show; and when we ride by moonlight, we care not to have our presence shown, miles away, by the glint of the moon on our armour.

"You will do your turn of keeping watch and ward. Just at present there will be a good deal of that, for we have been stirring up a wasps' nest, and mayhap they may come and try to sting. When you are off duty, you will be your own master, save that you had best be within sound of the warder's horn.

"I will hand over a horse to you. For the present, it is at that croft on the opposite hill. Each of the tenants keeps two or three at our service. We have only the Bairds' own horses kept in the hold. It would be too much trouble to gather forage for those of the twenty men who always live here, and indeed, we have no room for such number.

"Mind that you drink not too much, over in the village there; for though the Bairds care not, on feast days, if the whole garrison gets drunk, so that there are enough sober to keep watch and ward, they set their faces against it at other times, seeing that it leads to broils and quarrels."

"I will take care. I like my cup, occasionally; and can drink with others, without my head getting addled, but as a rule I care not overmuch for it."

After being roughly introduced to several of the retainers as a new comrade, Oswald was left to follow his own devices. Presently, Roger came out into the courtyard.

"So you have got service, comrade," he said, in a voice that could be heard by any of those standing near. "You had better fortune than I had expected."

"That have I," he replied. "Still, I thought that it would be hard, if one who could use his sword indifferently well, and puts no great value on his life, could not find service on the border. How long do you stay here?"

This was a question that had been arranged, for had they been seen speaking privately together, it might have aroused suspicion.

"Methinks I shall stay here two days, to get rid of my leg weariness. I am not so accustomed to long marching as you are."

The real meaning of the question, as arranged, was, "Have you found out where the prisoners are kept?"

The answer meant "Yes, and it will not be difficult to get at them."

The evening before, indeed, when he returned with the priest to his chamber, they had broached a bottle together. The priest, on his part, had asked many questions as to the state of things in Edinburgh, and Dunbar; what were the opinions of people with regard to the Duke of Albany, and the Prince; and what would probably come of the coldness that was said to exist between them.

Roger was able to conceal his ignorance of these matters by saying that he knew little of what was passing, for that he had been the cellarer in the convent, and went out but little. Nevertheless, he had kept his ears open; as they rode north to Jedburgh, he had heard a good deal of talk and speculation, and was able to give various pieces of news that had not before reached the ears of the priest. He was not long in discovering that the latter was ill satisfied with his present position, and was ambitious to take part in more important affairs, and he presently said:

"I wonder, father, that a man of your ability should be content to remain as chaplain in a border hold, when there are so many opportunities beyond, for one like you, to make his way in the church."

"In truth," the priest said, "I have had such thoughts myself; and hope, some day, to see a little more of the world.

"By the way, can you read and write, brother?" he asked suddenly.

"Assuredly," Roger replied.

He guessed, at once, that the question had been put at the instigation of William Baird; who perhaps still had some doubts whether he was really a monk, and an affirmative answer would be an almost conclusive proof that he was so, for very few outside the walls of the convents, even among the nobles and knights, possessed any knowledge of letters.

"I have a missal here," the priest said carelessly, "that has somewhat troubled me, being written in a cramped hand. Perhaps you could read it for me," and, getting up, he took a roll from a closet.

Roger smiled quietly, as he turned it over. By a private mark upon it, he knew that it had been written at Alnwick, and was doubtless the proceed of some foray upon a monastery across the border. He ran his eye over it; and then, in a sonorous voice, proceeded to read it aloud.

"I thank you," the priest said, when he had finished. "Truly you are an admirable reader, and well skilled in deciphering. I wonder that you held not some more important post than that of cellarer."

Roger laughed.

"I might have done so," he said, "but in truth, I am not strict enough in matters of discipline to suit our prior, and am somewhat over fond of the wine cup. More than once, when it seemed that I might have been chosen as reader to the monastery, I fell into disgrace, and lost my chance; and indeed, I was far better pleased with my post, there, than if they had appointed me sub-prior."

Any vestige of doubt there might have been in the priest's mind had vanished, as Roger read; for he was conscious that he, himself, could not have picked up a manuscript and have deciphered it so easily and fluently.

"It must be trying to you, good father," Roger went on, "to be among men who, if reports speak truly, are somewhat lawless, and hold even the church in but slight respect. Surely, among them there can be but little scope for your abilities?"

"'Tis true, brother; but they are, you know, kinsmen of mine. They have many foes across the border, and some on this side, and are forced to hold their own as they may. It was but two days ago that they were obliged to punish a family that have long been at feud with them, and who might well have fallen upon their holds, if they marched into England with Douglas. However, they have brought off two hostages for the good behaviour of these people."

"Yes, I heard a chance word, in the village, that a party had just returned from a foray, and had brought back a number of prisoners."

"Not a number, brother, but two girls."

"I have seen no women in the castle," Roger said.

"No. William Baird lost his wife years ago, and cares not to have women in the hold. There is not a married man among the garrison. If a man takes him a wife, he must go and settle on the lands.

"The women are in a safe place of keeping. They are overhead. There are wild young fellows among the Bairds, and the girls are good looking; therefore he thought it best to place them in my charge, and that is why you see two sentries marching on the battlements, one on each side of this turret. He himself keeps the key of their chamber, handing it over to me every morning, and receiving it again at night -- a precaution wholly unnecessary, methinks."

"Surely, surely," Roger said. "I wonder that you are not offended."

"I told him that it was strange he could not trust me, a priest, with the charge of them; but he laughed and said, 'As a priest you are well enough, Father Kenelm, but remember also that you are a Baird. Though a priest, I would trust you to ride with me on a foray across the border; but as a Baird, I would not entrust you with the custody of women. You may take it as a compliment that I have trusted you as far as I do.'"

Roger's answer to Oswald had been eminently satisfactory to the latter. Still more pleased was he when, later on in the day, Roger repeated, as he passed him, "They are lodged in the turret, over my chamber."

Oswald was scarcely surprised, for he had noticed that two sentries were on the wall on that side, although it was the one farthest removed from the direction in which any foes were likely to appear. He had, moreover, just before dinner, observed one of the kitchen men go up, with two dishes in his hand, by the steps leading to the top of the wall, on that side. There was no hindrance to the men going freely in and out of the hold, and as no duty had been assigned to him that evening, he strolled out of the gate when it became dusk, soon after six o'clock, for it was now the beginning of April, 1401, and walked down through the village; and then, taking off his armour and steel cap, and laying them down under a bush by the roadside, set off at the top of his speed in the direction of Parton. He did the ten miles in under an hour, and nearly ran against a man who was standing in the middle of the road, a short distance from the little town.

"Is that you, Fergus?"

"No, I am John, master. Fergus will take the watch tomorrow evening."

"Good. Keep the horses saddled at this time, every evening; and hold them in readiness all night. Things are going on well, and I may be here any night. Which is the house?"

"That is it, master, where you see the light, a quarter of a mile farther up the hill."

"Where are you sleeping?"

"In the stables, with the horses. It is some ten yards off the right of the house."

"Then you must keep watch through the night, by turns, and get your sleep in the daytime. I hope we shall get them away without waiting for a force to come. The hold is a very strong one, and a strict watch is kept at night; and, before we could carry it, we should have all the Bairds on the countryside down upon us.

"Can you get me a rope? I want a long and a strong one."

"There are some ropes in the stable, master, but they are in use, and would be missed."

"Then run, at the top of your speed, down to the town; and buy a rope strong enough to hold the weight of half a dozen men. I shall want a hundred feet of it. Here is money."

The man shot away into the darkness and, in a little over a quarter of an hour, was back again with the rope. Oswald took off his doublet.

"Wind it round and round me," he said. "Begin under the arms. Wind it neatly, and closely, so that it will make no more show than necessary."

This was soon done, and then Oswald started on his way; and an hour later entered the tavern, and took his seat with three or four of the men from the hold, and called for wine for the party. He sat there for some time, and then one said:

"It is half-past eight; we had best be going. At seven o'clock the gates are shut; but they are opened, for those who belong to the hold, till nine, after which none are admitted till morning, and any who come in then are reported to Baird, and they are lucky if they get off with half a dozen extra goes of sentry duty. Baird is a good master in many things, but he is a bad man to deal with, when he is angry; and if anyone was to be out a second time, and he did it too soon after the first offence, he would have his skin nearly flayed off his back, with a stirrup leather. There is no fooling with the Bairds."

Oswald arranged with Roger that, if the latter remained in the castle, he should always come down half an hour before the garrison were moving, as they might then exchange a word or two unseen; and accordingly, he took his place at an angle of a building, where he could keep his eye on the steps leading up to the battlements, on the north side.

Presently he saw Roger descending. He waved his hand, and caught his follower's eye; and the latter, on reaching the courtyard, at once joined him.

"I have a rope, Roger," Oswald began, "that will reach from the turret to the foot of the craig. I took it off during the night, and have just hidden it away behind a pile of rubbish, in the stable. Are the girls locked up?"

"Yes."

"Is there any getting the key?"

"No, William Baird himself keeps it."

"Then we must have something to force the door open, or to saw round the lock."

"The door is studded with iron."

"Are the windows barred?"

"No; but they are mere loopholes, and there is no getting through them."

"I suppose there are steps from their room on to the platform above?"

"No doubt. In fact, there are sure to be."

"I suppose that you will have no difficulty in silencing the priest?"

Roger smiled.

"No; I think I can answer for him."

"Could you speak to the girls through the keyhole, Roger?"

"There would be no difficulty about that, master. I have but to choose a time when the priest is out."

"Then tell them that we are here, Roger, and they are to be ready to escape, whenever we give the signal. Ask them if the trapdoor leading on to the platform is fastened, and whether they can unfasten it. If not, we must break it in, from above. We can get on to the top of the turret, easily enough, by throwing the rope up with a hook attached.

"Of course, the two sentries must be first silenced. I would wait till I, myself, should be on sentry there; but that might not occur for a week, and you cannot prolong your stay here more than another day; therefore, we will try it tonight. I have given the men with the horses notice.

"Do you get the priest bound and gagged, by ten o'clock; everything will be quiet by that time. I will come noiselessly up the steps. At that hour, do you be at the door, and on the lookout for me. The sentries will have to be silenced -- that is the most difficult part of the business."

"We can manage that," Roger said, confidently. "One blow with my quarterstaff, on the back of the head under the steel cap, will do that noiselessly enough."

"That would not do, Roger. The man would go down with such a crash, that the fall of his armour on the flags would be heard all over the castle. He must be gripped by the throat, so that he cannot holloa; and then bound tightly, and gagged before he has time to get breath."

"I suppose that would be the best way," Roger said regretfully; "but I should like to have struck two good blows; one for the sake of Dame Armstrong, and one for Allan. However, your plan is the best. The only difficulty will be the trapdoor."

"Well, we must look about today, and get a couple of bits of iron that we can use as a prise. Still, I hope that it will not be needed. I saw a bit of iron, in the stables, that I think I can bend into a hook for the rope; and if I can't, I have no doubt that you can.

"That is all. You had better move away now. People will be stirring, directly."

That night, at ten o'clock, when all in the hold had been asleep half an hour, Oswald rose quietly from the rushes, on which he and a dozen of his comrades were sleeping, and made his way noiselessly out of the room; went into the stables and fetched the piece of iron, which he had, during the day, placed so that he could feel it in the dark; took the coil of rope in his hands, and ascended the steps. The top was but some ten feet from the turret. He stood quiet, until he heard the sentry moving away from him, then he mounted the last steps, and in a moment reached the foot of the turret stairs. Roger was standing there.

"All right, master!" he whispered. "I took the priest by surprise, and he was gagged before he knew what was happening. I tore the blanket up into strips, and tied him down onto his pallet with them. He is safe enough.

"Now for the sentries. I will take the one to the right, first. I will go out and stand in the angle. It is a dark night, and there is no chance of his seeing me. When you hear his walk cease, you will know that I have got him. I have managed to bring up a rope, that I have cut into handy lengths. Here are two of them.

"There, he has just turned, so I will go at once."

"How about the trapdoor?"

"It is all right, master. It is bolted on the inside. They have tried the bolts, and find they can move them;" and with these words, he at once stepped noiselessly out.

Oswald stood listening. Presently he heard the returning steps of the sentry. They came close up to the turret, and then suddenly ceased.

He at once hurried round. The sentry hung limp in Roger's grasp. Oswald bound his hands tightly, and twisted the rope three or four times round his body, and securely knotted it. Then he tied the ankles tightly together.

"I will lay him down," Roger whispered, when he had done so.

Oswald bent the man's legs and, trussing him up, fastened the rope from the ankles to that which bound the wrists. Roger now relaxed his grip of the man's throat, thrust a piece of wood between his teeth, and fastened it, by a string going round the back of the head. He then took off his steel cap, and laid it some distance away.

"That will do for him, master. I reckon that he will be an hour or two, before he will get breath enough to holloa, even without that gag."

The other man was captured as silently as the former had been. When he was bound, Roger said:

"Now for the hook, master."

"Here is the iron. It was too strong for me to bend."

Roger took it and, exerting his great strength, bent it across his knee. Then he took the coil of rope, and tied a knot at the end, and with some smaller cord lashed it securely along the whole length of the hook.

"Now, Master, do you get on to my shoulders, and I think you will be able to hook it to the battlements. It is not above twelve feet. If you find that you cannot, step on my head."

"I am sure I can reach it without that, Roger."

And indeed, he found that he could do so easily; and having fixed it firmly, he got hold of the rope, and hoisted himself to the top of the turret. In a minute, Roger was beside him.

Feeling about, they soon discovered the trapdoor, on which Roger knocked three times. Then they heard a grating sound below and, shortly, one end of the heavy trapdoor was slightly raised. The two men got their fingers under it, and pulled it up, and Janet and Jessie ran out, both crying with joy and excitement.

"Hush!" Oswald whispered. "Do not utter a sound. There are sentries on other parts of the walls, and the slightest noise might be heard.

"Now, we will knot this rope."

He and Roger set to work, and before long knots were tied, a foot apart, along the whole length of the rope.

"I will take you down first, Jessie, for you are the lightest," Oswald said.

"Now, Roger, tie us together."

One of the pieces of rope Roger had brought was passed round and round them, tying them firmly, face to face.

"Now, Jessie, you had best take hold of the rope, too, and take as much of your weight off me as you can. It is a long way down; and, though I think that I could carry your weight that distance, it is best that you should help me as much as you are able."

The rope was shifted to the outside of the turret. Roger, after fixing it firmly, helped them over the battlements, holding Oswald by the collar, until he had a firm grasp of the rope in his hands, and obtained a hold with his feet.

"That is right, Jessie," he whispered, as the girl also took a firm hold of the rope. "You are no weight, like that. Now, let the rope pass gradually through your hands and, when I tell you, hold tight by one of the knots."

After lowering himself forty feet, Oswald found that he was standing on a ledge of rock, three inches wide, at the foot of the wall.

"Now, dear, it will be more difficult," he said. "You must use one of your hands, to push yourself off from any rugged points. There are not many of them. I had a look at the rock today, and its face is almost smooth. I will do the best I can to keep you from it."

In another three minutes, they stood at the foot of the craig. Oswald shook the rope violently, to let those above know that they were down. Then he untied the cord that bound him to his cousin, who at once sat down, sobbing hysterically. Oswald put his hand upon her shoulder.

"Steady, Jessie, steady. You have been brave and quiet, coming down. The danger is over now, but we have a long walk and a longer ride before us, and you will need all your strength."

In a very short time, Roger and Janet joined them. As soon as she was untied, Janet threw her arms round Oswald's neck, and spoke for the first time.

"Oh, Oswald, from what have you saved us! How brave and good of you to risk so much!"

"Tut, tut, Janet, as if we should leave you here, in the hands of the Bairds, without making an effort to free you! Now, come along, dear. Be very careful how you walk, till we get down to the bottom. It is pretty steep and, if you were to set a stone rolling, we might have them after us, in no time. As it is, we shall only have an hour and a half start, for the sentries will be relieved at midnight. However, by that time we shall be on horseback, and of course they won't know which road we have taken."

As soon as they came to level ground, they set off at a run. They were but a mile from the village when they heard, on the still night air, distant shouts, followed half a minute later by the winding of a horn; then, almost immediately, a glimmering light appeared on the highest turret of the hold, and this rapidly broadened out into a sheet of flame.

"They have discovered our escape, by some misfortune or other," Oswald exclaimed, "and they will be after us, before many minutes have passed. You must run in earnest now, girls."

"Do you run on, Oswald," Janet said, "you and Roger. We will turn and walk back. They will do us no harm."

Oswald thought of the murder of the girls' mother, and knew that, in their fury at having been tricked, the Bairds were capable of anything.

"It is not to be thought of," he said. "Such a watch would henceforth be kept that there would be no possibility, whatever, of effecting your rescue. We must take our chance together.

"What think you had best be done, Roger?"

"In sooth, I know not. I am ready to do whatever you think best."

"We cannot hope to reach Parton, before they overtake us," Oswald said. "Besides, the Bairds are sure to have many friends there, and the lighted beacon will warn all the countryside that something unusual has happened. No, we cannot think of going there."

"But you said that there were horses," Janet said.

"They are but a short distance on this side of the town. We could not hope to get there before the Bairds; and, even if we did, it would be a quarter of an hour before we could mount and be off."

"Could we not hide and get the horses after they have passed, master?" Roger suggested.

"It would be useless, Roger. The road leads up and down this valley, and there would be no possibility of riding the horses across the hills, at night; so that we should have either to ride down through Parton, or up past the Bairds' hold. No, the horses must be given up, for the present. The only thing that I can see is to cross the Esk, and to take refuge in the hills. I know not if there are any fords, or where they are; but, were we to turn to the right, we should be getting farther and farther away. The Esk is no great width, and we can carry them across it, easily enough."

"The water will be dreadfully cold," Jessie said, with a shiver, for it was now the beginning of April.

"Hush, Jessie!" her sister said. "What matters a little cold, when our lives are at stake?"

"No, that is our only hope," Oswald said. "Quick, girls, there is no time to lose."

The river was but some fifty yards from the road, and they ran down to it.

"Now, girls," Oswald said when they reached it, "you must take off your cloaks, and all upper garments. Were you to get these wet you would, before morning, die of cold. Don't lose a moment. Undress under the shelter of these bushes.

"Now, Roger, let us move a few yards away, and then take off our doublets and shirts, and swim across, holding them above the water. By the time that we are back, the girls will be ready."

"I will carry them across, master. It is of no use two of us going, with so light a burden. I shall make nothing of it."

Oswald made no opposition and, a minute later, the shirts and doublets were made into a bundle, and bound on Roger's head. He waded into the water until it reached his chin, and then swam out. The distance to be traversed was but some fifteen yards, and a few strokes of his brawny arms brought him to the opposite bank. Having laid down his bundle there, he swam quickly back again.

"Are you ready, girls?" Oswald asked.

"Yes," Janet replied, and two white figures came out from the bushes, each carrying a bundle.

"Do you go into the bushes again, for a minute. We cannot take you and the bundles over together; and it is better that you should stand here, in dry things, than wait in wet ones, over there."

A minute sufficed to tie the bundles on the heads of the two men. They soon swam across to the other side, left them there, and returned.

"The water is bitterly cold for the girls," Oswald said, as they swam across together.

"It is, master, but they will only be in it for a minute, and they will soon be warm again."

"Now, girls."

"We have just heard the sound of horses in the distance, Oswald," Janet said.

He listened.

"Sound travels far, this still night," he said; "they can only just have started. We shall be across long before they come along.

"Now, Jessie, we will take you first. The stream runs strongly, and it were best that you went over separately. All you have to do is to put a hand on a shoulder of each of us. Come along."

"I will carry her till we get into deep water," Roger said, catching the girl up in his arms, and running into the stream.

Jessie gasped, as the water reached her.

"It will be over in a minute," Oswald said encouragingly. "Now, we are going to swim. Put your hands upon our shoulders. That is right."

Striking out strongly, they easily carried her until she was in her depth.

"Now, dear, get ashore, and stand behind those bushes, and take off your wet things and put on your dry ones. We will have Janet across, in no time."

The girl was carried across as easily as her sister had been.

"Here is your bundle, dear. Jessie has taken hers. Dress as quickly as you can. Stoop down, as soon as you reach the bushes. They will be here, directly."

Janet ran to the thicket, and Oswald and Roger threw themselves down behind a great stone. Two minutes later, they could hear the thunder of hoofs go along the road opposite, but could not make out the figures.

"How many are there of them, do you think, Roger?"

"A dozen or so, master."

"Yes, I should think you are right. However, it makes no difference; were there ten times as many, they would not catch us, tonight."



Chapter 14: In Hiding.


The moment the horsemen had gone by, Oswald and Roger hastily dressed again. It was three or four minutes before the girls joined them.

"We have been a long time, Oswald, but our fingers are so cold that we could not tie the strings."

"You will soon be warm. Climbing the hill will set your blood in motion."

There was no hurry now. They were safe until the morning.

"We will make up the hill until you are thoroughly warm, and then we will discuss matters."

Before they were very far up the ascent, both girls declared that they were comfortably warm again.

"Well, Roger, what do you think our best course will be? The Bairds have, of course, sent horsemen along the other road. They will have heard, from the priest, that we have but a few minutes' start; and will know that we cannot have gone far. The party who passed us will doubtless stop at Parton, the other at the next village higher up; and they will be sure that either we concealed ourselves as they passed, or have taken to the hills on one side or other of the valley. They will naturally suppose that it is this side, as it would be madness for us to plunge farther into the country to the west; and you may be sure there will be scores of men out on these hills, tomorrow, searching for us; and some of them may ride nearly to Hiniltie, to cut us off there in case we escape the searchers on the hills.

"I think that the only plan will be to hide up for a couple of days, or so; then to make our way down again to where the horses are, and then make a dash through Parton."

"That would certainly be far the best way," Roger said; "but how are we to manage for food for the ladies?"

"We will go on until we get to the top of the hill, Roger, and then find a sheltered spot, where they can stop. It is of no use trying to go on much farther, for the night is cloudy, and there are no stars to be seen, and we should lose our way directly, for there is no wind that would serve as a guide as to which way we were travelling. When we find a good shelter, we must stop with them; and I will make my way down to the place where the horses are, and warn the men as to what has happened, and tell them to lie quiet till I come again. I will bring back whatever food they may have with them, a big jug of water, and the four horse cloths."

"I will go, master."

"I would rather go myself, Roger. I am accustomed to traverse the moors at night, and am sure that I can find this place again, without difficulty."

On nearing the top of the hill, they came upon a number of rough stones.

"We cannot do better than stop here," Oswald said. "It will be bare on the top of the hill. Now, Roger, help me to pile a few of these stones together, so as to make a sort of shelter."

They set to work at once, Roger's strength enabling him to lift stones that ordinary men could scarcely have moved. In a quarter of an hour a little inclosure, six feet long by four wide and three high, had been constructed. An armful of dry heather was then pulled up, and laid on the ground.

"There, girls, I think you will be able to manage to keep yourselves warm, by lying close together."

"What are you going to do, Oswald?"

"We shall be all right; and we can, if we like, make another shelter; and, if we feel cold, can walk about to warm ourselves. Now, Roger, get half a dozen sticks and lay across the top."

While Roger was away getting the sticks, Oswald helped the girls over the wall, for no entrance had been left.

"Now, Janet, give me those two wet smocks; I see that you have brought them with you."

"What do you want them for, Oswald?"

"I want them for the roof, Janet. It is beginning to freeze hard, and it is of no use having walls, if you have not a roof."

"Won't you take my cloak, instead?"

"Certainly not, Janet, you will want your cloak for a covering. Don't be silly, but hand them over."

By this time, Roger had returned with the sticks. They were laid across the top, and the girls' smocks spread over them.

"Now, go to sleep," Oswald said; "we must be on foot, an hour before dawn."

Oswald then started down the hill for Parton. When he got within a mile of the town, he could see lights moving about on the road; and guessed that the Bairds had got torches, and were making sure that the fugitives had not hidden themselves anywhere close to the road; for they must have felt certain that they could not have reached the town, before being overtaken. When the lights had gone along the road, he descended to the river, took off his doublet and shirt, as before, and swam over; crossed the road, and was not long in finding the trees that marked the spot where he was to turn off to the farmhouse.

He made his way to the stable, raised the latch, and entered. A lamp was burning, and the two men sitting and talking together. They leapt up, with an exclamation of pleasure, as Oswald entered.

"We were afraid that something might have gone wrong; for, as I was waiting for you in the road, I heard a body of horsemen coming along, and hid behind the trees. As they went by, one of them said, 'We must have passed them long ago, if they came by this road. They had not more than a quarter of an hour's start.'

"I heard no more, but it suggested that, maybe, you had managed to escape with the ladies, and that the Bairds were in pursuit of you."

"That was exactly the case. We have got them out of the hold, and methought that we should have got two hours' start, at least, in which case they would not have overtaken us before we had crossed the Liddel, at the ford, six miles above the junction of the Esk with it, and were well on our road towards Longtown; but by some accident, I know not what, the matter was discovered before we have been gone ten minutes. As it was certain that they would overtake us, long before we got to Parton, we swam the Esk, and I have left the ladies on the hill over there, in charge of Roger, while I came here. We know that, by morning, the countryside will be up and searching the hills; and that, with the two lasses, it would be hopeless for us to try and make our way on to Hiniltie.

"Therefore, we decided to hide up for two or three days, then to make our way down here at night, mount, and ride through. By that time the search down in the valley here will have slackened, and we shall get through Parton all right, and our only danger will be at the ford across the Liddel; where, possibly, the Bairds may set a guard, lest we find our way down there. I had intended that we should take the four horses, and that you should make your way to Hiniltie across the hills; but as there will now be no great occasion for speed, one of you had best ride with us, while the other bears the news to Hiniltie that we have carried off the girls.

"You had better settle between yourselves which shall go with us. You may take it that there is about equal danger, both ways, for the one that goes to Hiniltie must travel cautiously, as it will be a week before the Bairds give up the search among the hills."

"We had best decide by lot."

Oswald picked up a piece of straw, and broke off two fragments, one an inch longer than the other; and, closing his hand on them, he held the two ends out.

"Do you draw," he said, holding it out to Fergus. "The longest straw goes to Hiniltie, and shortest with us."

The man drew.

"I have the longest," he said, "and perhaps it were best that it should be so, for I know the way thoroughly, having often been over the hills in search of missing cattle."

"You will both remain here, till we come. Now, what food have you?"

"We bought a supply in Parton, yesterday evening, and have enough for a week; for we thought that some might be needed by the whole party, on our way; and moreover, we care not to go down often to the town, as we might attract attention."

"That is good. Keep enough for tomorrow, for yourselves; I will take the rest."

"There is no need for that. We can get what we want from the house and, tomorrow evening, one of us will go down into Parton again."

"Or better still," Oswald said, "give the money to the hind here. I suppose there is one."

"Yes; he sleeps in the house."

"Give him money, then, and a present for himself, and get him to fetch it for you. Some of the Bairds may remain there, and you may be sure that every stranger will be strictly questioned. I want also the four horse cloths, which please make into a bundle. Is your water skin full?"

"We filled it this afternoon, thinking it possible that we might make a hasty start tonight."

"How much does it hold?"

"About two gallons."

"It would have been better had it been four. However, we must manage with it. Now, do you know of any ford across the river? for I certainly could not swim across, with this load."

"There is one half a mile farther up. We were asking the hind about it, the other day, thinking that it might be useful should we have to fly suddenly. I will go down with you; and indeed, I shall be glad to go the whole way with you, for the provisions and those blankets and the skin will be no light weight; and, as I am going to Hiniltie, it will cheer Armstrong if I could tell him that I saw his daughters."

"It would be a good plan, Fergus, though in truth the weight would be no great burden; but certainly, Armstrong would be pleased to know that you had seen his daughters."

A few minutes later they set out, forded the river breast high, carrying the loads on their heads; and then, climbing the hill, made their way to the shelter, whose exact position Oswald had marked, on starting, by a huge boulder that stood on the crest of the hill, some fifty feet above it.

Roger was on the lookout. Seeing two figures approaching, when he expected but one, he grasped his staff firmly.

"Who comes there?" he asked.

"It is I, Roger. I have brought one of the men with me, to help carry the things. He is going to Hiniltie, and thought that Armstrong would be pleased to know he had seen his daughters. I have got plenty of food, and a skin of water."

"That is capital," Roger said cheerfully. "I was fearing that, having so many things to think of, you might forget water."

Oswald went to the shelter.

"Are you awake, Janet?"

"Yes," she replied. "I have been anxious, while you were away."

"Are you cold?"

"I am not very warm," she answered; "but do not trouble about it, we shall do very well."

"I have two blankets here," he said, as he removed the covering. "One of these I will put over you both, and tuck it well in, each side, to keep out the wind that comes in between the stones. Then I will lay your smocks over that. I wrung them well, before putting them on the sticks; and although I cannot say they are dry, yet they are not damp enough to matter, and will help keep you warm. The other blanket I will put over the sticks."

"Thank you indeed, Oswald," the girl said, gratefully. "That feels very much more comfortable."

"Now, Roger, there is a blanket for you, and one for me, to wrap round us, plaid fashion."

"I do not need one, master. In faith, I have more respect for this gown than I ever had before -- it is wondrously warm and, with the hood over my head, I want nothing more."

"That is all very well, Roger. If you don't need it for your shoulders, you need it for your legs; for being without hose, and with nought but those sandals, you must be freezing. We will walk up and down here, for a bit, and do you wrap it round your legs, like a Highlander's petticoat. When we have tired ourselves, we will lie down and try to get a sleep, for an hour or two."

As they walked, they talked over their plans; and Oswald decided that, before daybreak, he would set out on the search for a place of concealment.

"I will leave my helmet and breast and back piece behind me," he said, "and will take your staff. Then, if I am caught sight of by any party in the distance, I shall look like a shepherd; while, had I on my iron harness, they would at once suspect me of being of the party, even though I were alone. As for you, your monk's robe would be detected, miles off."

"I could leave it behind me," Roger said.

"You have not much on underneath, Roger; and your bareness, in such weather as this, would be as noticeable as your gown. Mind, before it gets light, get the ladies up, and carry our bag of victuals and the water skin over the crest. You may be sure that, as soon as it is light, there will be many sharp eyes watching the hillside, all along here."

The man who had come up with them had already wrapped himself in the blanket he had brought with him, had crawled in among the bushes, and was, as they could hear by his heavy breathing, already sound asleep. After a time Oswald said that, as they had nothing more to settle, he would try and get a few hours' rest. There was not the slightest fear of surprise, and Roger and he were not long before they were both sound asleep. Oswald woke two or three times and, at first sign of dawn, shook Roger.

"You had better wake the ladies, in a few minutes, Roger, and get them over the crest. Let their man, as soon as he has seen them, start at once, keeping along behind the ridge, and warn him not to go down into the valley until he is fully a mile beyond Parton. Tell him to look carefully along the road, before he begins to descend, and to see that it is clear. Even then, let him hide as much as may be, behind brushwood and rock, until he gets down. When he has swum the river, let him make a wide detour round Parton, so as to come down to the stables without being noticed.

"I shall not be very long away. 'Tis scarce likely, among these hills, that I shall find any place that we can crawl into; and I think we shall have to content ourselves with lying down among the heather. I must find a spot where no one, on any hill above, can look down on us. We shall be quite safe from any party moving along on the same level as ourselves."

Oswald had gone but a little distance, when he determined that no better place could be found than the plateau itself. This extended, for two or three hundred yards from the edge, looking down into the valley. Beyond, the ground sloped sharply down again into a deep hollow; and beyond, it was broken into rounded swells, rising one above another. A party lying among the heather, where he was standing, could not be seen by watchers from any other point. Moreover, it was most important that all should be in shelter before it was fairly daylight. He therefore, as soon as it was light enough to take in the principal features of the scene, hurried back to his companions.

"We can do no better, girls, than to lie down together, two hundred yards away. Pick your way through the bushes where they are thinnest, so as not to disturb them. Please be off at once, and choose a spot close to where the ground falls away, on the other side. Roger and I must tumble this shelter down, and scatter the sticks; for if anyone searching the hillside came along, he would guess that we had slept here, and there would be a hue and cry at once."

The man had left, sometime before, for the valley; having gone off as soon as he had spoken to the girls. Oswald and Roger ran down to the shelter, speedily threw the stones into a heap, and scattered the sticks; then, after glancing round to see that nothing had been left, they collected the blankets, provisions, and water skin; and, taking up these and Oswald's armour, ran in the direction that Oswald had pointed out to the girls.

The ground was thickly covered with heather, and they had to step carefully to avoid pressing it down. They reached the edge of the plateau without seeing the girls and, after looking round for a minute or two, Oswald called aloud.

He was answered by a merry laugh, and Jessie's head rose above the heather. They had, indeed, passed within five or six yards of the girls.

"That is good, indeed," Oswald said, as he lay down beside them. "If I could not see you, when I was sure that you were quite near, there is no fear of any searchers lighting upon you.

"The sun has just risen, and a mist still hangs on the top of the hills," he went on; "and I am convinced that we cannot have been seen, for men placed on the watch are sure to be high up on the hills, and it will be some time yet before the sun rises high enough to drive away the mist."

Although it was freezing sharply, they felt by no means cold as they lay, wrapped in their blankets, with the heather rising well above them, and sheltering them from a light breeze that had sprung up at sunrise. After chatting with the girls for a time, Roger and Oswald left them and, crawling along on their stomachs, got to the edge of the descent.

By this time the sun was well above the hills, the mist had cleared off, and they had an extensive view. From time to time they caught sight of groups of three or four mounted men moving about, searching the valleys; while single men, on foot, rambled over the hills.

"They are keeping up an active search, Roger. 'Tis well that we went no farther. They will scarce suspect us of lying close to the valley we left. I expect the main body has gone much farther. I have no doubt the Bairds have a couple of hundred men and boys out. They would call out every man and boy from their holdings, and most likely get a couple of score of men from their village, and perhaps twice as many from Parton. No doubt they will think that, if we came in this direction, we should, last night, have found our way to one of the tracks across the hills, and it is near these that their search will be the keenest. Fortunately, they cannot know that I am here, nor guess that it is to Yardhope that we intend to take them, and not to Hiniltie. Still, they may expect that we shall try to cross the border, and I fancy we shall scarcely get through without a fight."

"All the better," Roger grumbled. "My fingers tingle to bring down this staff on the head of some of the Bairds, after all the trouble they have given us."

They remained watching until it became dusk, except that, twice during the day, they crawled back and partook of a meal with the girls. The last time they joined them, Oswald said:

"Now, in half an hour it will be quite dark, and then we can safely get up and walk about for a bit. I am sure you must feel stiff, lying still so long."

"I have never kept quiet for so long a time, since I can remember," Jessie said, laughing.

"That shows that you have had no illnesses, Jessie. However, I shall be glad to get up and stretch my limbs, myself. Half an hour will be enough, and then we will have a good, long night. Another day of it, and I think it will be safe to start."

The next afternoon they saw a number of parties searching the hills, in all directions.

"I expect they have become convinced that we have not tried to get straight through, Roger, and are hunting back for us. It is as well that it will be dark in another half hour, and they will then have to give up their search, for the night. If there were a couple of hours more light, I should feel very uneasy."

"So should I, master. You and I would have little chance of mercy, if we fell into their hands. It might well be that, in their anger, they might slay the ladies, also."

"That would be like enough, Roger. However, there can be no chance of their coming here, before it is dark."

At nine o'clock they started, and made their way down, with some difficulty and many slips and falls, into the valley. Then they kept along near the river, till Oswald was sure they were close to the ford. He bade them halt here, and went forward alone. Before he had gone fifty yards, he nearly stumbled against a man.

"Is it you, John?"

"Yes, it is I."

"Is all well?"

"It is all well, but I had a fright, yesterday morning. The Bairds searched every cottage and hut over the hills, on this side, and they say their men rode almost as far as Galloway; but they gave up the search before they got here, feeling assured that they must have passed you, very soon after you left the hold, and you could never have got as far down as this."

"'Tis well they did not search, indeed," Oswald said. "Your story about the horses might do well enough, for those who have no interest in the matter, but it would never have done for the Bairds. All has been quiet today?"

"They seem to have given up searching on this side. I hear that they feel sure, now, the ladies have made for Hiniltie; and they have had great forces out among the hills, and feel confident that they must catch them soon."

"Have you got the horses saddled?"

"They are saddled, and brought down close to the road. Fergus is with them."

"Then bring them across, at once. The sooner we are off now, the better. Are there any of the Bairds' men in the town?"

"There are a few of them, but as no one has any idea that you are like to pass through there, they will not be on the lookout. Besides, all will have been among the hills, from daybreak this morning; and I expect, by this time, there is scarce a soul awake in Parton."

Oswald returned to the girls, and they went out together to the ford. In a couple of minutes the men were seen making their way across, riding two horses, and leading the others.

"We thank you heartily," Janet said, "for having so risked your lives for us; for, had you been caught with the four horses, they would at once have connected you with us, and it would have gone hard with you."

"We have been keeping away from the horses, yesterday and today, just going to a distance and lying down where, without being seen ourselves, we could watch anyone who went up to the farm. We could have done no good, and thought that it was better that we should be able to warn you, if they had come and taken the horses away."

After crossing the river, Fergus at once started, on foot, for Hiniltie.

They had already discussed how they should ride, and it had been settled that, at starting, Janet should ride the fourth horse; and that Jessie should ride behind the others, by turns. If an attack was threatened, Jessie was to mount behind her sister, and they were to take their place between Oswald and Roger, while their own man rode close behind them.

It was just ten o'clock as they rode through Parton. Not a light was to be seen. The whole place appeared wrapt in sleep. They went through at a walk, so that, if any heard them, they would suppose that it was a belated party of the searchers, and would give the matter no further thought.

After riding for a short distance, they put the horses into a trot. Four hours later they halted, at the point where the road down the Esk valley divided, one going to the ferry a few hundred yards farther on, while the other turned to the left, and followed the bank of the Liddel.

John had inquired about the ferry, and learned that the ferryboat no longer plied, as, since the troubles began, there was so little traffic that it did not pay the ferryman to remain there. As they had already decided to cross by the ford, four miles higher up, this did not matter. As none of them was aware of its exact position, they decided to wait where they were, until daylight.

Searching about, they found a deserted hut, with a shed adjoining it. The horses were led into this, and the party then gathered in the hut, and John struck a light, while Oswald and Roger broke up a fallen gate, and the fire was soon blazing. Although there was not the slightest chance of anyone travelling the road, at this hour, they hung one of the thick blankets across the window, thus keeping out the cold air, as well as preventing the light from being seen. Then the party lay down, the men taking it by turns to stand guard outside, being relieved every two hours.

As soon as day dawned they again mounted. It was about four miles' ride to the point where the road divided, one branch going towards the river, some seventy or eighty yards away. Here stood a square building of some size, used as a refuge by travellers who arrived when the Liddel was swollen, and the ford impracticable.

When the riders had come within a few yards of this building, two men, hearing the sound of horses' hoofs, came out. As their eye fell upon the party they gave a shout, ran out into the road, and drew their swords.

Roger and Oswald rode at them. Parrying a thrust of one of the men, Oswald cut him down; while Roger, with a tremendous blow from his staff, stretched the other man on the road.

"Ride on, girls! We will follow you," Oswald shouted.

Jessie was sitting behind John, and they and Janet dashed forward, and rode into the water. Oswald and Roger followed, as six men, armed with spear and sword, ran out from the house. Seeing that they were too late, the leader shouted to the others: "Fetch out the horses, and chase them!" and, before the party had gained the opposite bank, their pursuers dashed into the water.

"Don't press your horses too hardly," Oswald said, as they galloped along. "They are too close behind us for us to get help from any of the small villages, but they dare not follow us into Longtown, and we have barely a ten miles' ride."

They had some two hundred yards' start, and for the first four miles held their own; then their pursuers began to gain upon them. One of the horses was carrying double, and Roger and Oswald were both heavier than any of the moss troopers.

"We shall have a fight for it, Roger."

"That is just what I was thinking, master. Well, there are three of us; and, as there are only six of them, we ought not to have much trouble. John will be a match for one. Methinks you and I can each make short work of a man when they first come up; and with but three of them against two, it will be mere child's play."

The road was a narrow one, and little used; and, when they came to the foot of a sharp rise, Oswald called to those ahead to stop.

"Jump down, Jessie, and mount behind Janet, and ride on ahead. We will soon get rid of these fellows. Be quick!"

The moss troopers were now but seventy or eighty yards behind.

"I shall fight on foot," Roger said, as he leapt off his horse. "I want both hands, for this staff."

Turning his horse, and bidding John to do the same, Oswald reined back his animal three or four lengths; and when the Bairds' party were within twenty yards, touched it with his spur and dashed at them, meeting them just abreast of Roger. The first man he met thrust at him with his spear, but Oswald parried with his sword, and with a back-handed blow smote the man just under the chin, and he fell with a crash from his horse. At the same moment he heard a blow like that of a smith's hammer, as Roger's staff fell upon the steel cap of the first who attacked him.

John was less fortunate, for his opponent's spear struck him in the throat, and he fell heavily from his saddle.

"Well stricken, Jock!" one of them shouted. "Ride on after the women. We will settle with these fellows."

But before the moss trooper could obey the order, Oswald, with a touch of the spur and the bridle, caused his horse to curvet round, and smote the man so mighty a blow on the shoulder as well-nigh to sever his arm from his body. As he wheeled his horse again he was nigh unseated, by a spear thrust that struck him on the breast piece; but, upon recovering, he struck his opponent, as he passed, so heavy a blow in the face, with the pommel of his sword, that he sent him senseless to the ground.

The other two men had furiously attacked Roger, but, whirling his staff round his head, he had kept them both at bay; then the staff descended between the ears of one of the horses, which fell headlong; and before the rider could get his foot from the stirrup, the staff struck him below the steel cap, just in front of the ear, and without a cry he fell dead beside his horse. At that the last of the moss troopers turned his horse, and galloped off at full speed.

"We have not taken long over that, master," Roger said, with a grim smile. "Five men in a minute is not so bad."

"I am afraid John is killed, Roger. See to him."

"Ay, he is sped," Roger replied, as he turned the body over. "The spear struck him full in the throat. That is what comes of not learning to use your weapons. What shall we do with him?"

"He was a faithful fellow, Roger, and as there is no need for haste now, we will give him some sort of burial, and not let him lie here in the road."

"We have nought to dig a grave with," Roger remarked.

"No, but there are plenty of stones about."

He dismounted, and with Roger's help carried the dead man a short distance away, laid him down by the side of a great boulder, and then piled stones around and over him.

"That will do, Roger. 'Tis not like that anyone will disturb those stones, for years to come. He will rest as well there as if he lay in a grave. Now, let us look to the others."

The man he had struck across the throat, and the last Roger had hit, were both dead. Two of the others were but stunned, while the one upon whose shoulder Roger's blow had fallen was lying insensible, and evidently was fast bleeding to death.

"We can do naught for him," Oswald said. "Even had we the king's leech here, we could not save him. Now let us be off."

"Shall we take the horses, master?"

"No, they will be but an encumbrance; and now that poor fellow has gone, we have one apiece. Bring his horse along with you."

Mounting, they rode quickly on, and at the top of the hill came up with the girls; who, having seen the result of the combat, had waited for them.

"Now we are safe and free, thanks to you both," Janet said. "Jessie looked back, and saw the fight as we rode. How quickly it was over! But I am grieved, indeed, that John has fallen. We saw you carrying off his body, and covering it. Jessie had noticed him fall, and we feared 'twas all over with him. He was an old retainer of our father's, and a faithful one."

"I am sorry, indeed, that he has been slain, Janet; but we could hardly expect to come out altogether scatheless."

"Are all the others killed?" Jessie asked.

"No. Two of them are but stunned; and will, ere long, be able to mount and ride off again."

"Master Oswald has gained the most honours in the fight. I killed one, and stunned another. He has stunned one also, but has slain two."

"I had a better arm, Roger."

"I know not that," Roger replied. "A quarterstaff, of that weight, is a fine weapon. I say not that it is to be compared to a mace but, when on foot, I would as lief have it as a sword."

"Now, Jessie, do you mount John's horse. We can ride quietly, for Longtown is but some three miles ahead."

They rested there for a couple of hours, then mounted again, and crossed the Pentlands by a horse track between Cristindury and Gele Craigs. Coming down into Tynedale, they put up for the night at the first place they came to. At daybreak they set off northwards, crossed Reddesdale, and came down, in the afternoon, into the valley of the Coquet, within two miles of Yardhope.

Great indeed was the surprise and joy of John Forster and his wife, when they made out the two girls riding, with Oswald, towards the hold.

"What miracle is this, lad?" the former said, while his wife was embracing her nieces. "We heard, but two days since, of the raid on the Armstrongs, and how the girls were carried off by the Bairds."

Here Oswald put his finger to his lips, to stop him from saying aught of Jane Armstrong's death. He had, after dismounting, whispered in his mother's ear, before she had time to speak to the girls, that as yet they knew nought of their mother's death, and that he had left it to her to break it to them.

"I have been, since, scouring the country," his father went on, "to try to get my friends to take the matter up; but in truth, they were not over willing to do so. All know that it is no slight enterprise to attack the Bairds in their stronghold. We fared but badly, last time we went there, though that was but a blow and a retreat; but all know that the Bairds' hold is not to be taken like a country tower. 'Tis greatly bigger and stronger than ours, and scarce to be attempted save by a royal army; especially as the whole countryside would be swarming round us, in a few hours after we crossed the border. This time, too, it is no quarrel of my people; and, as they say, the risk would be indeed great, and the loss very heavy.

"I sent off a messenger this morning to Armstrong, to tell him that I feared I could not raise more than sixty spears; but with these I would ride to Hiniltie, and join any force he could collect, and try with him to surprise the Bairds' hold and rescue the girls, though it seemed to be a mighty dangerous enterprise."

"He will have learnt, yesterday morning, Father, that we have carried them off. We could have brought you the news last night, but to do so we must have ridden fast and, the girls being with us, we thought it were better to take two days over the journey. So we slept in Tynedale last night."

"And how did you manage it? For unless you and Roger flew into the Bairds' hold, and carried them off on your backs, I see not how it could be managed. Why, the place is so strong that even the Douglases have not cared to carry out the terms of the treaty, for the arrest of William Baird as a notorious breaker of the truce between the two countries."

"It was because I knew Armstrong deemed that it was scarce likely a force could be gathered, by you and his friends, strong enough to undertake such an enterprise, that we decided to rescue them by strategy. The affair turned out to be easy enough."

And he then related, in detail, the manner in which he and Roger had obtained entry into the hold, and had succeeded in rescuing his cousins.

"By the bones of Saint Oswald, from whom you got your name, lad," John Forster exclaimed, when he had finished his story, "you have carried out the matter marvellously well! Hotspur himself could not have contrived it better; and I own that I was wrong, and that that fancy of yours, to be able to read and write, has not done you the damage that I feared it would. Henceforth I will maintain, with all my might, that these things in no way tend to soften a man; but on the contrary, in some way sharpen his wits, and enable him to carry out matters with plans, and contrivances, such as would scarce be conceived by men who had not such advantage.

"But why do we not go inside?"

"I have been keeping you here, Father, because I doubt not that my mother has been breaking the news to the girls, of their mother's slaughter. I said nought to them about it. They knew the hold was burnt, and I told them that Allan was wounded; but I thought that, if I gave them the worst part of the news, it would throw them into such deep grief as to unfit them for the journey. It might not have been discovered till two hours after we had started that they had escaped, and in that case we should have been mounted before the Bairds overtook us, and it would have been a ride for life, and the girls would have needed all their strength and courage to keep them up."

"It was as well so, Oswald, and doubtless your mother will break it more easily to them than you could have done. Women are better at such things than men, who are given to speak, bluntly and straight, what has to be told."



Chapter 15: Another Mission To Ludlow.


While Oswald was talking with his father, Roger had taken the four horses round to the long shed, that ran along one side of the wall; and had there been telling the moss troopers the same story Oswald had been relating to his father, whom he now joined.

"Well, friend Roger," John Forster said as he came up, shaking him heartily by the hand; "by my faith, my son is fortunate in having so stout a fellow as his henchman."

"'Tis rather that I am fortunate in having him as a master," Roger replied. "I have but to strike as he bids me, and there is no need for me to think, for my brain bears no proportion to my bulk; and indeed, even in the matter of strength he bids fair to equal me, for he seems to me to grow taller and stronger every month; which is not surprising, seeing that you are, yourself, much beyond the common. In all this matter there is no credit due to me, save that I have, as faithfully as I could, carried out his orders."

"All men can try to carry out orders, Roger, but it is not all who can do it with intelligence. Doubtless, it has something to do with the book learning that you have, and in which you were his instructor."

"I think not that it is so, in any way, Master Forster," Roger replied quickly, for he liked not the thought that he had gained any advantage, whatever, from his stay in the convent. "It might likely be useful to a man of small stature, whose thoughts would naturally turn to being a scribe, and to making his living by such finicking ways instead of by bearing himself as a man should; but for one like myself, 'tis but time thrown away. Yet I say not that it may not be useful to Master Oswald, who will some day be a knight, and go to court, and have occasion to write letters, when he has no scribe at hand to do it for him; but a good downright blow is more advantage, to the man that strikes it, than all the book learning that he can get."

"I have done well enough without it, Roger; but I think that it must be of some use, else why is it that Oswald is so good at devising plans? Had I been in his place, when he heard the news of the harrying of Hiniltie, and the carrying off of Armstrong's daughters, I should never have thought of starting on such an adventure as he did."

"It may be that it may improve the mind, Master Forster, just as wielding a mace strengthens the muscles of the arm. I only speak from my own experience; and, so far as I can see, all the hours I spent on these matters have been as good as wasted."

"Nay, Roger," Oswald, who had been an amused listener to the conversation, broke in, "you have had evidence, but lately, that it is not so. Had you not been able to read the priest's missal, he would have seen, at once, that you were not a monk; but the fact that you did so, and that much better and more fluently than he could, himself, have read a strange manuscript, was to him a confirmation of your story; which not only enabled us to rescue my cousins, but probably saved your own skin, to say nothing of mine; for had Baird learned that you were deceiving him, he would as likely as not have hung us both over the gateway of his hold, as spies."

Roger scratched his head, in some embarrassment.

"I cannot gainsay it, Master Oswald, though I did not think of it before; and it is certainly a proof that the time I spent in learning was not thrown away; for, as you say, had I not been able to read that missal, doubtless it would have gone hard with both of us. I am not ashamed to own when I am wrong. It would not be English, or honest, not to do so. Reading certainly came in mightily useful, there."

"And you must also remember, Roger," Oswald said with a smile, "that if it had not been that you read and wrote, better than most of the other monks, the abbot would not have picked you out as my instructor, I should not have asked for you to come with me to Scotland, and Sir Henry Percy would never have begged the abbot to allow you to go forth into the world."

"Say no more, Master Oswald -- never again will I say a word against reading and writing -- I see that they are excellent things, and it never entered my thick head how greatly I have benefited by acquiring them -- but will maintain, against all who say the contrary, that they are of great value; and that they in no way tend to soften a man, as I can prove in my own person, and also in yours."

At this moment, Mary Forster appeared at the top of the steps.

"Supper is ready," she said. "I have broken the news to the girls. They are quite broken hearted, poor things, and I have sent them to bed.

"I suppose you are not leaving us, tomorrow morning, Oswald?"

"No, I shall be off at daybreak, the next day. I must not stay longer, for I ought to have been back three days ago, and Sir Henry will be wondering what has befallen me."

Talking the matter over, that evening, as to what had best be done with the girls, Mary Forster said that they had expressed great anxiety to get back, as soon as they could, in order that they might try and comfort their father, and nurse Allan; and John Forster said that he would ride with them, with four of his men, to Hiniltie, in a day or two. The next evening, however, there was a knock at the outside gate; and on its being opened, Adam Armstrong himself entered.

"I could not rest, for thinking of the girls," he said, as he entered the house. "The man arrived safely, yesterday morning, after having, with great difficulty, made his way unobserved through the Bairds, who had some fifty or sixty men scattered, all over the hills."

"Do you go to them, Wife, and tell them that their father has arrived.

"They have been terribly upset," John went on, as his wife left the room. "They were only told of the loss of their mother after they arrived, yesterday. Oswald thought that they would need all their strength for the journey, and that it were better that Mary should break the news to them, when they got here. We have all felt for you sorely, Adam, since your messenger brought the news."

Armstrong pressed his hand, silently.

"She was a good wife to me, John, a right good wife. We buried what seemed to be her remains, yesterday morning. It was that, that kept me from starting the moment the man came in with the news that Oswald had got the girls out of the hands of the Bairds."

"And how is Allan?"

"I trust he will get right, now. He has come partly to his senses, though he is still dazed. We had him carried, in a litter, to the monastery where I obtained the monk's robe for your man; for I feared to leave him in the village, lest the Bairds, furious at the escape of the girls, might return to finish their work."

He was about to speak to Oswald, when the door opened, and the girls ran in, and it was some time before Adam Armstrong again turned to him.

"Now, lad," he said, "do not think, because I am a long time coming to the point, that I think lightly of the service you have rendered me. Ah, lad! I could scarce believe my ears, when Fergus told me that you and your henchman had got the lasses out of the Bairds' hands, and had gone off on horseback with them. I had to put the question, again and again, as to whether he was sure that it was really the girls you had with you. It seemed to me to be altogether impossible; but I had to believe him, at last, though how it came about he could not tell me."

"We had no time for talking," Oswald said. "Every moment was of importance. But the matter was simple enough, and worth but a few words' telling."

And he then related the manner in which he and Roger had obtained entrance to the hold, and had succeeded in getting the girls away.

"It sounds simple enough, in the telling," Armstrong said; "but it needed stout hearts, and good nerves, to enter the Bairds' den on such an errand. You carried your lives in your hands, and well must you have borne out your story, to have passed without suspicion. It was well thought of, indeed, and well carried out, and would have done credit to the boldest and craftiest leader on the border.

"What say you, John?"

"I am proud of him, Adam. As for myself, I should never have thought of such a plan. If I had had the matter in hand, I might have taken twenty stout fellows, and tried to scale the walls unseen, and to fall upon them with spear and sword, and in the confusion carry the girls off; but it would have been a desperate plan, with but small hope of success."

"Small indeed, John, small indeed," Armstrong said, shaking his head. "With prisoners in the hold, the Bairds were not likely to be caught sleeping; and had they been, accustomed to surprises as they are, the whole garrison would have been afoot in a minute, and not a man of ye would have lived to tell the story. Some such mad thought passed through my brain, when I first heard the news, but it was not for long. Even with your spears, and others you might gather, and all my friends in Tweeddale, we should have had but a small chance of capturing the Bairds' hold. We should have had all Annandale and Nithsdale down on us, before we could have done it. At any rate, we should have had to bide our time, and wait until the Bairds were away to England with all their dalesmen; and by that time, none could say what would have become of the girls. In fact, there was but one way of doing it, and that is the way Oswald hit upon.

"Well, lad, I fear I shall never have an opportunity of repaying the debt I owe you; but after this, there is not an Armstrong on the border, on our side or yours -- for we are half English and half Scotch -- but will hold you as among our closest of kin, and will give you welcome and aid, whensoever you may need it. And where is your man Roger?"

"I will call him," Oswald said and, stepping to the door, he shouted to his follower; who came out, at once, from one of the outhouses occupied by the retainers of the hold.

"Come up, Roger!" Oswald said; "Master Armstrong wishes to see you."

Roger came up and, as he entered, Adam grasped him by the hand.

"Whenever your time for fighting is over, my brave fellow, remember that there is a home for you at Hiniltie, so long as an Armstrong dwells there. I thought, when I fetched that monk's gown for you, that you and my nephew Oswald might be able to gather some news; and let me know, possibly, how the girls were faring; but little did I think that, alone and unaided, you would rescue them from the hands of the Bairds."

"It was a merry business, Master Armstrong, and pleased me hugely, save that it went against my heart to have this bald patch on my head again, just when the hair had so well grown and covered it; but it was well nigh as good as fighting, to trick the Bairds in their own hold, when they, as they thought, were so mightily sure that I was but a harmless brother of a monastery. For the rest, it was an easy business, and scarce worth talking of."

"It was done easily because it was done well, Roger. It was well planned, and well carried out."

"I had nought to do with the planning, and the carrying out was simple enough. There were those there who tested me, as to my knowledge of Dunbar, and of the monastery I came from, and who further tested my knowledge of reading. Once assured that my story was true, they paid no further attention to me, believing that I should stay but a day or two, to rest myself on my way south."

"You had occasion, however, to use that heavy staff you carried."

"Some slight occasion, but I would that I had had the chance to have used it on the heads of some of the Bairds. For what little I did, master Armstrong, your daughters thanked me very prettily, and more than enough; and therefore, I pray thee, say no more of it.

"And how is your son?"

"He is going on well, and both Meg Margetson and the monks, in whose hands I have put him, say that they hope he is out of danger."

The next morning Oswald and Roger mounted, soon after daybreak, and rode to Alnwick. It had, the night before, been arranged that the girls should, for the present, remain at Yardhope; until the hold at Hiniltie was repaired, and put in a state of stronger defence. It was agreed, too, that it was as well that no word should be said by Armstrong, on his return, as to the whereabouts of his daughters, as the Bairds might then, in their anger, make an attack on Yardhope; whereas, at present, they could have no reason whatever for suspecting that they were there, and, if they obtained news that they were not with their father at Hiniltie, would suppose that they had been lodged with some of the family elsewhere, or perhaps placed for safety in Jedburgh.

"I had wondered what had become of you," Hotspur said, when Oswald entered his apartments, to report his return. "I expected you two or three days since, and I indeed wanted you, for other business."

"I am sorry, my lord; but after having fulfilled the orders you gave me, to the governors of Roxburgh and Jedburgh, I became engaged in an affair of my uncle, Adam Armstrong, of so pressing a character that I deemed you would excuse me, when you heard its nature."

And he then briefly related how he had been occupied, since leaving Jedburgh.

"'Tis a good excuse, indeed," Hotspur said, "and you must tell me more of it this evening, when the earl and my wife can also hear it. As to the business I spoke of, it is of no consequence at all; it was but to carry a message to the Earl of Westmoreland. This I have now sent, by another hand."

The winter passed quietly. Oswald's work was light. He more than once rode home for a few days, and once paid a visit to Hiniltie.

Here a number of men were at work. The exterior walls had in no way suffered, and the shell of the central building had so far resisted the fire, that it was not necessary to rebuild it. The roof and floors had been replaced, and the defences considerably strengthened. A portcullis had been placed above the door; so that, in case of the outer wall being carried, or the gate forced, it could at once be lowered. A projecting battlement had been thrown out over this, with openings below, through which boiling lead and pitch could be poured on an enemy trying to break in. Flanking turrets, for archers, had been built at each corner of the house; and the exterior walls had been strengthened by towers, in the centre of each face, and on either side of the gateway.

"We shall be safe now, I think, Oswald," said Allan, who had almost recovered. "The place can hardly be taken by a sudden attack, even by all the forces the Bairds could bring against it; and we could get help from Jedburgh, long before they could gain even the outside wall. My father and I are going, in a fortnight, to fetch the girls. I rode over there a week or two since, and found them looking very well and happy, with your people; but of course they are anxious to get back again, especially as you are so seldom at home."

"If you will fix the day before I go, I will try to be there to meet you. I suppose, as soon as spring sets in fairly, we shall be having troubles again, and it is certainly as well that Janet and Jessie should be at home again before they begin; for although Yardhope is strong enough to resist any attack by the Bairds, or any other border rangers, it can scarcely hold out against a regular invasion."

Four days after his return to Alnwick, Oswald was sent for by Percy.

"The Scots do not seem to be moving yet," the latter said, "but Glendower is ever increasing in strength, and boldness. I have received startling news this morning. A party of Welshmen were seen near Ruthyn, and Earl Grey, with a body of mounted men, rode out against them. They retired at once, and he, briskly pursuing, fell into an ambush and was captured.

"'Twould have been thought that Glendower would have put his chief enemy to death, at once, but it was not so, and it is said he holds the earl to ransom. Glendower has plenty of men, but no doubt needs money sorely. He can draw no revenue from his estates in Denbigh, and those in South Wales cannot suffice for the expenses of feeding the body of men, always under arms. Doubtless he will ask for a great sum, and 'tis like that he will get it. Grey is a favourite of the king, and the latter will doubtless aid him, for he needs his services to hold Flint and Denbighshire against the Welsh.

"Moreover, methinks that the king would, for another reason, make every effort to buy Lord Grey's freedom; for it is no secret that he has no great love for Mortimer; for although he holds the young Earl of March a prisoner, at Windsor, he cannot forget that the lad is the rightful heir to the throne, and that the friends of Richard would place him there, had they the opportunity. Mortimer is the boy's uncle and, not only from his own estates, but as guardian of the young earl's wide possessions in Hereford and in Shropshire, is a very powerful noble.

"The king has no real reason for doubting him, for I know that Mortimer has no thought of supporting the Earl of March's claim to the throne; having held, with the rest of the kingdom, that Henry, who is wise and politic, is a far fitter ruler than the lad could be. Doubtless, Henry is well aware of this, but he sees that when the young earl grows to manhood he might become dangerous; and might supplant him, as he supplanted Richard. Thus, then, I have no doubt the king will use every effort to obtain the release of Lord Grey, in order that he may act as a counterpoise, in the Welsh marches, to the influence of Mortimer.

"However, that is not now the question. It is evident, by this daring deed of Glendower, that he will be busy this year; and the success of his first attempt will assuredly add to his following. Therefore, as the Scots are, at present, quiet, I would that you ride again to Ludlow, and sojourn there a while.

"Sir Edmund sends me but scant news, and I would fain know more closely how matters are going there, and how great this insurrection is like to grow. It may well be that the Scots, seeing how powerful Glendower is becoming, will enter into agreement with him, that while he invades the west country, they shall pour across the border with all their forces; in which case we should be hard pressed, for the king's power in the south might be fully engaged against the Welsh, and we should have to battle with the whole strength of Scotland, alone. Therefore, write at length, giving me full reports of the talk of the country as to the bearing of the Welsh, not only beyond the border, but those settled in the west counties.

"You will, of course, take the fighting monk with you; and he can aid you in this matter, being a good scholar, though a bad monk; so, when you are weary of holding the pen, you can dictate the matter to him. I will send two well-mounted couriers with you, and will have relays of horses placed on the road, so that you can despatch me a letter once a week; and they will also, of course, carry any letters Sir Edmund Mortimer may wish to send."

"Very well, Sir Henry. Shall I start today?"

"Nay, the matter is not so urgent as all that."

"Then I will ride tomorrow morning."

"Good.

"I am well pleased with you, Oswald. That affair, in which you rescued your cousins, showed that you have discretion and ability, as well as skill and courage; and you see, the knowledge that you gained at the monastery is coming in useful to you, now. As a mark of my approbation, I will order that one of my warhorses shall be saddled, and be in readiness for you, in the morning. The steed that Mortimer gave you is a good one, but you have need of another; for one may fall lame, or be killed or wounded, and 'tis well to have a second string to the bow. Moreover, riding as you do in my service, 'tis but meet that I should provide you with horseflesh.

"I marked you on your horse today, the one you rode when you came here; and in truth, you have outgrown it altogether; and though I doubt not that the sturdy little beast would, even yet, carry you for a long day's journey, 'tis scarce in accordance with your position as our representative."

Oswald thanked Hotspur heartily for the gift, for he, himself, had felt that he needed a second charger, but had been reluctant to ask his father for the money required to buy one; for the expenses of repairing the hold, after the last Scotch invasion, had been heavy, and gold was a scarce commodity at Yardhope.

He started at daybreak the next morning, riding the fine horse Hotspur had given him. Roger rode behind him, and was followed by the two lightly-armed men, who were to act as messengers. One of these led Oswald's second horse. As soon as they had left the castle, Oswald called Roger up to his side.

"Well, Roger, I dare say you are as pleased as I am, that we are on the move again. 'Tis nigh five months since we returned from Ludlow and, save for our adventure with the Bairds, we have had a quiet time, since."

"Think you there will be work with the Welsh again, master?"

"I think so, indeed, Roger. They say that Glendower's forces are greatly increasing, and he has captured Lord Grey, and holds him to ransom. The king must regret, now, that Parliament refused to listen to Glendower's complaints, because he had been one of Richard's men, and had perhaps spoken more hotly than was prudent, touching the king's murder."

"But they say that Richard is still alive, and that he is with the Scots."

"They may say so, Roger, but think you that it is likely? The king's figure was well known to hundreds of men. Why does he not show himself? Even in Scotland there are many nobles who, during the truces between the kingdoms, have been to London, and have known King Richard; and had this man been he, they would have recognized him, at once. Besides, think you that when the king had Richard caged, in Pomfret, there was any chance of his getting free again? It may suit Albany, at present, to set up some puppet or other, in order to cause uneasiness to Henry, and to render Richard's friends here unwilling to obey the orders of the king, and to take the field against the Scots; but had he been Richard, 'tis not in Scotland that he would have shown himself, but in France, where he would gladly have been received, as Anne of Bohemia's husband, and would have had aid and support to urge his claims."

"Well, master, I care not what takes us to Wales. At any rate, I am glad to journey thither; for it seems, at present, as if there, only, is there a chance of giving and taking hard knocks. How is it that you do not take a party of men-at-arms, as you did last time?"

"Mortimer has plenty of men, without them, and the handful that Percy can spare would be of little use. I am going principally because Hotspur is anxious to be kept well informed of what happens in the west, for he feels sure that, if Glendower's power increases, it will be needful to send a strong English army there. The Scots will make a great invasion, and it will behove all the northern counties, and lords, to hold themselves in readiness."

They travelled fast and, in five days after leaving Alnwick, arrived at Ludlow.

"Welcome back again, Master Oswald!" Sir Edmund said, when he arrived. "I thought that maybe Sir Henry Percy would send you hither. Matters here are becoming serious, and 'tis said that there have been Scotch emissaries with Glendower, though for the truth of this I cannot answer; but Percy will certainly wish to know, well, what passes in the west; and I am but a poor hand with the pen, and moreover, too much busied to write often. He knows that right well, and I doubt not you are instructed to inform him of all that passes."

"You are right, Sir Edmund. It is for that purpose that he has sent me hither, charging me to write to him, frequently, as to the situation and the power of Glendower; which must needs be on the increase, since nought has been done to bring him to reason. And I have also his commands, to place myself at your service, and to obey you, in all respects, as if I had been your squire."

"I shall be glad for you to ride with my knights," Sir Edmund replied, courteously. "I have not forgotten that you did good service, last year, and trust that you may find opportunity for winning your spurs."

"I shall be glad, indeed, to do so, Sir Edmund. May I ask where Glendower is supposed to be, at present?"

"He has his headquarters on the summit of Plinlimmon, a great hill on the borders of Montgomery; and thence ravages and plunders all the country round him, slaying all who are supposed to be attached to the English cause. Unfortunately, he meets with but little resistance, for the castles have, for the most part, been suffered to get into a bad state; since, for a hundred years, it has seemed that they would no longer be required against the Welsh, who appeared to have become as peaceful as the people in our own counties. Many of the knights have built themselves more convenient houses, and have let the castles become almost ruins.

"Then, too, the garrisons, where garrisons are kept, are for the most part composed of Welshmen. These can be no longer trusted, and it is no easy matter to obtain Englishmen in their places, for so great is the terror caused by the slaughter, by Glendower, of those who fall into his hands, that few even of adventurous spirit would, at present, care to leave their homes beyond the Severn, to take up such desperate service. Glendower's movements are so rapid that there is no notice of his coming, and it is not until he and his band suddenly appear, burning and slaughtering, that any know of his approach."

"Surely it must be difficult to victual so large a force, on the summit of a mountain?"

"It would assuredly be so, only he keeps but a hundred and fifty chosen men with him. But, were his beacon fires to be lighted, there would in a few hours be ten thousand men on the mountain. Then again, as the whole population are with him, were I to start with five hundred men from here, the news would reach him, by means of smokes on the hills, before I had marched five miles away. 'Tis a warfare in which there is no credit to be gained, and much loss to be sustained; and I see not that, with anything less than an army large enough to march through Wales from end to end, burning the towns and villages, and putting to the sword all who resist, the affair can be brought to an end.

"It was only thus that Harold brought Wales to reason, and that so strongly that it was two generations ere they ventured again to cross the border. It was so that Edward finally stamped out their rebellions, and methinks that the work will have to be done again, in the same manner. So far from doing good, the king's invasion last autumn has but encouraged them; for, though so numerous, his army effected nothing, and showed the Welsh how powerless the troops were to enter the mountains, or to take the offensive anywhere save on level ground."

Oswald's life, at Ludlow, differed in no way from that at Alnwick. He took his meals at the high table, sitting below the knights, with Sir Edmund's squires. He practised arms with them; tilted in the courtyard of the castle; occasionally rode out, hunting and hawking, with a party of knights and ladies; helped to drill the bodies of tenants who, a hundred at a time, came in to swell the garrison. Sometimes he carried Mortimer's orders to the governors of the castles, or rode with a strong party into Hereford or Radnor.

A short time after his arrival, Montgomery was taken by storm by Glendower; and all Englishmen, and Welshmen suspected of friendship for the English, slain. Shortly afterwards, the suburbs of Welshpool were burnt by him, to the great loss of the Earl of Powys; whose annoyance was all the greater, since most of his own tenants were under arms, with Glendower. Following hard upon these pieces of bad news came word that he had fallen upon the Abbey of Cwmhir, six miles from Rhayader, in Radnorshire, which he entirely destroyed. The news caused great indignation, and the reason for this sacrilegious act was warmly discussed at the castle.

"The reason, methinks," Sir Edmund said, after he had listened to the knights for some time, "is twofold. In the first place the ecclesiastics, for the most part, and the monks of all the orders save the Franciscans, favoured King Henry against Richard; but the chief reason is the long animosity between the Church and the Bards, of whom Glendower is a great patron; and who have done him great service, by stirring up the people with their songs. The bards have ever been foremost in instigating insurrections in Wales. Edward the First attempted to suppress them altogether, and his edict for executing them, by martial law, is still unrepealed; and they dare not venture to show themselves, in any castle or town held by us. But they have, to a man, rallied round Glendower. His house was always open to them, and he was even distinguished by some Welsh name, meaning the protector of the bards. Now, after being hunted fugitives for so many years, they have, no doubt, used their influence with him to stir him up against the religious houses."

But a heavier blow still was struck by Glendower, and the feeling at Ludlow was nothing short of consternation, when a fugitive arrived from the town of New Radnor, saying that the strong castle there had been carried by assault, the garrison of three-score men all beheaded, and the town laid in ashes. This was the heaviest blow yet struck by Glendower. The castle was of great strength, and the town had been walled by the Lords of the Marches. That such a place should have been carried by Welsh kerns seemed well-nigh incredible, and the execution of the whole of the garrison aroused the most lively indignation.

"This is war to the knife, indeed," Sir Edmund Mortimer said; "and yet, abhorrent as is this wholesale murder of the garrison, I cannot but own that it is a politic step, on the part of Glendower. The news will spread throughout Wales, and if so strong a place as New Radnor could not defend itself, how can lesser castles hope to do so? Nor, indeed, will garrisons care to man the walls, since resistance means death. Doubtless there were many Welsh among these men who were murdered, and you may be sure that their compatriots, in other castles, will hasten to desert and join Glendower."

This, indeed, proved to be the case, the garrisons of the castles dwindled away, and hold after hold fell without resistance. Even in Ludlow, every precaution was taken; all Welshmen were expelled from the town, and the garrison was also purged of them, although some of the men-at-arms had served for many years. These men were told that, after the troubles were over, they should again be taken into the service if they chose; but that, in the present state of things, one traitor might endanger the safety of the castle and town; and that, as it was impossible to tell who were true men and who had been corrupted by Glendower's agents, it was necessary that all should suffer, even if innocent.

Among the tenants of Mortimer's estate, and those of the young earl, were many Welsh. Against them no measures were taken. They and their fathers, sometimes indeed three generations of them, had lived peaceably; and had rendered military service, when required, in the troubles of England; and Mortimer was reluctant to treat them harshly, especially as all declared their readiness to serve, and prove their devotion to their English lord.

"They are not sufficiently numerous," he said, "to be a source of any danger. Were Glendower to invade England in great force doubtless they would join him, to save their lives and those of their families; but being but one to four or five of the English tenants, I see not that they can be a source of danger to us."



Chapter 16: A Letter For The King.


A large number of Flemings had settled in Wales, having left their own country in consequence of the constant troubles there; and many of these had set up cloth mills, at Welshpool and other places. Having suffered great destruction of property at the hands of Glendower, and seeing no hope of the insurrection being put down by the English, they resolved to take the matter into their own hands. Fifteen hundred of them gathered, secretly, and surrounded Glendower in one of his mountain intrenchments.

He repulsed their attacks, but the situation was desperate. Provisions ran short. He was unable to summon help, and at last determined, with his little body of followers, to endeavour to cut his way out through the besiegers. The attack was sudden and fierce. The Flemings, who, knowing the smallness of his force, had made no preparations to repel an attack, were seized with a panic at the fierce appearance and the wild cries of the Welsh, who fell upon them with such fury that two hundred of the Flemings were slain, and the Welsh cut their way through the beleaguering line.

The news of this feat was received with immense enthusiasm, throughout the principality. Great numbers flocked to Glendower's standard; the bards sung songs of his victory, at every village in Wales; and so formidable did his position become that the Lords of the Marches wrote to the king, saying that the matter had gone altogether beyond them, and that his presence, with an army, was urgently needed.

Even in Ludlow, extra sentries were placed upon the walls, the garrison was kept in a constant state of vigilance, and mounted men were stationed, miles out, to bring in the news of the approach of any hostile force.

"'Tis a thousand pities," Sir Edmund said, when the news of the defeat of the Flemings reached him, "that these fellows did not send news to me, a day or two before they undertook this business; for in that case I would have myself headed a force of a couple of hundred of my best men-at-arms, and joined them at some spot in the mountains; and had we been there, you may be sure that Glendower would never have fought his way out. The Flemings are doubtless stout fighters, as they have proved over and over again, in their own country; but they are all unused to mountain warfare, or to fight with wild men, and were doubtless scared by the shrill cries with which the Welsh always advance to battle. Doubtless, too, these men Glendower keeps with him are his best fighters, and they knew that, if they did not succeed in making their way out, no mercy would be shown to them, seeing that they have shown none themselves. Had the battle been on a plain, I doubt not that the Flemings would have stood against many times the number of Welshmen that Owen had with him; but this hill warfare was altogether strange to them, and of course they had not the habit of quickly rallying, and meeting the attack, that is second nature with our men-at-arms. The affair is serious, and unless the king comes hither with an army, Glendower is likely to have it all his own way on his side of the border; and, ere long, there won't be an Englishman left west of the Severn."

However Henry, when informed of the danger, lost no time in assembling another great army; and in the beginning of June advanced into Wales, and ravaged a wide extent of country, carrying his arms into Cardiganshire, and destroying the Abbey of Strata Florida, one of the most venerable and famous abbeys in Wales. Founded in 1164, it was burnt down in 1294, during the wars of King Edward the First with the Welsh, but was soon rebuilt. Here Llewellyn, in 1237, convened all the chieftains of Wales to take the oath of allegiance. There were two copies of the national records, one of which was kept at this abbey, and the other at that of Conway.

The abbey having fallen, Henry's army met with scarcely any resistance, Glendower knowing that his wild followers were no match for the royal troops. He therefore contented himself with harassing them continually, and the army suffered greatly by this continued annoyance, as well as from fatigue and famine. Thus the king returned across the border without having achieved any success, whatever.

The Lords of the Marches were not now ordered to contribute any troops, but were to hold their castles strongly; lest, when the army was fairly entangled among the mountains, Glendower should make a great incursion into England. The only advantage gained by the English invasion was that the king, by promises of pardon and rewards, drew away a number of the leading men who had hitherto acted with Glendower. Their defection, however, was more than made up by the enthusiasm excited by the spectacle of the second retirement of a great English army, without having effected anything of importance.

So evident was this, that in October Henry again advanced, with the contingents of no fewer than twenty-two counties. The season, however, was already unfavourable for operations and, after enduring great hardships and suffering, the army again fell back, having effected even less than the two which had preceded it.

Things, however, turned out fortunately for Oswald. The army had advanced a week across the border when a messenger arrived at Ludlow, with a letter from London for the king.

"It will be no easy matter to forward it," Sir Edmund said, as the despatch was handed to him. "Indeed, I see not how it is to be done. Beyond the fact that the king intended to march west, I know nothing whatever of his intentions, or of the exact road he was likely to take. His orders were strict, that we were to keep our forces well in hand; and to send the letter forward would need two hundred men, at least, as an escort. It places me in an awkward position, indeed."

"If it so please you, Sir Edmund," said Oswald, who was one of the group standing round, when the messenger handed the letter to Mortimer; "I will endeavour to carry the despatch for you. Methinks that, while fifty men would not succeed in getting through to the army, two might, perchance, manage to do so. I shall, of course, ride first to Shrewsbury, through which the king passed; and so follow up the course he took. There should be no great difficulty in doing that, for the march of so great a body of men must have left many traces behind. They will, doubtless, have harried the country, for some distance each side of the line they followed; and it is not likely that I should meet any of the Welsh, until I was near the army. Then, of course, great caution would have to be used; for it is like enough that there are parties of Glendower's men hanging on its skirts, to cut off stragglers, and plunder any waggons whose horses may have fallen by the way."

"'Tis a terribly dangerous service," Sir Edmund said, gravely; "but in truth, I see no other way of forwarding this letter; which, for aught I know, may be of high importance. But if this is a desperate enterprise, it is also one that will bring you great credit, if safely carried through. I will myself, if you go, give you a letter to the king, saying that you have volunteered for this desperate undertaking, from your loyalty to his person, and because it is possible that the letter may contain matter of the highest importance, to him and the realm in general. I shall add that you have already greatly distinguished yourself, in service against the Welsh, and are the trusty esquire of my brother-in-law, Sir Henry Percy."

"I quite feel, Sir Edmund, that the enterprise is a dangerous one; but I am nevertheless determined, with your permission, to undertake it. My henchman and myself have, together, gone through dangers as great; and may pass through this, as well."

"I will give you my answer in half an hour, Master Oswald, when I have talked it over with my knights, and heard their opinions as to whether any better plan can be devised."

Oswald bowed and retired and, seeking out Roger, told him of the offer that he had made.

"Well, master, if you are bent upon this enterprise, you will not find me backward; and indeed, I am so sick of this six months of idleness, and of seeing others marching to Wales to fight, while we do nothing here; that, by Saint Bride, were you to ask me to go into Glendower's stronghold, and pluck him by the beard, I would willingly go with you."

Oswald laughed.

"'Tis not so bad as that, Roger, and yet 'tis a service of great danger. How think you that we had best set about it, on horse or on foot?"

Roger looked surprised at the question.

"It would surely be better to go on horseback, master; for if we met too many Welshmen to fight, we might at least ride away from them."

"There is truth in that, Roger; but, on the other hand, our feet will carry us up and down mountains, and fells, where our horses could not go. If mounted, we must travel by beaten tracks, and might be seized by parties of Welsh, lurking in the woods, before we knew of their presence. Without horses, we could ourselves keep within shelter of the trees, and could so evade the observation of any who might be stationed on lofty hills, to watch if any body of troops were following the track of the army. Moreover, we should have no trouble about forage and water for our steeds."

"Enough, master, I see which way your inclinations lie; and as my legs have had a long holiday, it is but right that they should carry me for a bit; and assuredly, 'tis easier for footmen to hide than it is for horsemen."

"I should say, Roger, that it would be best to leave armour, as well as horses behind. If we are attacked by numbers, our armour will serve us but little; while if without it, we may be able, even if chased, to avoid the hands of these Welshmen. They say that they are swift of foot; but, as we can hold our own with the Northumbrian border men, we ought to be able to do so against these Welsh, especially as our legs are nigh a foot longer than those of the greater part of them."

"Very well, master. I myself have no great love for travelling in armour, and would almost as soon march in a monk's gown, again, as in breastplate and back piece."

"Very well, so we will arrange it. We shall have to carry our provisions, for you may be sure that we shall get nothing, whatever, while we are following the army. They will strip the country clean. You know how terribly they have suffered by famine, on the two previous expeditions; and it will assuredly be no better, now. Food, however, we can procure at Shrewsbury, from which point we shall take our start."

A retainer, at this moment, came out from the hall, and informed Oswald that Sir Edmund would speak with him. When he entered, Mortimer said:

"My knights and I agree that this letter ought to be sent forward to the king; for if it contains matters of importance, great harm might result from delay, and the king's anger be excited against us, for not having sent it to him. His orders to me were strict, that neither I nor any of my force should join him; therefore I accept your offer, with thanks. Have you formed any plan for your proceeding?"

Oswald repeated the substance of what he had said to Roger.

"I think, perhaps, you are right," Mortimer said, "and that you may have more chance of getting safely through, on foot, than if you rode with but a small force to escort you. When you are ready to start, I will speak to you in private, touching some things connected with your journey."

When Oswald returned, Mortimer said to him:

"You see, Master Oswald, the position is by no means simple. There can be no doubt that the king regards me with no favourable eye. He holds my nephews in his keeping, and doubtless imagines that I bear him ill will. As their uncle, he supposes that, should at any time a party be formed to place the Earl of March on the throne, I should be the leader in the matter; though assuredly I have never given him any reason to doubt my loyalty.

"I say not that I approved of the deposition of King Richard; and indeed I have not, like Lord Grey and many other nobles, among them the Percys, been a warm supporter of King Henry's cause. I hold myself altogether neutral, in that matter. I saw that nothing would be more ruinous, for the country, than that a boy like my nephew should mount the throne; and had a party been formed to make him king, instead of Henry, I would have taken no share in it. Nevertheless, there is no getting over the fact that, by right, the Earl of March is King of England, and there is no saying what may come about in the future; but assuredly, at the present time, I am as ready to do my duty towards King Henry as are those who are louder in their expressions of attachment to him.

"Nevertheless, I am well aware that the king distrusts me. As you see, he has not, these three times that he has invaded Wales, come near Ludlow. He has not summoned me to join his banner; nay, more, has strictly ordered me not to send a man-at-arms to join him.

"I own that this letter troubles me, somewhat. Why should it not have been carried to Shrewsbury, instead of being brought hither? It has, indeed, come from London, and those who sent it may not know that the king would move by Shrewsbury, and not by this line; which would, indeed, be more direct for him in advancing into Montgomery and Cardiganshire. On the other hand, it may be a snare. If I send it not forward, he might blame me greatly for holding it back. If I send it forward, and perchance it falls, on the way, into the hands of the Welsh, he might harbour the thought, even if he did not accuse me openly, of conniving with Glendower. One pretext is as good as another, however unlikely it may be, when a king desires to make a quarrel with one of his vassals. Your offer to carry it is, then, a very seasonable one, and goes far to get me out of the difficulty.

"In the first place, by sending it by you, I afford no ground for him to say that I have disobeyed his orders, to send no one of my following to his army; and in the next place, whatever suspicion he may have of me, assuredly he can have none of the Percys, to whom he so largely owes his crown; and that a trusted squire of Hotspur should be the bearer of the letter, is sufficient proof that all that could be done, was done, for its safe carriage. Should you fail to deliver it, he can, at least, not put it down to any fault of mine.

"Sir James Burgon and Sir Philip Haverstone both offered to carry it, urging that the danger should fall on them; and not upon you, who are still an esquire, and have no duty towards me in the affair; and that it were a shame that they should remain here, idle, while you rode, perhaps, to your death.

"Assuredly, my feelings were with them and, were it not for the circumstances in which I am placed, I should certainly intrust the enterprise to them; but on my laying the whole matter before them, and pointing out that the coming of two of my knights to him would be a breach of the king's orders, they saw that, since you were willing to undertake it, it were best that it should be so.

"I doubt not that Henry would, not unwillingly, fasten some quarrel on me. He has his army at hand and, did he march hither, he could seize my lands, and those of my nephew, and partition them out among his friends; for I am in no condition to strike a single blow in my defence. We know, well enough, that when a king wishes to get rid of one of his nobles, there is never any great difficulty in finding a pretext for his arrest, and execution."

"I quite understand, Sir Edmund; and for my part, I will assuredly do my best to place this letter in the hands of the king. I shall say that, being of Sir Henry Percy's household, and knowing that my lord would be glad that I should have the opportunity of striking a blow under the king's leading, I volunteered at once, when the letter arrived, to bear it to him; and that, seeing his majesty had laid his orders on you, to keep all your force in readiness to repel Glendower, should he issue out in this quarter, you granted my request that I should be its bearer."

"That will do well, Oswald. I know that the danger is by no means small, but I trust that you may surmount it. I shall send off a letter, today, to Hotspur. Doubtless you will, yourself, be writing to him, and explain to him why I have suffered you to undertake so dangerous an enterprise."

Two hours later, Oswald, having despatched the messenger to Hotspur with his own letter, and that of Mortimer, mounted, and with Roger rode to Shrewsbury. Here he was able to gather but little news, as to the present position of the army. For four days no messengers had arrived from the king.

The last news was to the effect that the army was marching forward, through Montgomeryshire. On first starting, they had made a long march to Welshpool, and thence had proceeded to Newtown. On the way, the Welsh had rushed down from the hills, and had fallen on the baggage, slain many of the drivers, and killed so many horses that it had been necessary to leave some of the waggons behind.

At Newtown they halted, and parties had been sent out in all directions to harry the country, while a part of the force left at Welshpool marched upon Llanfair. This was the last news that had come through from the king.

But from Welshpool they heard, next day, that there had been several skirmishes with the Welsh, and that heavy rains had made the roads all but impassable. No more messages had come. This was not surprising, as it was certain that the Welsh would close in behind the army, as it advanced; and as there would be no great occasion to send news back, the king would not care to weaken himself, by detaching escorts of sufficient strength to make their way down.

"If we could have been sure which way the king had been going, Roger, it would have been much shorter for us to have made direct for Llanidloes."

"Certainly it would, Master Oswald; but you see, he might have turned more to the north, in which case we should have, perhaps, been unable to gather news of his whereabouts, while we should have run no small risk of getting our throats cut."

"It is evident, Roger, that the king is marching, at present, in the direction of Plinlimmon. No doubt he hopes that Glendower will come down and give him battle, but methinks he will not be foolish enough to do so. The weather, and the hills, will fight far better for him than the Welsh, themselves, can do; and he has but to leave the army to wander about through the mountains and forests, as he did last time, to ensure that they must, ere long, fall back."

At daybreak the next morning, they set out and rode to Welshpool. This being a walled town, and the population almost entirely English, they could leave their horses here, in safety. They first went to the governor's, and upon Oswald's explaining that they were the bearers of a letter for the king, and asking whether he could give them any information as to the direction they had best take, he shook his head.

"No news has come hither, for the last five days," he said. "A herd of bullocks arrived here, three days since, and were to have been forwarded on to the army; but the Welsh are out in force, and every road beset. Parties have come down from the hills overlooking us, and have fired several houses, that escaped when they last attacked us. My force is sufficient to hold the town against any attacks, but I cannot spare so many men as would be required to convoy the cattle. I told the king so, before he went on; but he said that no Welshman would dare show himself, when the army had once passed on; and that every Welsh house and village would be destroyed, and all within them put to the sword, so that I should have no difficulty in sending forward cattle, and other supplies.

"That the villages have been destroyed I have no doubt, for the messengers who came in from Llanfair told me that, as they passed over the hills, they could see smoke rising from the forests in all directions; but whether the inhabitants remained, quietly awaiting the arrival of the troops, is more than doubtful. There were beacon fires on all the hills, the night before the army left Shrewsbury, and again on the next night. Since then, we have seen no more from here, but those who came from Llanfair told us that they were burning, on every hill, the night they got there; so I have no doubt that the old men, women, and children were at once sent off, probably to shelter in the Plinlimmon district, or mayhap in the forests of Cader Idris. At any rate, we may be sure that very few will be found at their villages. It was so the last time the king's army marched along, and the same when he made his way through Denbigh to Anglesey.

"The Welsh care little for the burning of their houses. It takes but two or three days' work to rebuild them. The harrying of the villages will not bring the matter a day nearer to a conclusion. It is by destroying the castles and houses of the better class that an effect will be produced. The peasants have little to lose. The Welsh gentry have houses and estates, and the fear of losing these may drive them to abandon Glendower, and to come over to us. Many did so, after the king's last invasion. Methinks the best policy would be to spare the villagers, and give the peasants no cause for complaint, and to war only against their leaders.

"But as to yourself, sir, there is not the most remote chance of your getting through; and you had best wait here until the army returns, or some levies, who may have arrived late at Shrewsbury, come up on their way to join the king."

"I inquired at Shrewsbury, last night, sir; but I heard that no more parties were expected, the contingents from all the counties having joined the king, at Worcester, on the day ordered. My intention is that I and my man-at-arms will leave our horses here, and go forward on foot. In that way we can travel, for the most part, through the forests; and may escape being seen. We have already left our armour behind us, at Ludlow, so as to be able to move more rapidly. We are both Northumbrians, and are accustomed to traverse moors and fells; and, even should we be seen by any straggling party of the enemy, we shall have a fair chance of outrunning them, and throwing them off our track. At any rate, it is my duty to endeavour to carry the letter to the king."

"Is it a matter of life and death?"

"That I know not, sir. A royal messenger brought it, from London, to Ludlow. He had ridden with relays of horses, but had no means of getting farther, and begged Sir Edmund Mortimer to forward it. I myself, an esquire of Sir Henry Percy, was staying as a guest with Sir Edmund -- who is, as you know, my lord's brother-in-law -- and I volunteered to carry it, being anxious to have an opportunity of doing service to the king."

"It was a bold offer, young man, and doubtless, when you made it, you were scarce aware how dangerous was the business that you undertook. Did I think that it would be of any use, I would furnish you with twenty men-at-arms to ride with you; but I know that such a force would, in no way, add to your safety. You might get as far as Llanidloes, or Llanfair, whichever route you might choose, though I think not that you would do so; but beyond that, it would be hopeless for any force, of less than five hundred good fighting men, to attempt to make their way through.

"From what I hear, there are at least fifteen thousand Welshmen in arms. Many, doubtless, are with Glendower himself. The rest will be scattered among the hills, ready to pounce upon any party who may be moving up the valleys to join the king; and there are plenty of places where a couple of hundred men could check the advance of an army."

"Then it is all the more necessary, sir, that we should trust to good fortune, and to making our way unseen. May I pray you to take care of our horses, till we return to claim them? Should we never do so, there are doubtless many upon whom you could bestow them; and they are both rarely good animals, for one was presented to me by Sir Henry Percy, and the other by Sir Edmund Mortimer."

"I will take care of them, willingly. If you do not return, before the king marches back; and I find, when he comes, that you did not reach him; I will use the horses myself, holding them always as your property should you, at any time, return to claim them. Is there aught else that I can do to help you?"

"No, sir; what would, of all other things, be most valuable to us would be a guide; but, from what I have seen and heard of the Welsh, I fear that no reliance, whatever, can be placed on one of them."

"Certainly not at present. Did you take one, he would but slip away at the first opportunity; and there is no Englishman, so far as I know, who could guide you through the mountains."

"In that case, sir, we must perforce travel close to the roads, so as to be sure that we do not wander from the track, but keeping in the shelter of the forest."

"That is the only possible course," the governor agreed; "to be lost, among those hills, would be certain death. If you failed to fall in with anyone, you would die of hunger. If you did meet anyone, you would be killed. Glendower spares no Englishman who falls into his hands."

"I don't know that he can be greatly blamed for that, sir," Oswald said with a smile, "seeing that the Welsh meet with such scant mercy, from us."

"'Tis a savage war," the governor said, shrugging his shoulders, "and it seems to me that it will continue, until the last Welshman is exterminated."

"That will be a difficult thing, indeed, to effect," Oswald laughed; "as difficult as was the extermination of wolves in England; but I hope that matters will arrange themselves, long before that. Surely, in time, the Welsh leaders will see that the struggle is a hopeless one; and that they will lose their homes, and their possessions, and their lives, if they continue it.

"Brave as the Welsh may be, they cannot withstand the whole strength of England. They may exist in the forests, for a time; but, with all the valleys and fertile lands in English hands, they will at last be forced to submit."

"It would seem so; but Edward said the same thing, of Scotland. He carried fire and sword through it, time after time; and yet Scotland has still its king, and holds its own on the border."

"That is so, sir; but Scotland is a large country, whereas Wales is a small one; and the towns and castles are English, as are all the ports; and the people themselves, although brave, are wholly without discipline, and are able to fight only in the mountains; while the Scots are strong enough to give battle to us on level ground, and have defeated us, more than once."

"My advice to you is to leave the town at night," the governor said, as Oswald rose to leave. "There may be many of the Welsh lying round us now; and doubtless they learn, from their countrymen here, all that is doing. I will give you a scroll, ordering that you are allowed to pass out at any time, by night or day."

"Thank you, sir. I had intended to start tomorrow morning, two hours before daybreak, so as to get well into the forest before sunrise. I shall, of course, go first to Llanidloes; where, doubtless, a strong guard will have been left. As far as that I cannot well miss my way, as I shall have but to keep along the side of the valley."

"That is so. Beyond that, the river is a mere streamlet, and you will have to make across the hills."

"Do you know, sir, whether the force that went to Llanfair was to effect a junction with the king?"

"No, I believe not; at any rate, not for the present. The party was to march west; the king's force was to move south of Plinlimmon; Lord Talbot's to cross the range of hills, and come down upon the river Dovey and, if possible, prevent Glendower, if he is still on Plinlimmon, from making his way to Dinas Mowddwy, or Cader Idris, or up to Snowdon again. The plan is doubtless as good as another, but I doubt whether Talbot's force, if ten times as numerous as it is, could prevent Glendower from slipping away."

That evening Oswald bought a supply of bread and meat, sufficient to last Roger and himself for three days. This was divided in halves and placed in bags, which would be slung over their shoulders. The horses had already been sent up to the castle and, after sleeping for a few hours, the two left the town and, turning to the right, ascended the hill.

Oswald carried his sword and dagger. Roger, in addition to these, had a heavy oaken quarterstaff.

"This," he said, "may be of service in mountain work, and may suffice to crack the skulls of any half-dozen Welshmen we may fall in with."

Both had put on plain leather jerkins and cloth caps, and wore, underneath, their own suits with the Percy cognizance embroidered on them, in order that they might present themselves in proper attire, should they arrive at the king's camp. The weather was already becoming cold, and the double suit was therefore not uncomfortable. As the dress of the Welsh, in the towns and valleys, was very similar to that worn by English villagers; they would attract but little attention, should they have cause to take to the road, for any short distance.

Keeping within the edge of the belt of trees, they followed the valley down past the ruins of Montgomery, and passed Newtown without entering it. Many times during the morning they heard loud shouts, from the woods in which they were, answered by similar cries from the other side of the valley; and were obliged to move with great caution, for it was evident that a considerable number of Welsh were in ambush in the woods, in readiness to attack any party who might be proceeding up or down the valley.

Towards noon, they were obliged to leave the edge of the forest, and to ascend to the brow of the hills; as it was certain that any parties of the enemy, who might be in the forest, would be assembled near its edge, in readiness to pour suddenly down.

More than once they heard voices, but a short distance away; and paused, for a time, to allow parties of men to cross ahead of them. Their greatest danger lay in crossing the side valleys, but as the Welsh would be expecting no one to come down these, they succeeded in crossing without being observed.

They were well content when, just as night was falling, they came down upon Llanidloes. Crossing the wooden bridge over the stream, they entered the town boldly; for, looking down upon it, they had seen many men in armour in the streets, and knew that the place was occupied by the English.

At the gate at the end of the bridge they were asked their business, but they replied that they could only answer that to the officer commanding, and were taken before him.

"Whence come you, friends?" the latter said. "Surely you must be English, by your height; but what you are doing here, in times like the present, I know not. Come you from the king's army, or from the north?"

"We left Welshpool before daybreak," Oswald said, "and have travelled through the forest."

"Then you must be as bold as you are tall, sirs, for the woods are full of these wild Welsh."

"Of that we are aware, sir, and we had some difficulty in making our way through them, unobserved. I would not answer the guard, when we entered; for we are going farther, and had it been mentioned, in the hearing of a Welshman, news might have been sent on ahead."

"I think not that you can reach the king. When we last heard, his foremost divisions were marching forward, and devastating the country on both sides of their line of march. We have heard reports that some of the parties have been attacked, and well-nigh destroyed; and certain it is that Glendower's men are scattered all over the country.

"We were three days without news, but this morning a strong party came, in escorting sick and wounded. They had to fight hard, but beat off their opponents, and got in with the loss of a third of their number. They had started at night, and fortunately arrived within five miles of here, before they were attacked."

"And where is the king now, sir?"

"The king himself is at Capel Bangor, and the army lies between that place and Yspetty Cynfyn."

"Then 'tis but a day's march from here!"

"It would be but a short day's march, could you follow the road; but it would be impossible to do so, for 'tis beset everywhere, and 'tis so rough and hilly that, in places, the men-at-arms had to dismount. You will have to wait here till a large force sets out, with provisions; for those who came in declare that they will not attempt to return, so great is the number of Welshmen along there, and so fierce and reckless are they.

"But you have not yet told me who you are, and why you would push on to the army thus rashly."

Oswald opened his jerkin, and showed the handsome attire beneath it, embroidered with the Percy cognizance.

"I am an esquire of Sir Henry Percy," he said, "and have been staying for a while with Sir Edmund Mortimer, whose sister is my lord's wife. A royal messenger arrived at Ludlow, with a letter for the king; and as there was no other way of bringing it forward, I volunteered to carry it, with my man-at-arms, here."

"It was a brave offer, young sir, but I fear that you will scarce be able to carry it into effect. The men who came here report that it is unsafe to stir a yard from the camp; for those who wander away, for however short a distance, are sure to be slain by the lurking Welshmen. No resistance is offered when strong parties go out, but less than two hundred men-at-arms cannot hope to move, unattacked."

"'Tis for that reason that I have come on foot," Oswald said. "I saw that it would be hopeless for two horsemen to get through, but on foot we may travel through the woods without being discovered; while if we are seen, methinks it would need speedy feet to catch us."

"Well, since you bear a royal letter I cannot stop you; but it seems to me that your chance of getting through is small, indeed."



Chapter 17: Knighted.


Rain was coming down in torrents, when Oswald and Roger started the next morning. On leaving the town they turned to the left, with the intention of making a considerable detour; keeping well away from the road, as it was near this that the Welsh would be most likely watching. They chose this side because, to the right of the road, the country was more broken, rising swell after swell towards Plinlimmon; and it was likely that the largest portion of the Welsh would be on that side, so that they could, at any time, retire to their fastnesses.

They were soon in the woods. The streams they met with were turbid, and full to the brim.

"We shall have trouble with this water, Roger," Oswald said, as they waded across one, waist deep. "This is but a little stream, but if there are larger ones, as is like enough, we shall have to swim before we are done. There is one advantage; in such weather as this, even the Welsh will scarce be active."

"They have not got much clothing to wet," Roger said. "Their dress is better suited than ours for such weather."

The way was a rough one. Hills, although of no great height, had to be crossed, and many streams to be waded. Fortunately, they met with few larger than that they had first crossed; for the water from that side of the hills made its way, for the most part, direct into the Severn; while that which came down from the slopes of Plinlimmon, towards the road, fell into a stream; dry in fine weather, but now a raging torrent, which ran past Llandulas and into the Severn, at Llanidloes.

"Do you think that we are going right, Roger?" Oswald said, after they had been walking for six or seven hours; "for, what with these ups and downs, and turnings and windings, there is no saying which is east and which is west. If the sun were shining we should be sure of our direction, but with these dull leaden clouds there is no saying."

"I have no idea, master. If we were out on a moor we should be able to judge, and to make a fairly straight course, keeping the wind and rain on one side of us; but in this thick forest, though most of the leaves have fallen, those that remain on the branches break up the rain, and it seems to come straight down upon us."

Presently they came to another watercourse.

"Why, Roger, the water is going in the other direction!"

"So it is, master. How can that be?"

"It is just possible that we have crossed some dividing point, and the water is making its way towards the south, and will fall into some other river; but I am very much afraid that the real explanation is, that we have entirely lost our way, and are going in the opposite direction to that in which we started. The question is, shall we cross it or shall we follow it down?"

"Just as you like," Roger said. "For myself, I think that the best way would be to find some place where we could shelter. Tomorrow the sun may be out again, and that will tell us which way to go. If we start at daybreak, and keep it to our back, we can't go far wrong."

"Except that we may pass the army altogether, Roger. They told us that the rearmost division was not more than ten miles ahead."

"We must have walked double that already, I should say, master."

"Not so much as that. We have been a long time over it, but it is slow travelling over this broken ground, and thick wood. I am sure I hope that we have not gone twenty miles, or anything like it; for in that case, if we have been keeping fairly in the right direction, we must have passed the army. If we have been going in the wrong direction, there is no saying where we may be.

"Still, I think that your suggestion is a good one. It is of no use our going on, when we may be getting farther away at every step. It is lucky that we bought these thick cloaks, at Welshpool; for without them we should have been soaked to the skin, hours ago."

"Well, as we have been wetted to the waist a score of times, in the streams, I don't see that it would have mattered much, if the rest of us had been wet through."

"Well, now let us look for a shelter."

After searching for half an hour, they found a spot where a wall of shaly rock barred their way. At one spot some of this had fallen in, forming a sort of shallow cave, some three feet deep.

"This is not a bad beginning, Roger, but we must try and make it a great deal more snug."

They first cut down some young fir poles, and placed them so as to form a sort of penthouse against the wall. On these they piled a number of branches, of the same trees, until it was over a foot in thickness.

"So far, so good," Oswald said. "Now, Roger, look about for a fallen tree. We have passed scores on our way. You must get a thoroughly rotten one, and cut away a portion of the under side; it will be dry enough, there."

"You might get a little of that to start with," Roger said; "but the ground is covered everywhere with fir cones, and there is no better stuff for fires."

Taking off his cloak he laid it down, and they both piled the fir cones on this, until a great heap was collected. This they carried into their shelter, through an opening they had left in the penthouse.

"We must have something dry to start it with. These cones are a great deal too wet to burn, without a good heat to start them. There is nothing better than the fir needles, master, if we can find some dry ones."

After some searching, a considerable number of these needles were collected; some lying under fallen trees, and others swept by the wind into rocky corners, where the rain had not reached them.

"Now I think that we shall do, Roger."

As soon as they were inside, Roger produced a large lump of dry fungus he had found, on the other side of the Severn; and, by the aid of his flint and steel, soon succeeded in striking sparks upon it. As soon as these began to spread, he put a little pile of fir needles on it; and, blowing gently, bright flames soon darted up. A few more handfuls of fuel were added, and fir cones placed at the top; and in a quarter of an hour, a clear, bright fire was burning.

The dripping cloaks were hung up to the fir poles, to dry; and the jerkins, which were also damp, although the water had not penetrated through them, were spread near the fire.

"It was well that I bought this little skin of wine, last night," Roger said. "You thought it was better to be without such a burden, but the weight of a gallon of wine doesn't count for much, and it makes all the difference in our comfort, here."

The rain had soaked through their provision bags, but the bread and meat in the centre were dry; and of these they made a hearty meal and, laying the wetted food round the fire to dry, they wound up the repast with a long draught of wine.

"Now, as soon as our breeches are dry, Master Oswald, we shall be thoroughly comfortable."

"Yes, one can wish for nothing better. But we must not forget that some Welshmen may come along, and if so, will be sure to want to know what is inside."

"Then, unless there happen to be more than a dozen of them, their curiosity may cost them dear," Roger said grimly. "I don't think there is much fear of it. We have neither seen nor heard of any, since we started; and it would be evil fortune, indeed, if a party happened to come along just at this spot."

"The fact that we have heard no one is a bad sign, Roger; for it would seem to show that we must have gone a long way out of our course."

The rain continued to fall heavily, all that afternoon and throughout the night, and no change of the weather was discernible the next morning.

"We had best stop here for another day, Roger, unless the sky clears; we are not likely to find so good a place for shelter, and it is of no use to wander about, when every step may be taking us farther away. However, we can climb up to the top of this hill, at whose foot we are, and endeavour to get a view over the country."

Roger shook his head.

"In this heavy mist we should not see a quarter of a mile away. We have got all our clothes dry, now, and it would be a pity to get them wet again, without need or profit. Anyhow, we will find some more of those fir cones. Our supply is nearly gone."

In half an hour they had got sufficient to last them all day. There was nothing for them then to do but sleep, one or other keeping watch, so as to prevent the chance of their being surprised.

Before lying down for the night, Roger looked out.

"Methinks that the rain has stopped, though it would be difficult to say, for the drops keep pattering down from the trees. Well, I mightily hope that it will be a fine morning."

Oswald was first upon his feet and, on going out, uttered an exclamation of satisfaction. The morning was breaking and, though light clouds were moving across the sky, glimpses of the blue were visible, here and there. Already the light showed where the sun would presently rise.

Food was hastily eaten, and they then started on their way again. There could be no mistake, now, as to the general direction; and, keeping the sun on their right hand, they made their way north. From the top of a hill, somewhat higher than the others, they caught a view of Plinlimmon.

"If we make straight for it," Oswald said, "we ought to come down on the road near the camp. We can go on fearlessly for some time, for the Welsh were hardly likely to be moving about, yesterday or the day before; and I have no doubt they sheltered themselves, as best they could, in arbours like ours."

After walking for another two hours, they heard the distant sound of a trumpet.

"That cannot be more than two or three miles away, Roger. Now, we shall have to be careful."

They had walked a mile when, as they descended into a glen, they came suddenly on a party of twenty Welshmen, sitting round a fire. These had been concealed from them by the thick undergrowth, and were not twenty yards away, when they first saw them. The Welsh had evidently heard them coming, by the rustle of leaves and the breaking of twigs; and two or three were standing up, looking in their direction, when they caught sight of them. These gave a loud yell, which brought the rest to their feet.

"Run, Roger, run. It is a question of legs, now;" and, turning, they darted up the hill they had just descended.

Looking back for a moment as, after running for about a mile, they reached the crest of a swell; Oswald saw that five of their pursuers had distanced their comrades, but were no nearer than when they started.

"I think we can hold them, Roger. Take it a little more easily now. We are all right as far as speed goes. It is simply a question of bottom."

Their pursuers, however, still stuck to them and, after running for another half-mile, the five men were still but some thirty yards behind; while their comrades' shouts could be heard through the forests and, from time to time, the men close behind them joined in a loud quavering cry.

"We must stand and rid ourselves of these fellows, Roger; or we shall have half the Welsh nation down on us."

"So I have been thinking, for some time."

"Don't stop suddenly. We will slacken our pace, and they will think that our strength is failing, and will redouble their efforts. Then, when they are close to us, we will turn suddenly."

They heard a yell of exultation, as their pursuers found that they were gaining upon them.

"Choose a clear space, Roger, with room to swing our weapons."

The Welsh were running in a close body, but ten yards behind them, when they arrived at a spot clear of trees.

"Now, Roger!"

As he spoke, Oswald drew his sword and swung round, facing his pursuers, while Roger did the same. The Welsh, taken by surprise, endeavoured to check themselves; but before they could do so, Roger's staff fell upon the head of one of them, while Oswald cleft another to the chin. With the quickness of an adroit player with the quarterstaff, Roger followed up his blow by almost instantaneously driving the other end of the staff, with all his force, against the chest of another, who was at the point of leaping upon him; and the man fell, as if struck with a thunderbolt. So swift had been the movements that the remaining two men were paralysed, by the sudden fall of their companions; but before they could turn to fly, the weapons descended again, with as fatal result as before.

"To the right!" Oswald exclaimed, and he dashed off into the forest again, at a right angle to the line that they had before taken. A minute later they heard an outburst of yells of fury, from the spot they had quitted.

"I don't think they will be quite so ready to follow, now," Roger said. "They are like to be some time, before they take up our track again."

"We will break into a walk, in a few minutes, Roger; and then go along quietly, and keep our ears open. Their yells will be bringing others down, from all directions, and we might run right into the middle of another party, if we kept on at this rate."

In another five minutes they dashed down a steep descent, at whose foot a streamlet, swelled now into a rushing stream, five or six feet wide, was running.

"We will follow this down," Oswald said, as he stepped into it.

It was a little over two feet deep, and they waded along it for a couple of hundred yards, and then stepped out, where some rock cropped out by the side of the stream. It had not yet dried after the rain, and their feet therefore left no marks on it.

"That was a sharp run, Roger," Oswald said as, with rapid but stealthy steps, they strode along.

"Ay, it was. My breath was coming short, when you gave the word to stop. Another half mile would have finished me. Those Welshmen run well."

"I have no doubt we should have beaten them, easily enough, on the open ground, Roger; but they are more accustomed to this forest work than we are.

"Mind where you tread, and don't put your foot on fallen sticks. There must be scores of them in the forest behind, yet, though I don't think that they have struck our track. The nearest must be a quarter of a mile away. I am not afraid of their overtaking us. It is the risk of falling in with other parties that I am afraid of."

They now bore away to the right again. More than once they heard parties moving near them, and stood quiet until their voices died away; which they quickly did, as all were hurrying towards the spot whence the shouting still continued.

For an hour they kept straight onward, and then the trees thinned; and as they stepped out from the edge of the forest they saw, to their delight, a few tents in front of them, and a large number of soldiers scattered about. As they were seen, some of the soldiers caught up their arms; but when they saw that but two men were approaching, they laid them down again, and proceeded with the work on which most of them were engaged; in polishing up their arms and armour, whose brightness had been grievously dimmed by the rain. A sub-officer with four men came up to them, as they reached the line.

"Who are you, sirs?" he asked.

"I am an esquire of Sir Henry Percy, and have brought hither a letter for the king."

The man looked doubtfully at him, and Oswald continued, "I know not whether the Earl of Talbot is in the camp, but if so he will, I think, recognize me."

"The earl arrived, with five hundred of his men, yesterday," the officer said, with a tone of more respect than he had before used. "I will take you to his tent;" and he led the way to a tent, pitched a short distance away from that before which the royal standard waved.

Oswald took off his cloak, which was rolled up over his shoulder, and handed it to Roger, and then opened his jerkin. As they came up to the tent the front opened, and the earl himself came out.

"Whom have we here?" he asked the officer.

"They have just come out of the forest, my lord, and this gentleman asked to be taken to you, saying that you would recognize him."

The earl looked scrutinizingly at Oswald.

"I seem to know your face, sir," he said, "but I cannot recall where I have seen it."

"My name is Oswald Forster, an esquire of Sir Henry Percy. I joined you at Chester, my Lord Talbot, with a band of his men; and some of Sir Edmund Mortimer's, led by one of his knights."

"I remember now," the earl said. "Yes, I see you wear the Percy badge; but how have you got here, and why have you come?"

"I come as a simple messenger, my lord. A royal courier arrived at Ludlow, with a letter from London for the king. His majesty had laid his commands on Sir Edmund Mortimer, that he was not to weaken his force by a single lance; and as, for aught Sir Edmund knew, the letter might be of great importance, I volunteered to endeavour to carry it through; taking with me only this man-at-arms, on whom I could wholly rely, whatever might happen, he having accompanied me on more than one dangerous expedition.

"Sir Edmund consented. We rode first to Shrewsbury, to obtain information as to the course the king had taken. At Welshpool we left our horses behind us, thinking it easier to make our way through the woods on foot, seeing that the roads were said to be beset by the Welsh. So we reached Llanidloes; and then, hearing where the king was then posted, from a convoy of wounded that had been brought in that day, and who had been attacked and very hardly treated as they came along, we thought to make a detour through the woods, so as to get behind any Welshmen who might be watching the road.

"Unfortunately, in the storm of rain, having no guide, we lost our way; and were so detained, near two days, in the forest. This morning, the weather having changed and the sun come out, we learned the direction that we must take. On the way we fell in with a party of some twenty Welshmen, who pursued us hotly. We outran all but five. As their shouts would have brought large numbers upon us, we stopped and slew them; and though search was hot for us, we succeeded in making our way through, without adventure, until we came out from the forest, close by."

"Truly it was an adventure of great peril," the earl said, "for the Welsh are swarming round us; though we see nought of them, when we are once in the saddle. Assuredly you would never have got through, even as far as Llanidloes, if you had followed the road on horseback; for the last party that came along brought word that the Welsh had felled trees across it, in many places, and had broken down the bridges.

"It was a gallant exploit, sir. I will, myself, take you in to the king."

Oswald took off his jerkin.

"I am but in poor plight to show myself before his majesty," he said, as he handed it to Roger.

"Ah! I remember this good fellow," the earl said. "He is not one easily forgotten, for 'tis seldom one sees so stout a man-at-arms.

"As to your dress, 'tis nought; and indeed, it is in better order than most in camp, for the soldiers have no tents, and have, for the last forty-eight hours, been over their ankles in mud and water.

"Have you been with Mortimer ever since we harried Glendower's valley?"

"No, my lord. I returned after that to the north, and was at Alnwick for nine months. Then Sir Henry sent me back again to Ludlow, in order that I might keep him well informed of the extent of this rebellion, concerning which but few tidings came to him."

They had, by this time, arrived at the entrance of the king's tent. The two sentries on duty there stood back and saluted, as the earl entered, followed by Oswald.

"This, sire, is a messenger, one Master Oswald Forster, an esquire of Sir Henry Percy's. He had been sent by his lord to Ludlow, to keep him acquainted with the extent of this rebellion. Some few days since, a royal messenger reached the town, with a letter for you; as doubtless, in London, they cannot have known which way you were marching, and directed it there, so that it might be forwarded to you thence. Sir Edmund, having your royal order not to send any force away, would have been at a loss how to forward it; deeming that it would need a strong body of men-at-arms to penetrate to you, as he knew, from what had happened on the two last expeditions, that the Welsh, being unable to oppose your advance, would swarm behind you, so as to prevent reinforcements or convoys of provisions from reaching you. He was, therefore, doubtful as to what course to adopt, when this gentleman volunteered to carry it to you; and this he has accomplished, attended by but a single follower. Knowing that he could only hope to reach you on foot, he and his man-at-arms left their horses at Welshpool; and have made their way through the woods on foot, not without adventure, having lost their way in the storm, and having slept in the wood for two days, and killed five Welshmen, scarcely escaping a crowd of others as they came in."

"A very gallant deed, sir," the king said to Oswald, as the latter bent upon one knee and handed the letter to him. "By Our Lady, it was no slight thing to venture through the woods, swarming with these wild Welshmen. How long have you been an esquire to Percy?"

"Over three years, sire."

"I met Master Forster at Chester," the earl said. "He commanded a score of Percy's men, and rode with us when we captured Glendower's house. The knights with him told me that he and his little band had done excellent service, in the fight when the Welsh made their first irruption; and that Sir Henry Percy had written in the warmest terms to Mortimer, saying that the gentleman stood high in his regard, and that he had the most perfect confidence in him, and had selected him for the service since he was able to write well, and could, therefore, communicate freely with him as to the troubles on the Welsh border."

"And have you been at Mortimer's ever since that time?" the king asked.

Oswald noticed that each time Mortimer's name was mentioned, the king's brow was somewhat clouded.

"Not so, your majesty. I returned to the north, with Percy's men, a few days after the capture of Glendower's house. I came back to Ludlow in the spring."

"Why did Sir Henry Percy despatch you there again?" the king asked, sharply.

"From what he said, sire, it was because he was anxious to know whether the rebellion was growing, fearing that there might be some correspondence between Glendower and the Scots; and that, if it should come to a point when you might have to lead the whole force of the south to put the Welsh down, the Scots might make a great irruption into the northern counties, and it would be needful for him to keep a larger body of men than usual under arms; as the earl, his father, and the Earl of Westmoreland, would have to stand the whole brunt of the matter, for a time, without aid from the south."

The king's brow cleared.

"It was a thoughtful act of Sir Henry," he said; "and 'tis like enough that the Scots will, as you say, take advantage of our troubles here; and it is well, therefore, that the Lords of the Northern Marches should hold themselves in readiness.

"What think you, Talbot? It seems to me that the bold service this esquire has performed merits reward."

"I think so, indeed," the earl said. "It was a singular act of courage."

The king drew his sword from his scabbard.

"Kneel, sir," he said.

And, as Oswald knelt, the king laid the sword across his shoulder, and said, "Rise, Sir Oswald Forster."

Oswald rose.

"I thank you, my Lord King," he said, "and trust that I may live for many years to do worthy knightly service to my liege, who has so highly honoured me."

"My lord," the king said to Talbot, "I leave it to you to see that this young knight is provided with horse and armour. Unfortunately there is more than one suit without an owner, at present. You will do well to wait with me while I open this letter; which, maybe, contains matter of moment."

Feeling that his audience was over, Oswald bowed deeply, and left the tent to rejoin Roger.

"What said the king, master?"

"He spoke much more highly of what we had done, Roger, than it deserved; and as a reward for the service, he has just knighted me."

"I think that he has done well, master!" Roger exclaimed, joyously. "I had hoped that Hotspur would have done it, after that adventure with the Bairds; of which, as Alwyn told me, he spoke to him in tones of wondrous praise."

"That was a private business, Roger, and he would know that I would much rather that, when knighthood came, I should receive it for service in the field. The king regards our coming here as a service to himself, and therefore rewarded me; but I would rather that it should have been for service in the field, against the enemy, than for tramping through the forest."

"Yes, but a forest full of Welshmen," Roger said, "who are more to be feared, in that way, than when met in open fight."

"Earl Talbot spoke very kindly of me, and said that he had heard that, with Percy's men, I had done good service in that fight with the Welsh, near Knighton."

"That was certainly pretty hot work, master -- I shall get to say Sir Oswald, in time; but at present my tongue is not used to it. What are we to do now?"

"The king asked Lord Talbot to provide me with armour, and a horse; so we must wait until he comes this way."

It was half an hour before the earl came out.

"The letter was of importance," he said, "and it is well that it was brought on.

"Now, Sir Oswald, let us see to your matter. Two days ago Sir William Baxter was killed, by a sudden attack of the Welsh, while he was burning a village. His men rallied, beat off the Welsh, and brought his body in; and methinks his armour will fit you, though he was shorter, by two or three inches, than yourself."

He accompanied Oswald to one of a small group of tents, standing a quarter of a mile farther down the road.

"Is Sir William Baxter's squire here?"

A young man at once came up.

"I was his esquire, my lord."

"I have the king's orders," the earl said, "that his arms, armour, and horses are to be handed over, forthwith, to Sir Oswald Forster here, who will take command of his troop. He will take over all the other belongings of the knight."

The young squire bowed.

"I will hand them over to you, sir."

"You will, of course, take possession of the tent also, Sir Oswald. Sir William was one of my knights. He was unwedded, and has no male kin; therefore, you need have no hesitation in taking his belongings; which indeed we should, in any case, have little chance of taking back with us, for our waggons are but few, and will daily become fewer: for on such roads as these, both waggons and horses break down, and it will be as much as we can do to carry even necessities with us.

"Come to my tent at noon, it lacks but an hour of it, and I will present you at dinner to some of my knights; among whom, for the present, I shall rank you."

So saying, he turned away. The young squire held open the entrance of the tent, for Oswald to enter, and followed him in.

"It seems a strange thing to be thus possessed of another man's goods," he said.

"It is often so," the squire said, "and sometimes even his estates go with them, also. As the earl said, Sir William Baxter had none to whom these things could have been given; seeing that he had, so far as I know, only one sister, to whom armour and horses could be of no use. She is one of the Countess of Talbot's ladies."

"And what are you going to do, yourself?"

"For the present, I know not," the squire said. "I had been with Sir William Baxter but three years. The knight I served with, before, was thrown from his horse and killed; and Sir William, who had been just knighted, took me into his service."

"How long have you been a squire?"

"Six years, and I hoped that, in this campaign, I might have done something to win my spurs."

"I am but a poor knight, Master -- " and he paused.

"Henry Pemberton," the squire said.

"And being but knighted today, and having no lands to keep up my knighthood, it may be that the earl will appoint you to another of his knights; but should he not do so, I shall be glad if, for the rest of this campaign, you will ride with me; and trust that you, too, may have an opportunity of gaining knighthood, before it is over. But whether or no, as soon as we cross the border again, I doubt not that you will be able to find some lord under whom you may gain advancement."

"I will gladly do so, Sir Oswald. 'Tis strange that I should not have seen your face before; for, since we left Worcester, I have come to know the greater part of the esquires here."

"I arrived but an hour ago," Oswald replied, "having made my way through the Welsh, on foot, with that tall fellow you saw without."

"That was a dangerous deed, truly," Pemberton said, in tones of surprise. "May I ask why you essayed so perilous a feat?"

"I was the bearer of a despatch for the king. I was an esquire to Sir Henry Percy, but have for some time been staying with his brother-in-law, Sir Edmund Mortimer.

"Had Sir William a man-at-arms, who served as his servant? For I shall make my man-at-arms, who has gone through many adventures with me, has fought by my side, and saved my life, my second squire."

"Yes, a very good and trusty fellow."

"Then of course I shall keep him on. Now, will you tell my man to come in?

"Roger," he said, "You doubtless heard the earl's words, and I am now master of this tent, together with the armour, horses, and clothes of Sir William Baxter. Master Henry Pemberton will act as my squire, during the campaign. You will be my second squire."

"Well, master, I never looked so high as to become an esquire; and would rather remain a simple man-at-arms, were it not that it will keep me near you."

"You will find Roger a good comrade, Master Pemberton. He has been a man-at-arms at his own choice; for, as he can read and write as well as any clerk, he might have done better for himself."

Pemberton looked, with some surprise, at Roger. He himself had not these accomplishments, and he was surprised at finding a man-at-arms so well endowed.

"As you may tell by his speech," Oswald went on, "he is, like myself, a Northumbrian; and has done good service in the wars with the Scots."

"That I can well imagine," the squire said, with a smile. "I would certainly wish for no stouter comrade."

"We must see about arms and armour for you, Roger," Oswald said.

"There will be no difficulty about that. None whatever, Sir Oswald. We have lost fully three hundred men, since we crossed the border, and a hundred and fifty since we came here, four days since. There is a pile of harness and arms, lying by the roadside; and there, methinks, it is likely it will lie. You have but to go with him, when you have attired yourself and buckled on spurs, and you can pick and choose among it. Assuredly, no one will gainsay you."

Oswald now changed his attire. The clothes were handsome, and fitted him well. Then he buckled on the golden spurs, put on the knightly armour -- for he had observed that the earl, and the knights that he had seen in the camp, all kept on full armour, being ever in expectation of sudden attack.

"Truly you make a handsome figure, Sir Oswald," said Roger, who had been assisting him. "Little did I think, when I used to rail at you at your books, that you would grow into so stalwart a man; and that I should follow you in the field, as your squire. Your armour fits you as if made for you, save that these cuishes scarce meet your body armour. In truth, though bad for him, it was lucky for you that the master of this tent came to his death when he did."

"I like a steel cap better than this helmet, though I say not that it looks so well."

"Not by a long way," Roger said. "Nought could become you better. What cognizance do you mean to take?"

"I have not thought about it, yet. There will be time enough for that, after the war is over."

"Well, at any rate, master, I will today set about getting Sir William Baxter's off the shield. Methinks that, with some sand from the river bed, I shall be able to manage it with an hour's rubbing."

"Now, come along, Roger. There is no time to be lost, for I dine at midday with the Earl of Talbot. Master Pemberton will show us where the armour is lying."

There was, indeed, a large pile.

Oswald then said, "As you are known, Master Pemberton, you had better stop here; for it will take some picking before Roger is suited. As it is but two minutes to twelve, I must hurry back to Lord Talbot's tent."

Some seven or eight knights were already there. Lord Talbot introduced him to them and, as they dined, Oswald related, at their request, more particularly how he had got through the Welsh -- a task that seemed to them well-nigh impossible, since the soldiers dared not venture even to the edge of the forest, so thickly were the Welsh posted there.

"That man-at-arms must be a stalwart fellow, indeed," said one, "to kill three Welshmen with nought but a quarterstaff."

"If you had seen the man, and the staff, Sir Victor, you would not be surprised," Lord Talbot said. "He stands some six feet four, and has shoulders that might rival Samson's. As to his quarterstaff, I marked it. It was of oak, and full two inches across; and a blow with it, from such arms, would crack an iron casque, to say nothing of a Welsh skull."



Chapter 18: Glendower.


For the next ten days the weather was so bad that no operations could be carried on. Every little stream was swollen to a raging torrent. Horses, carrying men in full armour, could scarce keep their feet on the slippery moor; and even the footmen had the greatest difficulty in getting about; and all excursions were given up, for the Welsh, barefooted and unweighted with armour, would have been able to fall upon them to great advantage, and could then evade pursuit, with ease.

The number of sick increased rapidly, and it became necessary to send another convoy back to Llanidloes; where the guard were to join the force that had gone there, ten days before, and to escort some waggons of flour and a number of cattle, that had been brought there from Welshpool by a strong levy from Shropshire.

Ten knights, a hundred mounted men-at-arms, as many on foot, and fifty archers were considered sufficient to escort the sick; who, to the number of two hundred, were closely packed in the ten waggons that were to return with flour. Three of Lord Talbot's knights were to form part of the escort, and among these Oswald was chosen by the earl.

It was hoped that the convoy would reach the town without being attacked, for great pains had been taken to prevent the news of its approaching departure getting about; for there were many Welshmen in the camp, employed in looking after the baggage animals, and in other offices. They had all been hired for the service on the other side of the border; but it was believed that some of them, at least, must be in communication with the enemy; who were thereby enabled to gather in force, to oppose any parties who sallied out from the camp.

The consequence was that, until half an hour before it left, none save a few of the leaders were aware of the starting of the convoy. Then orders were rapidly issued. The knights and men-at-arms who had been selected for the service had but a few minutes to prepare themselves. The horses were harnessed to the waggons, and the sick and wounded carried out and placed in them, with the greatest expedition, and the party set out in less than half an hour after the first order had been given. It had gone but a quarter of a mile when the shouts among the woods, on either side, showed that the Welsh were vigilant. Horns were blown in all directions, the sound growing fainter and fainter, in the hills.

"We shall not get through undisturbed," one of the knights said to Oswald, who was riding next to him.

"No, I think we shall have fighting. It would have been better had we and the men-at-arms been told to leave our horses behind. In this deep soil they will be of little use in a fight, and we should do better on foot."

"It would be terrible, marching in our heavy armour."

"Doubtless it would have been so, but I should not have minded that. The distance is but six miles; and although, in this slippery plain, the toil would have been great, methinks that we could have made a better fight than on horseback; and as these waggons travel but slowly, we could have kept up with them."

"We can dismount, if necessary," the knight said; "but, for my part, I would rather ride than tramp through this deep mud."

Their progress was indeed slow, the waggons frequently sank almost up to their axles in the mud, and it needed all the efforts of the dismounted men to get them out. A deep silence had succeeded the outcry in the woods.

"I like not this silence, Sir Oswald," the knight said; when, after an hour's hard work, they were still but two miles from the camp.

"Nor do I," Oswald said. "It seems unnatural. Do you not think, Sir William, that it would be well if all were to take the picket ropes from their horses' necks, and knot them two and two, fastening one end to a waggon and the other to a horse's girth. In that way fifty men-at-arms might be roped on to the waggons, and would aid those drawing them, greatly."

"The idea is a very good one," the knight said.

He rode forward to Sir Eustace de Bohun, who was in command, and informed him of Oswald's suggestion, which was at once adopted. As soon as it was carried out, the dismounted men were ordered to push behind the waggons, which now proceeded at a much faster rate than before.

They were just half-way to the town, and beginning to entertain hopes that they should get through without being attacked, when a horn sounded; and from the forest on both sides, a crowd of men rushed out, and poured a volley of arrows into the convoy. Hasty orders were shouted by Sir Eustace, the ropes were thrown off, and the troops formed up in a double line on each side of the waggons.

The knights and mounted men formed the outside line, and the footmen stood a pace or two behind them; so as to cover them from attack, should the Welsh break through. Oswald's esquire was on one side of him, Roger on the other.

The waggons continued to move forward, for at this point the road was better, running across a bare rock, and the horses were therefore able to draw them along without any assistance. Sir Eustace therefore gave the order for the escort to continue their way, marching on each side of the train.

"We must fight our way through, men," he shouted; "every minute will doubtless add to their numbers."

For a short time the arrows flew fast. But the Welsh bows were not to be compared, in point of strength, with those used by the English archers; and the arrows fell harmlessly upon the armour of the men-at-arms, while on the other hand, the English archers shot so strongly and truly that, after a short time, the Welsh bowmen fell back. As they did so, however, a crowd of footmen poured out from the forest; and, with loud shouts and yells, rushed forward.

"Halt the waggons!" Sir Eustace cried. "Keep good order, men, and we shall soon drive this rabble off."

The archers had time but to send three flights of arrows among their assailants, when these threw themselves upon the line. They were armed with short axes, heavy clubs, and other rough weapons; and for a time, the horsemen kept their order and beat them back; but as the horns continued to sound, the Welsh swarmed down in such numbers that they broke in between their mounted foes; some trying to tear them from their saddles, while others crept beneath the horses and drove their long knives into their stomachs, or tried to hamstring them with their axes.

Then the dismounted men-at-arms joined in the fight, and drove the enemy back beyond the line. Many of the horsemen were, however, dismounted. These joined their mounted comrades when Sir Eustace gave the word to charge the multitude, before they could rally for a fresh attack.

The Welsh went down in numbers before their lances, but so close was the throng that the horsemen were brought to a stand and, slinging their spears behind them, betook themselves to sword and mace. Great was the slaughter of their opponents, but these pursued their former tactics. Horse after horse rolled over in mortal agony and, as they fell, the riders were stabbed before they could recover their feet. Soon they were broken up into knots; and their dismounted companions, with one accord, left the waggons and rushed into the fray, for a time beating back the Welsh.

"It were best to dismount," Oswald cried, and he swung himself from the saddle, just as one of the enemy hamstrung his horse. Roger and the squire did the same, and joined the ranks of the footmen.

"Keep together!" Oswald shouted, to those within hearing; "we can cut ourselves a passage through, in that way, while separately we shall perish."

Ten or twelve men followed his orders and, gathering in a ring, for a time beat off every attack. Looking round, Oswald saw that scarce a man remained mounted. The shouts of the English, and the wild war cries of the Welsh, rang through the air. In a dozen places fierce contests were raging -- swords and axes rose and fell, on helmet and steel cap.

In obedience to the shouts of Sir Eustace, who, with three or four men-at-arms around him, was still mounted, the English bands tried to join each other, and in several cases succeeded. Oswald had been near the rear of the convoy when the fight began, and the party with whom he fought were separated by some distance from the others, and the prospect became more and more hopeless. His squire had fallen, and fully half the men who had joined him; and although the loss of the Welsh had been many times as great, the number of their assailants had in no way diminished.

He and Roger strove, in vain, to cut a way through; and their height and strength enabled them to maintain a forward movement, their opponents shrinking from the terrible blows of Roger's mace, and the no less destructive fall of Oswald's sword; but the men-at-arms behind them fared worse, having to retreat with their face to the foe; and more than one, falling over the bodies of those slain by their leaders, were stabbed before they could rise. Several times the two men turned and covered the rear, but at last they stood alone.

"Now, make one effort to break through, Roger;" and they flung themselves with such fury upon the Welsh that, for some twenty yards, they cut their way through them.

Then Roger exclaimed, "I am done for, master," and fell.

Oswald stood over him and, for a time, kept a clear circle; then he received a tremendous blow on the back of his helmet, with a heavy club, and fell prostrate over Roger.

When he recovered his senses, the din of battle had moved far away. The other groups had gathered together and, moving down, had joined those who still resisted on the other side of the road; and, keeping in a close body, were fighting their way steadily along.

A number of the Welsh were going over the battlefield, stabbing all whom they found to be still living. The sick men in the waggons had already been murdered.

A Welshman, whose appearance denoted a higher rank than the others, approached Oswald, as soon as he sat up, and called to four or five of his countrymen. Oswald, with difficulty, rose to his feet. He still wore, round his wrist, the chain that Glendower's daughter had given him; and he now pulled this off and held it up, loudly calling out the name of Glendower, several times. The Welsh leader waved his followers back.

Oswald was unarmed, and evidently incapable of defending himself. He came up to him. Oswald held out the chain:

"Glendower, Glendower," he repeated.

The man took the chain, and examined it carefully. Some Welsh words were engraved upon the clasp. Oswald was unaware what they were, but the words were, "Jane Glendower, from her father."

The Welshman looked much surprised, and presently called to another, some distance away. The man came up, and he spoke to him in Welsh.

"How did you obtain this?" the man asked Oswald, in English.

"It was given in token of service, rendered by me and my squire here, to Glendower's daughter. She told me that it would be of service if, at any time, I were taken prisoner by her father's followers."

This was translated to the Welshman, who said:

"These men must be taken to Glendower. The story may be true, or not. The chain may have been stolen. At any rate, the prince must decide as to their fate."

He now bade the men round him take off Oswald's armour. As soon as this was done, the latter knelt down by Roger's side, and removed his helmet.

An arrow, shot from behind, had struck Roger just above the back piece -- which, being short for him, did not reach to his helmet -- and had gone through the fleshy part of his neck; while, at the same moment, a blow with an axe had cleft the helmet in sunder, and inflicted a deep gash on the back of the head.

At a word from their leader, the men at once aided Oswald, who drew out the arrow. The wound bled but slightly, and one of the Welshmen, tearing off a portion of his garment, bandaged it up. Water was fetched from the stream below, and a pad of wet cloth laid on the wound at the back of the head, and kept in its place by bandages. As this was done Roger gave a faint groan and, a minute after, opened his eyes.

"Do not try to move, Roger," Oswald said. "You are wounded; but not, I trust, to death. We are prisoners in the hands of the Welsh, but that chain Glendower's daughter gave me has saved our lives."

A rough litter was constructed of boughs. On this Roger, after his armour had been taken off, was laid. At their leader's orders six Welshmen took it up, while two placed themselves, one on each side of Oswald. Then the leader took the head of the party, and moved away into the forest.

Oswald's head still swam from the effects of the blow, but as they went on the feeling gradually ceased, and he was able to keep up with his captors. Their course was ever uphill, and after an hour's walking they arrived at a farmhouse, situated just at the upper edge of the forest.

The litter was laid down outside the house. The Welshman went in, saying something to his men, who at once sat down on the ground; for the journey, with Roger's weight, had been a toilsome one. He made signs for Oswald to seat himself by the side of Roger. The latter was now perfectly sensible.

"What has happened, master?" he asked.

"We have been badly beaten, Roger; but when I last saw them our men had got together, and were fighting their way along the road. I fancy more than half have been killed; but, as far as I could see of the field, I should say that three or four times as many Welsh had fallen."

"That was a lucky thought of yours, Sir Oswald, about that chain."

"I had always an idea that it might be found useful; and it at once occurred to me, as soon as I recovered my senses."

"Are you wounded, too?" Roger asked anxiously.

"No. I was beaten down by a heavy club, and my head still rings from the blow. Otherwise, I am uninjured."

"What has happened to me, master?"

"You had an arrow through your neck, Roger; but fortunately it was on one side. An inch to the right, and it would have struck your spine, or perhaps gone through your windpipe. As it is, it does not seem to have done much harm. Very little blood flowed when I pulled the arrow out. You have got a bad gash on the back of the head, but your head piece broke the force of the blow. It has laid your skull bare, but has not, so far as I can see, penetrated it."

"Then we need think no more about it," Roger said.

"Well, that was a fight! The one we had at Knighton was as nothing to it."

"Yes, I think that even you could not want a harder one, Roger."

"No; this was quite enough for one day's work. I should like a drink of water, if I could get one."

Oswald made signs to one of the men, who went into the house and returned with a large jug of water, of which Roger took a deep draught; and Oswald then finished the contents, for he, too, was parched with thirst.

Half an hour later a tall man, in full armour, followed by a number of Welsh chiefs, issued from the forest. He was some five-and-forty years old, and of noble presence. The leader of the party who had brought Oswald up advanced to meet him; and, saluting him most respectfully, spoke to him for a moment, and then produced the chain. Glendower -- for it was the prince -- examined it, and then at once walked up to Oswald, who had risen to his feet.

"How became you possessed of this, Sir Knight?"

"It was given me by one of your daughters, sir. I and my squire, here, were on guard round your house, on the night after the Earl of Talbot took it. We were at some distance from the other guards, when two figures rose from the bushes near us. We pursued them and, coming up to them, found they were two ladies; and they at once avowed that they were your daughters. My instructions were to watch and see that no Welshmen approached the house; and nought had been said to me of arresting any leaving it, seeing that it was not supposed that any were there.

"I war not with women. Being myself from Northumbria, I have no enmity with your people. Therefore I let them proceed on their way -- a breach of duty for which, doubtless, I should have suffered, had it been known. Happily, none but my follower here, who was then but a man-at-arms, and I a squire, knew of it; and to this moment I have spoken of it to no one. As they left us, one of the ladies gave me this chain, saying that some day it might be of use to me, should I ever fall into the hands of their people. I have carried it on my wrist, ever since; and when your follower came up, and I saw the necessity had arisen, I showed it to him."

"I have heard the story from my daughters," Glendower said warmly, holding out his hand. "They told me how courteously you had treated them, and that you had refused to accept the jewels they offered you. They said that you had also declined to tell them your name, as it might do you injury, should it become known; and I have often regretted that I did not know the name of the gentleman who had behaved so nobly to them, and had saved them from an English prison. Had they been captured, it would have been a sore blow to me, not only in my affections but to my cause; for, had he held them in his power, Henry could have put a heavy pressure upon me. May I ask, now, what is your name, Sir Knight?"

"Sir Oswald Forster. I was, at that time, a squire of Sir Henry Percy's."

"Of Hotspur!" Glendower said, in surprise. "I did not know that we had levies from the north fighting against us."

"You have not, sir. I had simply been sent, with twenty men-at-arms, by Sir Henry to Sir Edmund Mortimer -- who is, as you are doubtless aware, of kin to Sir Henry, who had married his sister -- and was sent by Sir Edmund to join the Earl of Talbot and Lord Grey, when they made that foray upon your house. After that I returned to the north; but was, some months since, again sent to Ludlow, to keep Sir Henry informed of the doings on this border."

"But I had heard that Mortimer had sent no troops to Henry's army."

"That is so, sir. I am here by an accident. A despatch came from London to Ludlow for the king, and as there was no other way of forwarding it, I volunteered to carry it here, and succeeded in doing so: for which service the king conferred knighthood upon me, upon my arrival, ten days since."

"Ah, then, it was you that I heard of! I was told that two great men had been seen in the woods, some distance south of the camp; and that they had succeeded in making their escape, after slaying five of my followers; and that, though none knew for certain, it was supposed they had reached Henry's camp."

"You are right, sir. The two men were my companion, here, and myself."

"It was a notable feat. I think not that any other messenger has got through my scouts, since the king left Welshpool. You must be swift of foot, as well as brave and courteous; for I heard that you had outrun the greatest part of those who followed you."

"We in the north have to be swift of foot," Oswald said, with a smile, "for the Scots keep us in practice; either in escaping them, when they come in too great a force to be resisted; or in following them, when it is our turn to pursue.

"I trust, sir, that you will put myself and my squire to ransom, and will take my word for the payment; for, until I go north, I have no means of satisfying it."

"That will I not," Glendower said. "Or rather, I will take a ransom; since, were I to release you without one, it might cause surprise and inquiry; and it were well that your noble conduct to my daughters should not be known, for Henry would not be likely to regard it favourably. Therefore we will put you to ransom at the sum of a crown for yourself, and a penny for your squire."

"I thank you, indeed, sir, and shall ever feel beholden to you; and I will, moreover, give you my knightly word that, whatever service I may have to perform, I will never again war with the Welsh.

"May I ask if any of our party succeeded in reaching Llanidloes?"

"Yes, some sixty or seventy of them got in. They fought very well; and indeed, in close combat my Welshmen cannot, at present, hold their own against your armour-clad men. Still, though it would have pleased me better had we annihilated the force, our success has been sufficient to give Henry another lesson that, though he may march through Wales, he holds only the ground on which he has encamped.

"Now, Sir Oswald, I pray you to enter my abode. 'Tis a poor place, indeed, after my house in the Vale of the Bards; but it suffices for my needs."

Before entering, he gave orders that Roger should be carried to an upper room, and despatched a messenger to order his own leech, as soon as he had done with the wounded, to come up and attend to him. Then he led the way into a room, where a meal was prepared. In a few words in Welsh he explained to his chiefs, who had been much surprised at the manner in which he had received Oswald, that the young knight had, at one time, rendered a great service to his daughters, Jane and Margaret; but without mentioning its precise nature. His experience had taught him that even those most attached to his cause might yet turn against him; and were they to relate the story, it might do serious injury to Oswald.

"You must, on your way back," he said presently to the young knight, "call and see my daughters; who are at present staying with their sister, who is married to Adda ap Iorwerth Ddu. They would be aggrieved, indeed, if they heard that you had been here, and that I had not given them the opportunity of thanking you, in person."

Oswald remained for a fortnight with Glendower, while Roger's wound was healing. At the end of that time he learned that Henry, having marched into Cardigan and ravaged the country there, was already retiring; his army having suffered terribly from the effects of the weather, the impossibility of obtaining supplies, and the constant and harassing attacks by the Welsh.

Glendower was often absent, but when at the house he conversed freely with Oswald, who was no longer surprised at the influence that he had obtained over his countrymen. His manners were courteous in the extreme, and his authority over his followers absolute. They not only reverenced him as their prince, the representative of their ancient kings, and their leader in war, but as one endowed with supernatural power.

The bards had fanned this feeling to the utmost, by their songs of marvels and portents at his birth, and by attributing to him a control even over the elements. This belief was not only of great importance to him, as binding his adherents closer to him; but it undoubtedly contributed to his success, from the fact of its being fully shared in by the English soldiery; who assigned it as the cause of the exceptionally bad weather that had been experienced, in each of the three expeditions into the country, and of the failure to accomplish anything of importance against him.

This side of the character of Glendower puzzled Oswald. Several times, when talking to him, he distinctly claimed supernatural powers; and from the tone in which he spoke, and the strange expression his face at this time assumed, Oswald was convinced that he sincerely believed that he did possess these powers. Whether he originally did so; or whether it had arisen from the adulation of the bards, the general belief in it, and the successes he had gained; Oswald could not determine. Later, when Glendower sullied his fair fame by the most atrocious massacres, similar to that which had already taken place at the storming of New Radnor -- atrocities that seemed not only purposeless, but at utter variance with the courtesy and gentleness of his bearing -- Oswald came to believe that his brain had, to some extent, become unhinged by excitement, flattery, and superstition.

At the end of the fortnight Roger's wound, although not completely healed, was in such a state that it permitted his sitting on horseback, and Oswald became anxious to be off. Glendower, who was about to set out to harass the rear of the army, as it retired from Cardiganshire, at once offered to send a strong escort with him; as it would have been dangerous, in the extreme, to have attempted to traverse the country without such a protection. Two excellent horses, that had been captured in the engagement with the English, were handed over to him, for his own use and that of Roger. Oswald's own armour was returned to him, and he was pleased to find that it had been carefully attended to, and was as brightly burnished as when it came into his possession.

When Glendower bid them adieu, he presented each of them with rings, similar to those he himself wore.

"You have promised that you will not fight against me again; but it may be that, on some errand or other, you may ride into Wales; or that you may be staying, as you did before, at some castle or town near the border, when we attack it. You have but to show these rings to any Welshman you may come across, and you may be sure of being well treated, as one of my friends.

"I trust that, when we meet again, the war will be over; and that my title to the kingdom of Wales may be recognized, by your king and people, as it is on this side of the border."

"Well, Sir Oswald," Roger said, as they rode away, accompanied by twenty of Glendower's followers, under the orders of an officer; "we have got out of that scrape better than could have been expected. When you and I were alone, in the midst of that crowd of Welshmen, I thought that it was all over with us."

"So did I, Roger. You see, that matter of our getting Glendower's daughters away, uninjured, has borne good fruit."

"It has indeed," Roger agreed. "I thought it much more likely, too, that it would have gone the other way."

"Be sure you keep a silent tongue as to that, Roger; and remember that our story is, that I have been put at knightly ransom, and on the condition that I will never serve in Wales again. When we once get across the border we will ride straight for Northumberland, without going near Ludlow. I observed that the king much doubted the Mortimers, and were we to return there, and the news came to his ears, he might take it as a proof that there was an understanding between Glendower and Mortimer; and that it was to this that leniency, such as had been shown to no other prisoners, was due; whereas, if we go straight to Percy, 'tis not likely that the matter will ever come to his hearing, and at any rate, if it did so, he would scarce connect Mortimer with our escape."

"I understand, Sir Oswald; and will, you may be sure, keep silent as to aught beyond what you have bade me say."

Two days' journey brought them to the house of Glendower's married daughter. On the officer stating that the knight with him had been sent, under his escort, by Glendower himself, she requested that he should be shown in. Her husband was away.

"What is the knight's name?" she asked.

"Sir Oswald Forster, Lady."

"I have never, so far as I know, heard it before. Methought that he might be one whom I may have met, in the houses of my two sisters married to Englishmen, in Hereford; but I have no memory of the name. Show him in, sir."

Roger had removed Oswald's helmet, while the officer was away.

"Come with me, Roger," he said, "since we were both concerned in this affair."

He bowed deeply to the Lady Isabel; who, as she returned his salute, saw with surprise that his face was quite strange to her.

"It seems, Sir Oswald," she said, "from the tenor of the message given me by the officer, that you have come to me as a visitor; and that 'tis as an escort, only, that he has been sent with you?"

"That is so, Lady; but 'tis as a visitor rather to your sisters, the Ladies Jane and Margaret, that I am here. I had, once, the pleasure of meeting them."

Glendower's daughter at once told a maid, who was working with her when the officer had entered, to request her sisters to come to her; and these entered the room a minute later.

Isabel, seeing that they did not appear to recognize the young knight, said:

"Our father has sent this gentleman, Sir Oswald Forster, whom you know, to visit you."

The two girls looked with surprise at Oswald.

"Do you not know this gentleman?" their sister asked, in equal surprise.

"He is not known to us," Jane replied. "I have never seen him before -- at least, that I can remember."

"We have met before, nevertheless, Lady," Oswald said, with a smile; "though it may well be that you do not remember my face, or that of my squire there; seeing that we were together but a few minutes, and that in the moonlight."

The girls looked up at him puzzled, and then their eyes fell upon Roger.

"Now I know!" Margaret exclaimed. "Look at the squire's height. Surely, Jane, these are the two soldiers who allowed us to pass them, that night when we fled from Sycharth."

"That is so," Oswald said. "I thought that you were more likely to recognize my squire than myself, seeing that I have grown several inches since then, and have but lately assumed this knightly armour in which you see me."

"Oh, sir," Jane said, going swiftly up to him and holding out her hand, which he raised to his lips; as he did that of Margaret, as she followed her sister; "we have thought of you so often, and have prayed that you should both be rewarded for your kindness to us! How glad I am to see you again, and have an opportunity of thanking you!

"You have heard, Isabel, of our adventure, and how we escaped, by the kindness of two Englishmen on guard near the edge of the forest, from being carried as prisoners to London; where, but for them, we should now be lodged in some dungeon of the usurper; but till now, I have never known the name of our preserver.

"Thanks also to you, good squire," she said, turning to Roger.

"I but carried out the orders of my master," Roger said, colouring like a boy, as she held out her hand to him. "There is no credit due to me."

"But how came you here?" Lady Isabel asked Oswald.

"Your sisters have, although they know it not, more than repaid their obligations to me; for while they may perhaps owe their liberty to me, I owe my life to them.

"See, ladies," and he turned to Jane, "there is the chain you gave me. I have worn it, always, on my wrist. I and my squire were beaten down by, your father's followers; my squire grievously wounded and insensible, while I had been left for dead, though but stunned from a blow. I luckily recovered my senses, just as those employed in despatching the wounded came up; and, happily remembering your bracelet, I took it off and held it up, calling out your father's name.

"Struck, I suppose, by the action and words, an officer examined the bracelet closely; and, making out the inscription on the clasp, had my squire and myself taken to the house where your father lodged, so that the manner of my being possessed of the trinket might be explained. On your father's return he recognized it; and, having heard from you the circumstances of our meeting, treated us with the greatest kindness and hospitality; and freed us without ransom, save a nominal one in order that, on my return, I could say that I had been put to ransom. On the recovery of my squire from his wounds, he restored our armour to us, presented us with horses, and sent us here under escort, deeming that you might be glad to see us."

"There he was indeed right," Jane said. "We have oft regretted that you would not accept a more valuable jewel than that little chain, which was given to me by my father, when I was but a child. But 'tis well, indeed, that you so withstood us; for had it been any other of our jewels but this, it would not have been recognized."

"That is so, Lady and, since my capture, I often thought that it was strange it so happened."

After staying a day there, Oswald continued his journey; to the regret of the ladies, who were glad to hear that he would never again fight against the Welsh. His escort accompanied him, as near the border as it was safe for them to go. The next day they rode into Chester, and then, by easy stages, up to Alnwick.

Oswald went to Hotspur's apartments, as soon as he entered the castle.

"I congratulate you heartily," Hotspur said, as he entered. "I see that you have won your spurs. I said to myself, when I received your letter, saying that you were starting to carry a letter to the king, that your enterprise would bring you either death or a pair of gold spurs. I am glad, indeed, to see that it was the latter.

"I hear that the king's army is falling back. A messenger brought me news from my kinsman. He said that it was but a rumour that had reached him; but that it seemed likely enough, for it was said that they had suffered terribly, both from the weather and the attacks of the Welsh."

"That rumour is true, Sir Henry, and also that the army is retiring."

"And they have done no more than they did before?"

"No more, indeed, Sir Henry. They have burnt many villages, and slain many Welshmen; but they have done nothing, whatever, towards subduing Glendower."



Chapter 19: The Battle Of Homildon Hill.


"But how have you made your way back, ahead of the army?" Hotspur asked, after Oswald had given him full information as to the military operations.

"Roger and I were left for dead, in that fight I have told you of, near Llanidloes; and we fell into the hands of the Welsh, and were taken before Glendower, who treated us well, and put me to ransom, with the engagement that I was not again to bear arms, in Wales."

"That was a strange leniency, on his part," Hotspur exclaimed; "for I hear he puts to the sword all who fall into his hands, without any regard for the rules of civilized war."

"He is a strange man, Sir Henry, and subject, I fancy, to changeable moods. When I was brought before him he was in a happy one, over the success he had gained; and it may be that he took a liking for me. At any rate, he fixed my ransom at a very small sum."

"Which I will, of course, pay," Hotspur said, "since you were my squire, and were at Ludlow on my service."

"I thank you much, Sir Henry, but 'tis so small a sum that I myself discharged it, without difficulty."

"'Tis strange, most strange, that you should have gone into the lion's den, and have come out unscathed. Strange, indeed, that Glendower, who, as we know, is greatly in want of money, should have fixed your ransom at a low sum. How much was it, Sir Oswald?"

"I will tell you the story, Sir Henry, though I would tell no one else; for my freedom is due to something that happened, nigh two years ago, when I was first with Sir Edmund Mortimer. I failed in what was my strict duty, although I disobeyed no orders that I had received, and my conscience altogether acquits me of wrong."

"You may be sure, Sir Oswald, that the matter will go no further; and knowing you as I do, I feel sure that, whatever the matter was, it was not to your discredit."

"So I trust, myself, my lord; but it might have cost me my head, had the king come to know it. I will first tell you that my ransom was fixed at a crown, and that of Roger at a penny."

Hotspur, who had been looking a little grave, laughed.

"Surely never before was so much bone and sinew appraised at so small a sum."

"It was so put, simply that I might, with truth, avow that I was put to ransom. However, I paid the crown and the penny, and have so discharged my obligations.

"This was how the matter came about;" and he related the whole circumstances to Sir Henry; and the manner in which the little chain, given to him by Glendower's daughter, had been the means of saving his life.

"I blame you in no way, Sir Oswald," Hotspur said cordially, when he had heard the story; "though I say not that the king would have viewed the matter in the same light. Still, you held to the letter of your orders. You were placed there to give warning of the approach of any hostile body, and naught was said to you as to letting any man, still less any women, depart from the place. But indeed, how could I blame you? Since heaven itself has assoiled you. For assuredly it was not chance that placed on your arm the little trinket that, alone, could have saved your life from the Welsh.

"Now to yourself, Sir Oswald. You will, I hope, continue my knight, as you have been my squire."

"Assuredly, Sir Henry, I have never thought of anything else."

"Very well, then; I will, as soon as may be, appoint to you a double knight's feu. I say a double feu, because I should like to have you as one of the castle knights, and so have much larger service from you, than that which a knight can be called upon to render, for an ordinary feu. I will bid Father Ernulf look through the rolls, and see what feus are vacant. One of these I will make an hereditary feu, to pass down from you to your heirs, irrevocably; the other will be a service feu, to support the expenses caused by your extra services, and revocable under the usual conditions."

A week later there was a formal ceremonial at the castle, and in the presence of the earl, Hotspur, and the knights and gentlemen of their service, Oswald took the oath of allegiance to Sir Henry Percy; and afterwards, as required by law, to the king; and received from Hotspur deeds appointing him to two knight's feus, including the villages of Stoubes and Rochester, in Reddesdale. There were, at the time, six knight's feus vacant; and as Percy had left it to him to choose which he liked, he had selected these, as they lay but a twelve miles' ride, over the hills, from his father's place in Coquetdale.

The oath of allegiance to the king, as well as to the feudal lord, was enacted by Henry the Second; with the intention of curbing, to some extent, the power of the great vassals; but although taken by all knights, on being presented with a feu, it was deemed of no effect in the case of the immediate lord being at war with the king; and whenever troubles arose, the lord's vassals always sided with him, it being universally understood that the oath to him, from whom they had received their land, was paramount over that to the king.

There having been several formalities to be observed, and matters to be discussed, Oswald was unable to ride home until after this ceremony had taken place; but upon the following morning he and Roger started early, and arrived, that evening, at Yardhope. His welcome was a warm one, and the satisfaction of his father, and the delight of his mother, at seeing him in knightly armour was great, indeed; and it increased when he told them that he had received knighthood at the hands of the king himself, and that Hotspur had granted him the feus of Stoubes and Rochester.

"Then we shall have you within a ride of us," his mother exclaimed. "That will be pleasant, indeed."

"The feus have always gone together," John Forster said, "and Stoubes castle, although small, is a strong one. How many tenants will you have?"

"Twenty-three. That, at least, was the number of names set down in the parchments."

"That is not bad, as a beginning. Of course, you will keep some ten or twelve retainers in the castle; and with such men as will come in from the villages, at the approach of danger, you will be able to muster fifty or sixty in all for the defence."

"I shall live chiefly at Alnwick, Father. Rochester is given to me as an hereditary feu, but I shall hold Stoubes for extra service at the castle; and I have little doubt that Percy will, if I do him good service, make it also hereditary. He as much as said so."

"It will make a good portion, lad. Yardhope is a knight's feu, though I have never taken up the knighthood; and the Percys know that I should fight just as stoutly, as John Forster, as if I wore knightly armour; but though the lands are wide they are poor, while yours are fertile, lying down by the river. Moreover, Coquetdale is more liable to Scotch incursions than Reddesdale, as the road into Scotland runs along it. If needs be we can lend a hand to each other; though, both together, we could not hold either your place or mine against a strong invasion.

"Now, tell us how it was that you won your spurs; and how it was that the king, himself, knighted you."

"After I have eaten and drank I will do so, Father; for indeed, Roger and I are well-nigh famishing."

After the meal, he related the whole story of his adventures.

"Well, lad, you were in luck," his father said, when he had finished. "The help you gave those maidens might have brought your head to the block; but it turned out well, and was the saving of your life, so I will say nought against the deed; especially as you owed no allegiance either to Mortimer or to Talbot, and were, save for the orders that Hotspur had given you, your own master."

Two days later, having sent over, on the morning after his arrival, a message to the tenants to present themselves at Stoubes to take their oaths to him, Oswald, accompanied by his father, rode into Reddesdale. He found the castle a much stronger place than Yardhope, which was but a fortified house; while this was a moated building, with strong walls and flanking towers, and a keep that could be held successfully, even if the walls were captured by a sudden assault.

At twelve o'clock the tenants assembled. Oswald read to them the two parchments, and they then took the oaths to him. They were well satisfied to have a young knight as their lord; for the feus had been held by a minor, who had died two years before; and had not been at the castle since he was taken away, as a child, to be brought up at the town of Alnwick, where he had remained under the eye of the Percys. It had long been understood, however, that the feu would not be granted to him; for he was weakly from his birth, and wholly unfitted for the charge of a castle, so near the Scottish border.

According to feudal usage, each tenant expected that he would be called upon to pay a heavy sum, under the name of a relief, as was customary in the case of a new lord taking possession; and they were greatly relieved when Oswald told them that, as he already possessed armour and horses, he would quit them for a fourth part of the usual amount; although he should, of course, require their services to enable him to repair such dilapidations as the castle had suffered, during the long term that it had stood empty.

For the next three months, he stayed in Stoubes. Roger had been sent off at once, with two men-at-arms, to bring the horses and armour that had been left at Welshpool; bearing a letter to the governor from Oswald, thanking him much for having taken care of them, and saying briefly that he had been left on the field for dead, after the fight near Llanidloes; but had recovered, and been well treated by Glendower, who had put him to ransom. He took money with him, to pay the expenses for the keep of the horses; and returned, with them and the armour, after an absence of three weeks.

Passing through Worcester on his way back, he had, at Oswald's order, purchased for himself clothes suitable for his position as an esquire. As for armour, it had been arranged that he should have it made for him at Alnwick, as it would be difficult to obtain a suit sufficiently large for him.

At the end of the three months the necessary repairs to the castle were finished. The gates had been greatly strengthened with thick bands of iron, the moat cleared out, and at various points the defences had been strengthened. The small amount of furniture then deemed necessary still remained there and, where needful, had been repaired and put in good order. Eight men-at-arms had been taken by Oswald into his service, and a trusty man appointed as seneschal.

Then, after paying another visit to Yardhope, Oswald rode, with Roger and two well-mounted men-at-arms, to Alnwick.

It was now April, and bad news had just arrived. Glendower had commenced the campaign with great vigour, as the appearance of a comet had been interpreted, by the bards, as an omen most favourable to him, and his force had greatly increased during the winter. He had destroyed the houses and strong places of all Welshmen who had not taken up arms at his orders, and had closely blockaded Carnarvon. He marched to Bangor, levelled the cathedral, and that of Saint Asaph, by fire, burnt the episcopal palaces and canons' houses. So formidable did he become that the king issued writs, to the lieutenants of no fewer than thirty-four counties, to assemble their forces at Lichfield, to crush Glendower.

The latter had now taken the offensive, and advanced towards Hereford, and carried fire and sword through Mortimer's lands. Sir Edmund gathered his own and his nephew's tenants and retainers, from Herefordshire and Radnorshire, and advanced against Glendower. The armies met on the 22nd of June, 1402, at a short distance from Knighton. The battle was obstinately fought, but was decided by the desertion of the Welsh tenants, and by the Welsh bowmen in Mortimer's service turning their bows against his men-at-arms; and, finally, the English were defeated, with the loss of eleven hundred men, Sir Edmund himself being made a prisoner.

After the battle the Welsh behaved with the greatest savagery; killing all the wounded, stripping the fallen, and horribly mutilating their bodies. The news created great excitement at Alnwick and, had not the situation in the north been critical, Percy would have gathered his forces and marched, with all speed, to avenge the defeat and capture of his brother-in-law.

The Earl of Dunbar, with many of the tenants of his former estates, and numbers of the English borderers, had entered Scotland and carried out considerable raids. In revenge for this, Douglas despatched Thomas Halliburton and Patrick Hepburn, each with a considerable force, to invade Northumberland. Halliburton ravaged the country as far as Bamborough, collected great spoils, and returned with them. Hepburn, who had a still larger force, penetrated farther into England, carried his ravages to within a few miles of Alnwick; and then retired north, with an enormous amount of booty.

When, however, he had crossed the border into the country known as the Merse, north of Berwick, the Earl of Dunbar fell upon him at West Nesbit, and completely defeated him. Hepburn himself, with a large number of his men, fell in the battle; and many important prisoners were captured. This battle was fought on the same day that Glendower defeated Mortimer.

The victory caused great exultation on the border; but Alwyn said to his nephew:

"Although this is good, as far as it goes, Oswald, you may be sure that Douglas will not brook this disaster with patience, but will gather the Scottish forces; and we may expect him, ere long, at the head of twenty thousand men, and we shall have a fight as stiff as that of Otterburn. We shall have Northumberland ablaze, and you will see that the earl and Hotspur will soon be preparing to meet the storm.

"These last forays took them by surprise; and, as lords of the marches, they have suffered serious humiliation, for this victory was not theirs, but the work of Dunbar; and had he not intercepted the Scots, on their own side of the border, they would have returned, scatheless, with the spoils of our northern districts. This disgrace will spur them on to make great efforts, and these will be needed, or we shall see Northumberland, Cumberland, and Durham in flames."

Alwyn was not mistaken. Messengers were sent off to all those holding knights' feus, throughout the county, bidding them to prepare to answer to the Percy's call; and to hold themselves, and their tenants, in readiness to march to any point fixed upon for a general rendezvous. They were to warn all the countryside that, directly news arrived that the Scots were in motion, they were to drive their cattle and horses to the nearest fortified town, or to take them to hiding places among the hills. Everything of value was to be taken away, or hidden, so that the enemy should find but empty houses.

Oswald rode to Yardhope, with the message to his father.

"I know, Father," he said, "that it needed not to warn you; but as it was but a short distance out of my way to come round here, I thought that I would pay you a day's visit."

"No, lad; directly I heard of the victory of Dunbar, I said to myself, this will bring the Scots upon us in force. Douglas will never put up with the defeat, and will make every effort to turn the tables. I shall send all there is worth taking away, to a shepherd's hut among the fells; and shall, as soon as I hear that Douglas's preparations are well-nigh complete, journey with your mother to Alnwick, and leave her there. I shall return, and with my men will drive the cattle and horses to places where there is little chance of the Scots finding them; and will then, after leaving three or four men to look after them, come back to Alnwick.

"What do you propose to do?"

"I shall do much the same, Father. Stoubes is strong enough to hold out against any ordinary raid, but not against an army led by Douglas. I shall remove the furnishing and tapestry, and shall send the most valuable into Alnwick, and have the rest of them hidden in the woods. These are the orders that have been sent, all along the border. Any whose places are so strong that they may well defend themselves, for some time, are to gather all their neighbours there. The rest are to repair to Alnwick, to join Percy's force.

"You see, there is no knowing where the storm may break. The Scots may cross the Cheviots anywhere between Berwick and Carlisle; and, until their movements are known, the earl and Hotspur must keep their forces at Alnwick, in readiness to march wheresoever required.

"Hotspur has sent messengers down to the Midlands, to engage as many archers as he can get. Of course, we have many here; but the borderers are spearmen rather than archers, and it were well to strengthen our force. Still, however large a force he may raise, we cannot hope to check their first incursion. The whole country is open to them and, if they enter near Carlisle, they may be in the heart of Cumberland, or Durham, before we are fairly in motion. We may count, however, on meeting them as they retire, if not before."

Oswald then rode to his own place, bade all the tenants prepare to ride with him to Alnwick, at an hour's notice; and either to send their women and children on there, as soon as it was known that the Scotch army was gathering strongly on the border; or else to gather stores of provisions, up in the hills, and to send the women and children there, the moment word came that the Scots were on the move.

The news of Mortimer's defeat and capture had been received, by the time Oswald returned to Alnwick.

"'Tis bad news, indeed," Percy said to him, "and I know that, as you have been staying so long at Ludlow, you will be deeply grieved at the misfortune that has befallen Mortimer. However, I doubt not that he will soon be ransomed. I know that the king appointed a commission of knights, to treat at once with Glendower for Lord Grey's ransom, and has given orders for the raising of the great sum demanded. It is to be gathered from a tax on church properties, and in other ways; and doubtless he will do the same for Mortimer, whose lands have been so harried, by the Welsh, that it will be impossible to raise any large sum from the tenants."

"I fear, Sir Henry," Oswald said, "that the king will be lukewarm on the subject. During his three invasions, he has never once summoned Sir Edmund to join him; nor has he passed through Ludlow, as he might well have done, seeing that it is a central position, and the nearest way for an army marching towards Plinlimmon. I remarked, too, that when I mentioned Mortimer's name in my discourse with him, the king's brow clouded, as if ill pleased at the name."

"Then he acts wrongly," Hotspur said angrily. "Mortimer has given no cause for offence. He has never, in any way, upheld the cause of the young Earl of March; and knows, well enough, that it would be madness to set up his claim to the throne, when Henry has given no cause for complaint, and that the boy's existence seems to be well-nigh forgotten by the country.

"However, as soon as this business is over I will, myself, to London; and will beg the king to exercise the same benevolence, in the case of Mortimer, as he has shown on behalf of Lord Grey. Why, he might as well suspect us, to whom he largely owes his kingdom, as Mortimer, seeing that my wife is aunt to the young earl."

Early in August it became known that preparations were being made, upon a great scale, by Douglas for the invasion of England; and that, as Military Governor of Scotland, he had summoned all the great nobles to join, with their forces; and it was even said that numbers of French knights were, on account of the long friendship between France and Scotland, crossing the seas, to fight under Douglas against their old enemies.

"Methinks," Hotspur said to his knights, "there can be little doubt that there is an agreement between Scotland and Glendower; and this would account for the fury the Welshmen have been showing, and the manner in which they have destroyed the cathedrals, churches, and castles alike; and so forced Henry to march against them, with the forces of the greater part of England, just when Douglas is preparing to assail us here.

"The forces of Westmoreland, Cumberland, Durham, and Northumberland, if together, might hope to make a stout resistance, even against so large a force as Douglas is collecting; but we cannot so gather. The Earl of Westmoreland, who commands the forces of his own county and Cumberland, must needs hold them together; lest the Scots pour down, besiege Carlisle, and carry fire and sword through those counties.

"From here up to Berwick the country has been so plundered, and devastated, that it is almost a desert; and I can draw no strength from there. As to Durham, they urge, and with some truth that, as the Scots have, before now, laid portions of their county waste, they cannot send their forces so far north as this place; as it would leave them unprotected, should the enemy march through Tynedale into their county.

"The king has entered Wales with the fighting men of thirty-four counties, so from him no aid can be expected; and it seems to me that we shall be quite unable to make head against the invasion; though assuredly, when we have gathered our forces, and are joined by those Dunbar will bring us, we will meet them as they return, spoil laden, to the border."

Well-mounted messengers had been placed on every road by which the Scots could cross the border; and on the 18th of August, one came with the news that, twelve hours before, they had crossed into Cumberland at Kirksop Foot; that they were reported to be ten thousand strong; and that a dozen villages were already in flames. Another portion of their army had crossed near Tynehead, and were pouring into Tynedale.

John Forster and his wife had arrived, some days before. Oswald had found comfortable lodgings for his mother in the town, which was already crowded with women and children from the border. His father had left again, at once; but returned, with twenty spears, twelve hours after the messenger had brought the news.

"I had two or three of my men out," he said to Oswald, as he rode in and dismounted in the castle yard; "but as soon as I heard that the Scots had entered Tynedale, I knew that it was time to be off, for they are sure to send over strong parties to ravage Coquetdale. The road was well-nigh blocked, in some places, with fugitives. In spite of the warnings that have been issued, most of the people seem to have thought that the Scots could never come in their direction, and the news has caused a panic.

"However, near the border the Scots will find but little plunder. We have had so many invasions that no man is foolish enough to spend money on aught that he cannot easily carry away, and the raiders will, there, find but empty houses. They may sweep in some of the cattle from the hills, to supply them with food on their march; but more than this they will not take, as they go south, as it would be but an encumbrance."

In a few days a strong force was collected at Alnwick; but, though chafing at the news of the terrible devastations, that were being made by the Scots in Cumberland and Durham, the Earl and Hotspur could, at present, do nothing. The invasion was, indeed, one of the most disastrous that had ever taken place; and after having almost devastated the two counties, Douglas, with the united force, and an enormous train of waggons laden with plunder, great quantities of cattle, and other spoil, turned north again, at the end of the second week of September.

In the meanwhile, Percy's force had been steadily growing. He had early resolved that upon the return of the Scots the battle must be fought, and contented himself with sending small bodies, of well-mounted knights and horsemen, to hover in the neighbourhood of the Scotch army; and to keep him informed of their intentions, and the route they seemed disposed to take.

Douglas had carried his devastations up to the walls of Newcastle, but had not attempted to attack that strongly-defended town. He had, indeed, gathered as much spoil as could possibly be taken along; and he moved north in a quiet and leisurely way, being greatly hampered by the enormous train of loaded waggons.

As soon as the Earl of Northumberland and his son saw that he intended to march up through Northumberland, instead of returning by the line that he had come through Tynedale, they set their force in motion and marched out; leaving a sufficient strength to hold Alnwick, should Douglas attack it. Being joined, two days later, by the Earl of Dunbar, they posted themselves in a position whence they could march to intercept the Scots, upon any road they might follow on their way north.

On the 12th, they learned for certain that the Scots were following the road that would take them through Wooler. Moving instantly, the Earl with his forces came up to them, posted on a hill, a mile to the northwest of Homildon. He at once seized a hill facing it, and disposed his knights, men-at-arms, and spearmen along the crest.

Hotspur would straightway have charged down, and attacked the Scots in their position; but Dunbar put his hand on his bridle, and urged him, strongly, to await the assault; and to provoke the Scots into taking the offensive by galling them with his archers, in which he was far superior to them; while, on the other hand, they were much stronger in spears and horsemen.

Hotspur, seeing the goodness of the advice, assented to it; and ordered the archers to descend, at once, into the valley between the two hills; and to launch their arrows against the Scots. On descending, it was found that the Scottish bowmen were already in the valley. These they speedily drove up the hill, and then sent their arrows thick and fast among the Scottish men-at-arms.

Douglas had, like the Earl of Dunbar, perceived at what disadvantage the party who took the offensive would have to fight; and had determined to stand on the defensive, especially as, if he moved forward, the English could detach bodies of horsemen to work round the hill, and fall upon his immense train of waggons.

For a time, he refused to accede to the earnest entreaties of his knights to advance. But as man after man fell under the English arrows, their impatience increased; until one of his best knights, Sir John Swinton, rode a few paces out of the ranks, and in a loud voice said:

"My brave comrades, what fascinates you today, that you stand like deer and fawns in a park to be shot; instead of showing your ancient valour, and meeting your foes hand to hand? Let those who will descend with me and, in the name of God, we will break that host and conquer; or if not, we will at least die with honour, like soldiers."

A mighty shout followed his words, and the whole Scottish host dashed down the hill. The English archers fell back a little, still shooting as they did so; but halted a short way up the hill, and shot so hotly and strongly that they pierced helmet and armour with their arrows.

Nothing could withstand these missiles, shot by the finest and strongest bowmen in the world. The Scots rolled over in heaps. Douglas, although clad in the most perfect steel armour, was wounded in five places, one arrow destroying the sight of one of his eyes. He fell from his horse, and utter confusion reigned in the Scottish ranks.

Swinging their bows behind them, the archers drew their axes and rushed into the crowd, effecting a terrible slaughter. Douglas was made prisoner, as was the Earl of Fife, a son of the Regent Albany, the Earls of Moray and Angus and Orkney. Two barons, eighty knights, among whom were several Frenchmen, and several other persons of rank were also captured; while Swinton, Gordon, and many other knights and gentlemen were slain, together with seven hundred of the commonalty. With the exception only of Flodden, no battle on the Border was so fatal to the Scottish nobility, whose defeat was effected by the archers only.

The confusion was so terrible that the Earl of Northumberland refused to allow his knights and men-at-arms to charge, seeing that they must trample down both friend and foe; therefore they stood as passive spectators of the desperate fight, not a lance being couched nor a blow struck by any of them. When all was over they took up the pursuit of the fugitives; many of these were overtaken and killed, and the pursuit was continued to the Tweed, where, not knowing the fords, many of the fugitives were drowned while endeavouring to swim the river.

"Roger, what say you to that?" Oswald asked, as he and his squire drew rein, after pursuing the enemy for some distance.

Roger's face expressed the strongest disgust.

"Well, Sir Oswald, I don't call it a battle, at all. Who ever heard of a battle where neither knight nor man-at-arms drew sword? 'Tis out of all reason to fight in that manner."

"Nevertheless, Roger, as we have won a great victory, what matter is it whether we or the archers bore the chief hand in it? The last battle we fought in was a different matter. We had plenty of fighting, but no victory."

"It was more to my taste, nevertheless," Roger grumbled, "even though the Welsh well nigh made an end of me; and, for myself, I could not help hoping that the archers would be beaten, and leave it to us to take our part in the fighting. They had done more than their share when they had broken the Scottish ranks, and slain I know not how many; and it would have been fair of them, after that, to draw back, and leave it to us to finish the business."

"'Tis well as it is, Roger, and for one I am well satisfied. We have given the Scots a lesson that will keep them quiet for a long time. We have recovered all the spoil they were carrying off, and we could have won nothing more, had we been in the thick of the melee, and come out of it, perhaps, sorely wounded again."

Roger, however, was by no means satisfied; and, to the end of his life, always fell into a bad temper when the battle of Homildon was spoken of.

All the prisoners of consequence were taken to Alnwick, where the army fell back; much to the disgust of some of the more eager spirits, who would fain have crossed the frontier, and made reprisals for the woes the Scots had inflicted. Northumberland, however, was well satisfied with what had been won, and did not wish to provoke the Scots to extremities; feeling that with so many of their leaders in his hands, he might be able to arrange terms that would ensure peace, for a considerable time, on the border.

The prisoners were all treated with great kindness and consideration. They were lodged in the castle, and were treated as guests rather than as prisoners.

Oswald and his father were both pleased to hear, two days after the battle, that when the Scottish dead were examined, the bodies of William Baird and ten of his kinsmen were found, lying together. They had resisted desperately to the last, refusing to surrender themselves; well knowing that their misdeeds and many depredations, in England, would bring them to the gallows, if taken alive.

"Well, Father, we shall be able to live in peace for a time, now. No doubt the Bairds have brought with them every spear they could muster, for none would willingly have stayed at home, when there was a promise of gathering so much booty; therefore their strength must be altogether broken, and it will be long, indeed, before the Bairds ride in a raid into Northumberland."

His father nodded.

"'Tis a good thing, Oswald, assuredly; though I would rather that we had had the attacking of them in their own hold. Still, at any rate, there is an end of the feud for years to come; and I shall be able to lie down to sleep, without wondering whether they will be knocking at the gate, before morning."



Chapter 20: The Percys' Discontent.


During the time that had elapsed, between his receiving the news of Mortimer's capture by Glendower, and the battle of Homildon Hill, Percy had written several times to the king, with reference to his taking the same steps to ransom Mortimer that he had taken on behalf of Lord Grey. The king, however, answered very coldly; and one of his letters more than hinted that he believed that Mortimer had voluntarily placed himself in Glendower's hands, and that an agreement existed between them. Not only was Hotspur furious at such an accusation, but the earl, himself, was deeply angered.

"'Tis past all belief," Hotspur said, "that such a charge should be made. Had Mortimer wished to join Glendower, he could have gone to him, not as a prisoner, but at the head of three thousand good fighting men. Why should he have thrown away the lives of twelve hundred of his own vassals, and those of his nephew? Nay, more, had Mortimer intended treachery, he might have marched and fallen on the rear of the king's army, entangled among the Welsh mountains and forests, while Glendower fell upon him from in front. 'Tis a lie, and bears its mark on its face; 'tis but an excuse for refusing to ransom Mortimer, who he hopes will be kept a prisoner for years, and whose estates he will thus be able to appropriate. 'Tis an insult not only to Mortimer but to us, to whom he owes his crown.

"But let him beware! Those who built up, can pull down."

The knights standing round put their hands on their sword hilts, significantly. The king was, to the followers of great barons, a person of but small consequence in comparison with their lord; and they would draw their swords, at the latter's order, as willingly against a king as against a foreign foe. That it was their duty to do so was so fully recognized that, in the troubles between the king and his nobles, while the latter were, if defeated, executed for treason, their vassals were permitted to return home unmolested; and it was not until the battle of Barnet that Edward, enraged at the humiliation that he had suffered, when he had been obliged to fly to France, gave orders that no quarter was to be shown to Warwick's vassals and retainers.

Northumberland and Hotspur were still smarting under this treatment of Mortimer when, eight days after the battle, the messenger they had despatched to the king, in Wales, with the report of their great victory, and the capture of Douglas and other important nobles, returned with an order from the king that these prisoners were not to be ransomed.

This order was received with passionate indignation by the earl and Hotspur. Although not altogether contrary to the usages of the age, since similar orders had, more than once been, issued by Edward the Third; the ransom of prisoners taken in battle was regarded as one of the most important sources of revenue, and as the means of defraying the expenses that nobles and knights were put to in aiding, with their vassals, the king in his wars. Occasionally, however, in the case of prisoners of importance, monarchs deemed it necessary, for political reasons, to forbid the ransom of prisoners.

The Scottish nobles were as indignant as the Percys. They had regarded it as a matter of course that they would be shortly liberated. Their ransom, however heavy, would be soon forthcoming; for it was one of the conditions on which land was held that, in case of the lord being taken prisoner, each of his tenants must contribute largely, in proportion to his holding, towards the payment of his ransom.

The order of the king clearly meant that they were to be taken to London and held there as hostages, perhaps for years; and so not only to ensure England against another invasion, but to further any designs of conquest that the king might entertain. With three of the great earls of Scotland -- one of them the son of the Regent -- and Douglas, the military leader of the Scots, in his hands; and with the Earl of Dunbar as his ally, Scotland would be practically at his mercy.

An important meeting was held at Alnwick, at which the Scottish nobles, the Earl of Northumberland, and Hotspur were alone present, and here matters of vital interest to the kingdom were arranged.

For six months things remained in the same state. The king's fourth expedition into Wales had effected no more than the preceding. Glendower was still virtually master of Wales. Cardiff had been burned by him, with its numerous priories and convents, with the exception of that of the Franciscans; the castle of Penmarc, and the town and castle of Abergavenny had been burned, and other strong places captured.

The Percys remained, during this time, sullen and inactive; although somewhat mollified by the thanks voted them by Parliament. The king, as a reward for their services, bestowed upon them the estates of Douglas. This, however, they treated with scorn, for as well might he have presented to them the city of Naples or Paris; since, unless all Scotland was conquered, they could not come into peaceful mastership of the Douglas estates. Nor, indeed, could the king have intended it in earnest; for he was far too politic to think of adding so great an increase of territory to the estates of the Percys, who had already shown their power by placing him on the throne, and who might some day take back what they had given him, by declaring in favour of the Earl of March.

One day in February, 1403, Oswald was summoned from Stoubes to Alnwick and, on his arrival there, was requested to go to the earl's chamber. Such a summons was extremely unusual. Hotspur had his own estates, and his own retinue and following; and was, jointly with his father, warden of the marches; and though he dwelt, generally, with him at Alnwick, he had his own portion of the castle. Thus it was seldom that the earl had any communication with Hotspur's knights.

Hastening to obey, Oswald found Hotspur with his father.

"I have a mission for you, Sir Oswald," Hotspur said, "on the part of the earl and myself. You know that, for a long time, there has been a disputation between my father and the Earl of Westmoreland, respecting the Scottish prisoners. The earl sent a small force to fight under me at Homildon, but it was a mere handful; and on the strength of this he advanced a claim to a considerable share of the ransoms of the prisoners; or, since they could not be ransomed, to the custody of the persons of the Earls of Moray and Angus. The king has now, contrary to all reason, inflicted upon us the indignity of appointing four commissioners, two of whom are but knights and the other two men of no consequence, to inquire into the question between my father and my uncle, the Earl of Westmoreland.

"Does he think that two of his earls are going to submit themselves to so gross an indignity? -- we, who are as much masters in the north of England as he is in the south -- and even that he owes to us. I have ridden over and seen Westmoreland, who is as indignant as we are, and we at once arranged the little matter in which we are at variance, and agreed upon common measures.

"But this is not all. Seeing that the king absolutely refused to do to Mortimer the same service that he did to Lord Grey, whose ransom he has now paid -- and who, by the way, has married Glendower's daughter, Jane -- Mortimer's vassals, with some aid from ourselves, have raised the money required to free Mortimer. Now the king has interfered, and has given orders that such ransom shall not be paid. 'Tis evident that he determines to drive us to extremities.

"I tell you these things, in order that you may see how intolerable the condition of affairs has become. My father and myself believe that it is the judgment of heaven upon us, for having helped to dethrone King Richard, the lawful sovereign of this country, and to place this usurper on the throne. Even had Richard's conduct rendered his deposition necessary, we did wrong in passing over the lawful heir, the young Earl of March. 'Tis true he was but a child, at that time; but he is older now, and we feel shame that he should be kept as a prisoner, by Henry. Had not the king perjured himself, we should not have been led into this error; for, before we assisted him, he swore a great oath that he had no intention of gaining the throne, but only to regain his own dukedom of Lancaster. It was on that ground that we lent him our aid; and now, forsooth, this perjured usurper treats us, who made him, as dirt under his feet!

"We are resolved to suffer it no longer; and since we may not ransom Mortimer, we will secure his freedom in other ways, and for this you may give us your aid."

"Assuredly, Sir Henry, and my Lord Earl," Oswald, who was deeply indignant at the unworthy treatment of his lords, replied hotly. "My life is at your service."

"I expected nothing else," Hotspur said, warmly. "The matter stands thus. Owen Glendower was a warm partisan of King Richard, and was one of the few who remained faithful to the end; thereby incurring the deep hostility of Henry, and of his adherent Lord Grey. It was for this his lands were unjustly seized, for this that Henry's parliament refused to accede to his complaints, and so drove him to take up arms. Thus, then, in an enterprise against Henry, Glendower is our natural ally; and we intend to propose to him that alliance, undertaking that, if he will give us aid, his claim to the crown of Wales shall be acknowledged, and that he shall govern his country without interference from England.

"There is none who could carry out this negotiation so well as yourself, since you can, by virtue of that ring he gave you, pass unarmed to him; while any other knight would be assuredly slain. You will bear a letter, signed by the earl and myself, offering him our friendship and alliance, on those terms; and explain to him, more fully, the manner in which we have been driven to throw off Henry's authority. You can tell him that we shall proclaim the Earl of March lawful king; and if he agrees to join in our project, which would be clearly both to his liking and advantage, it would be as well that he should, as soon as we move, which may not be for some time yet, release Sir Edmund Mortimer; who, as the boy's uncle, will assuredly raise his vassals on his behalf, now that Henry has shown such animosity against him."

"I will gladly undertake the mission, my lord; and all the more gladly, since it may lead to the liberation of Sir Edmund Mortimer, who treated me with the greatest kindness and condescension, during my stay at Ludlow."

"Prepare to start tomorrow, then," the earl said. "The letter shall be ready for you tonight; and beyond what my son has told you, you can tell Glendower that we have good hopes of large help from Scotland; with whom, it is said, he is already in alliance."

The next morning Oswald started, taking no one but Roger with him. He had, the evening before, told his squire only that he was starting on a journey; promising to tell him more, as they rode. Accordingly, when well away from Alnwick, he beckoned to Roger to bring up his horse alongside of him.

"Where think you that we are going, Roger? I will give you fifty guesses, and would warrant that you would not come at the truth."

"It matters nothing to me, master; so that I ride with you, I am content."

"You know, Roger, how grievously the king has treated the Percys; how he has prevented their taking ransom for their prisoners, and has refused to ransom Sir Edmund Mortimer; how he, in bitter jest, offered the earl the estates of Douglas; and how he has put upon them the indignity of sending four men, of no import, to decide upon their difference with Westmoreland?"

"Ay, ay, Sir Oswald, everyone knows this, and not a few have wondered that the Percys have suffered these things, in quietness."

"A fresh thing has happened, Roger. The tenants of Mortimer, with aid from the earl and Hotspur, have raised the sum that Glendower demanded as ransom; and now the king has laid on them his order, that this money is not to be paid."

"By our Lady," Roger exclaimed wrathfully, "this is too much! Sir Edmund is a noble gentleman, and that the king should refuse to allow his friends to ransom him passes all bounds."

"So the earl and Hotspur consider," Oswald said, "and, ere long, you will see that they will hoist the banner of the young Earl of March, and proclaim him King of England."

"'Tis good," Roger exclaimed, slapping his hand on his leg. "To me it matters nought who is King of England, but I always held that it was hard that King Richard should be deposed, and murdered, by one who was not even his lawful successor. I am not one to question the conduct of my lord, but I always thought that the Percys were wrong in bringing this usurper over."

"They feel that themselves, Roger, and consider the ingratitude of the king to be a punishment upon them, for having aided him to the throne."

"But what has this to do with your journey, master?"

"It has much to do with it, Roger, seeing that I am on my way to Glendower, to offer him alliance with the Percys."

"A good step!" Roger exclaimed. "We know that these Welsh can fight."

"Moreover, Roger, it may bring about the freeing of Mortimer; for the evil feeling the king has shown against him will surely drive him to raise all his vassals, and those of the young earl, in Herefordshire and elsewhere; and thus the Percys will gain two powerful allies, Glendower and Mortimer; and as they advance from the north, the Welsh and Mortimer will join them from the west. When victory is gained, there will be peace on the Welsh marches. Owen will be recognized for what he is, the King of Wales; and doubtless he will then suffer the English to live quietly there, just as the Welsh have lived quietly in England.

"Then, too, all the western counties will see that it is their interest to side with Mortimer and Glendower. Four times, during the last three years, have they been called out, and forced to leave their homes to follow the king into Wales; and as often have had to return, leaving behind them many of their number. They will see that, if Glendower is acknowledged King of Wales, this hard and grievous service will no longer be required of them."

"That is so, Sir Oswald, and in truth I like the project well. It matters not a straw to me who is king; but if a king treats my lords scurvily, I am ready to shout 'Down with him!' and to do my best to put another up in his place; though, indeed, 'tis a salve to my conscience to know that the man I am fighting against is a usurper, and one who has set himself up in the place of the lawful king."

"My conscience in no way pricks me, Roger. I fight at my lord's order, against his foes. That is the duty I have sworn to. As between him and the king, 'tis a matter for him alone. At the same time, I am glad that the business is likely to end in the rescue of a knight who has been very kind to me. Between Henry and the young Earl of March I have no opinion; but it seems to me that, since Henry ascended to the throne by might, and by the popular voice, he has no cause to complain, if he is put out of it by the same means."

"But, should the war go against the Percys, master?"

"That, again, is a matter for the earl and Hotspur. They know what force they and the Earl of Westmoreland can put in the field. They know that Glendower can aid with ten thousand Welshmen, and that Mortimer can raise three or four thousand men from his vassals. They should know what help they can count on from Scotland; and doubtless, during the last six months, have made themselves acquainted with the general feeling respecting the king. It is upon them that the risk chiefly falls. We knights and men-at-arms may fall in the field of battle; but that is a risk that we know we have to face, when we take to the calling of arms. If our cause is lost, and we escape from the battlefield, we have but to depart to our holds or our villages, and we shall hear nought more of the affair; while our lords, if taken, would lose their heads. It will be a grief for us to lose masters we love, and to have to pay our quittance with money or service to a new lord; but beyond that, we risk nought save our lives in battle. Therefore I trouble myself, in no way, as to the matter between the Percys and the king, which I take it in no way concerns me; and am content to do my duty, and to render my service, as I have sworn to do."

"It is well, Sir Oswald," Roger said, after a long pause, "that Glendower gave us those rings; for from all accounts he and his Welshmen are more furious than ever, and there would be small chance of our ever reaching him, without them. The chain did its work, last time. 'Tis not every Welshman who would stop to examine it before striking, and few who could read the inscription, if they did so; while 'tis like that most of them are well acquainted with Glendower's signet."

"That is so; but nevertheless, Roger, it will be better, when we have once crossed the border, that you should ride behind me with a white flag displayed; as a token that we come, not for war, but on a peaceful mission. 'Tis probable, at any rate, that any band of Welshmen who may meet us will, in that case, before attacking, stop to inquire on what errand we come."

They rode fast, for the earl had said that he needed to have the news of Glendower's decision, before proceeding further in the matter, and in four days arrived on the border. At Shrewsbury Oswald inquired, carelessly, of the host of the inn where he put up, where Glendower was now thought to be; as he intended to journey south to Hereford, and would fain know whether there was any risk of falling in with bands of the marauders.

"Methinks, Sir Knight, that you may travel without uneasiness; seeing that the country between this and Hereford has been so harassed, by them, that there is nought to tempt them to cross the border, save with so large a force that they can invade Gloucester or Worcestershire. Men say, moreover, that Glendower is, at present, in Cardiganshire. There are still a few Welsh inhabitants here. They declare that they are loyal to the king, and love not their wild countrymen. Whether it is so, or not, I cannot say; but they certainly manage to keep up communications with the Welsh. This may be for a treacherous purpose, or it may be as they say; that, knowing that they and all belonging to them would be slain, should Glendower capture the town; they, for their own safety, try to learn his intentions and movements, in order to warn us, should a surprise be intended."

Starting early the next morning, Oswald crossed into Montgomeryshire, by a road through Worktree Forest, so as to avoid both Ludlow and Welshpool; and kept along by a country track, near the border of Radnor, so passing south of Llanidloes. As soon as they had left Radnorshire, Roger fastened to his spear a white cloth they had brought from Shrewsbury; then they continued their journey west.

It was not until they had crossed the Wye, here an insignificant stream, that they came upon a native of the country. They were following a track, between two rough hills covered with brushwood, when a man, evidently of the better class, stepped out before them.

"Sir Knight," he said in English, "'tis a strange sight to see an Englishman, with one esquire, travelling alone by so wild and lonely a road as this; and strange, indeed, that he should bear a flag of truce; for were you here on your king's business, you would surely be attended with a braver show. I had notice, two hours ago, brought by one who had seen you cross the Wye; and in the bushes round lie fifty men who, did I raise my hand, would let fly their arrows against you. But if you have reason for your coming this way, assuredly we should not hinder you."

Oswald held out his hand.

"This signet ring, sir, was given me by Glendower, who said that any Welshman to whom I might show it would act as my guide and escort to him. I come on an important mission, not from the king, but from one from whom Glendower may be glad to hear; therefore I pray you take me to him, or at least send a party of your men; for I might, peradventure, fall in with some who would shoot before they questioned."

"'Tis assuredly the prince's signet," the man said, after carefully examining it, "and right gladly will I escort you to him. He is, at present, at Aberystwith."

"Thanks for your courtesy, sir. To whom am I speaking?"

"My name is Howel ap Ryddyn. You passed my abode, which cannot be seen from the road; and I would, were you not pressed for time, gladly entertain you; but if we push forward, we may reach Aberystwith before nightfall, and I make no question that would better suit your wishes."

"Thanks, sir. My business is somewhat urgent, and I shall be glad to meet the prince, as soon as possible. Indeed, I should not be sorry to reach a spot where we can sup and sleep, seeing that we have twice slept in the woods, since we left Shrewsbury."

The man called out an order, in Welsh. Four men at once issued from the bushes, and under their guidance the horsemen soon reached Aberystwith.

"I had scarce expected this pleasure, Sir Oswald," Glendower said warmly, as the young knight entered. "To what good fortune do I owe your visit?

"But no, 'tis but poor hospitality questioning thus, when it will be time enough to talk of such things, later."

"And 'tis a matter that is best discussed in private," Oswald replied, in an undertone.

"And how have you fared since we parted?"

"Since I saw you, over a year ago, the time has passed quietly, save for the battle with the Scots; where, although we beat them, there was no credit gained by the knights and men-at-arms; seeing that the archers, alone, did the fighting."

"So I heard. On our side, we have been busy ever since."

"And successful, too, as I have heard."

"Yes, fortune has been in our favour. Lord Grey's ransom has been of much use to us and, having married my daughter Jane, he can no longer be considered a foe. Yet, to do him justice, he would not promise even to stand neutral; though, unless under special orders from the king, he will not draw his sword again. I love a stanch man; and though Grey has taken, as I consider, the wrong side, he stands to it faithfully. I offered him freedom, without ransom, if he would promise neutrality, and that, when I had put down all other opposition, he would hold his Welsh lands from me; but he refused, and said that he would rather remain in chains, all his life, than be false to his vows to Henry.

"That was good, and I would that all Welshmen were as faithful. They take the oath to me one week, and make their peace with Henry the next. Nay, some, to please him, would go so far as to try to assassinate me. Two such plots have there been this year, and it was only that I wore a good mail shirt under my garments, that my life was saved from a bow shot, and from one who professed to be my warm friend, and who had taken bread with me, half an hour before.

"It is destiny, Sir Oswald. The powers watch over me, and keep me from harm; and these will, I know, protect me to the end, against the stroke of English foes, or of Welsh traitors."

After supper was over, Glendower led Oswald to his private chamber.

"Now, Sir Oswald, you can speak freely. I have placed a guard outside the door, and there is no fear of interruption. Do you come on your own account, or from another?"

"I come from the Earl of Northumberland, and his son Sir Henry Percy; and am charged, in the first place, to deliver this letter to you; and then to give you such further intelligence, as to the matter, as it may be needful for you to know."

"From the Percys!" Glendower said, in surprise, as he cut the silk that held the roll together.

His countenance expressed great surprise, as he read the contents.

"There is no snare in this?" he said suddenly, after reading it through two or three times, and looking sharply at Oswald. "'Tis not from the Percys, who, more than any other, assisted the usurper to the throne, that I should have looked for such an offer."

"I should be the last to bring such a letter to you, Glendower, were there aught behind what is written. The earl and Hotspur spoke of the matter at length to me. They regret, now, the part they took in enthroning Henry; at whose hands they have now received such indignities that they are resolved, if it may be, to undo their work, and to place the lawful king, the young Earl of March, on the throne."

He then related the various complaints that the Percys had against the king, and told Glendower that the matter had been brought to a head by Henry's refusal to allow them to pay the ransom that had been collected for Sir Edmund Mortimer.

"Whom have they with them?" Glendower asked, after listening in silence.

"They have the Earl of Westmoreland, who, like themselves, is greatly offended at the appointment of four commissioners, men of no standing or position, to judge between two of the great barons of England; blood relations, too, whose difference is on a matter of but small importance. No other name was mentioned before me, but the earl stated that he looked for much assistance from Scotland."

"Ay, ay! As they hold in their hands Douglas, and the Regent's son, Moray, and Angus, they may well make terms with Scotland. Yes, it is a very great plot, and since I can get no ransom for Mortimer, and he can raise some three or four thousand men, he would be of more value to us free than as a prisoner."

"It is not only that," Oswald said. "The fact that he, as young March's uncle, should head his following and raise his banner, will show that the Percys and you are not using young March's name as a mere pretext for taking up arms. If Mortimer, the head of his house during his minority, and guardian of his estates, were with them, men would see that 'tis really a struggle to place the lawful king on the throne; and many would join who, did they think it was but an affair between the Percys, of whom they know but little in the south, and you, whom they have been taught to consider a rebel, would stand aloof."

"'Tis well thought of, and the project pleases me. Even without such allies, I may hold my mountains and continue my warfare, but there could be neither peace nor prosperity for years; but with the overthrow of the usurper, and my acknowledgment as King of Wales, and of the entire independence of the country, from the Dee to the Severn, the freedom of my country might be permanently secured.

"But I will give no certain answer, tonight. 'Tis a matter to be turned over in my mind, as it seems to me that I may gain much good by the alliance; and that, even if the Percys fail in their enterprise, I can be no worse off than I am, at present."

It was not until the following evening that Glendower gave a decided answer.

"I accept Percy's offer," he said. "I have thought it over in every way; even putting aside the benefits, to my country and myself, I would enter upon it; were it but for the satisfaction of seeing the usurper, and murderer of my dear master, King Richard, have the same measure meted out to him that he gave to his sovereign. Tonight I will write an answer to the Percys, for you to bear to them. Tomorrow morning I will ride, with you, to the stronghold where Mortimer is at present held in durance; and if he consents to join us, I will give him his freedom, without ransom."

They started the next morning, early; and at noon arrived at a strong house, lying in the heart of the hills.

"It were best that you should see him first, Sir Oswald, and explain the matter to him. After that, I will meet him with you."

Great was the astonishment of Sir Edmund, when Oswald was ushered into the little room in which he was confined. It was some ten feet square, furnished with a pallet, chair, and small table. The window was very strongly barred, and Oswald observed, with pain, that his ten months' imprisonment had told very heavily upon Mortimer.

"Why, Oswald! Ah! I see I should say Sir Oswald. What brings you here? Some good news, I trust. Has my ransom been collected?"

"It has been collected, Sir Edmund," Oswald said, as they shook hands, "but the king, who refused altogether to pay your ransom, as he did Lord Grey's, has forbidden the money, raised partly by your tenants and partly by the tenants of your nephew, to be handed over. 'Tis clear that he views you as an enemy; and has, indeed, ventured to declare his belief that your capture by Glendower was a thing arranged, beforehand."

"He lies!" Sir Edmund exclaimed angrily. "We fought stoutly and, had it not been for the treachery of the Welsh bowmen, should have won the day.

"Then how stands the matter, Sir Oswald, and how is it that you are here?"

Oswald then related the purport of his mission, and gave Mortimer some messages with which Hotspur had charged him, on the evening before he started.

"Assuredly I will join," Sir Edmund exclaimed, when Oswald brought his story to a conclusion. "Have I not suffered enough by keeping a force on foot, by having my lands harried and my vassals slain, in order to support Henry's claims to the kingdom of Wales, only to be suspected of treachery? Had I intended to join Glendower, I should have done so a year before; and with my force and his, we could have kept Henry at bay. Why should I have kept up the pretext of loyalty, when there was nought to have prevented my joining Glendower? Why should I have fought him, at the cost of the lives of some twelve hundred of my men, when I could have marched them into his camp, as friends? Why should I suffer nine months of close imprisonment, at the hands of an ally?

"Henry lied, and knew that he lied, when he brought such a charge against me. He wished to be able to work his will on the young earl, and maybe to murder him as he murdered Richard, without there being one powerful enough to lift his voice to condemn the murder. All is at an end between us, and henceforth I am his open enemy, as he is mine; and would be heart and soul with the Percys in the overthrow of Henry, even if my nephew were not concerned, and did the earl purpose, himself, to grasp the crown."

"Glendower is below, Sir Edmund, and will himself speak to you; but he thought that it were best that I should first open the matter to you."

A quarter of an hour later the keeper of the hold came up, and said that the prince bade Sir Edmund to descend and speak with him. As they entered the room where Glendower was waiting, the latter glanced at Oswald, inquiringly.

"The matter is settled," the latter said. "Sir Edmund will join us, with heart and hand."

"I am indeed glad to hear it, Sir Oswald.

"Sir Edmund Mortimer," he went on, courteously, "hitherto we have regarded each other as enemies; henceforth we are friends, and you are my guest and not my prisoner. I have thought it over, and methinks that you must tarry here, till we have certain news of the day on which the Percys will set on foot their enterprise. It would not be safe for you to return to your estates, until you are in a position to call your vassals to arms at once; for the king, were he to hear that you were at Ludlow, might call on the lieutenants of the western counties, and the owners of all the castles, to attack you at once. Therefore, until it is time to strike, it were best that you should remain with me.

"I do not propose that you should accompany me on my expeditions, for to do so might do harm across the border. I will, therefore, assign you a suitable house at Aberystwith, with such attendance and furnishing as are due to a guest of your quality.

"The prospect seems to be a fair one. The northern lords, aided by the Scots, should by themselves be a match for any gathering Henry could collect at short notice; and, joined by my forces and yours, should surely be able to overthrow all opposition."

"So it appears to me," Sir Edmund said. "'Tis indeed a powerful confederation and, if all goes well, ought to leave no option to the usurper but to die in battle, or to fly to France."

"Will you return with us to Aberystwith, Sir Oswald?" Glendower presently asked the young knight.

"I will ride straight for England, with your permission," Oswald said. "I am already thirty miles on my way, and the Percys urged me to return as soon as possible."

"So be it. As soon as we have dined, an officer and four horsemen will be in readiness to ride with you, as an escort."

A week later Oswald reached Alnwick. He was the bearer of letters from Glendower and Mortimer, and was able to report the complete success of his mission. As a mark of his satisfaction, the earl ordered a deed of gift to be made to him, of a large strip of land extending over the hills between Stoubes and Yardhope.

"Some day," he said, as he handed the document to him, "you will be master of Yardhope, and by thus joining that feu to that of Stoubes, you will have an estate that will make you a power in the upper glades of Reddesdale and Coquetdale; and will support the dignity of a knight banneret, which I now bestow upon you, and also appoint you a deputy warden of the marches, with power of life and death over all marauders, reivers, and outlaws. I have long felt that it would be well that there should be one who, in case of necessity, could raise a hundred spears; and so prevent bodies of marauders, from the other side of the border, making sudden irruptions into the dales; and from what I have heard of you, from Sir Henry, I am sure that you will carry out the charge most worthily."

The new acquisition would not very largely increase Oswald's revenues, for the greater portion of the grant was hill and moor. Nevertheless, there were a good many houses and small villages scattered in the dales, and it was these that raised the tract of land to the value of a knight's feu.

In point of position, however, it was a large addition. As a knight banneret, with the castle of Stoubes at one end of his holding, and the hold of Yardhope at the other, he would occupy an important position on the border; and could raise at least a hundred spears among his tenants, in addition to the men-at-arms of the two strongholds.

Three days later Hotspur released the whole of his Scottish prisoners; and sent them, under escort, to the border. The Percys now began, in earnest, their preparations for war. For greater convenience Hotspur went down to Morpeth, while the earl betook himself to Berwick-on-Tweed, where he could confer more easily with his Scottish allies; who, on their part, were carrying out the condition on which they had been released without ransom; namely, that they would join their forces to those of the Percys.

Oswald made another journey to Wales, this time by ship from Carlisle to Aberystwith, and there acquainted Glendower and Mortimer with the preparations that had been made, assuring them that the rising would take place at the end of May. He also asked Glendower to raise as large an army as possible, without delay; and Sir Edmund Mortimer to betake himself at once to Hereford, there to raise his banner and summon his vassals, and those of the Earl of March, to join him -- the king having, on his return from his last expedition, entered Ludlow, seized Mortimer's plate and other property, and appointed to the governorship of Ludlow a knight on whose devotion he could rely.



Chapter 21: Shrewsbury.


The Percys' preparations could not be carried on without exciting attention; and in March the king, seeing that the open defiance of his authority, by the release of the Scottish prisoners, would assuredly be followed by armed rebellion, which the Douglas would probably have pledged himself to aid as the condition of his release, began, on his side, to make similar preparations. Levies were called out, and the Prince of Wales was appointed to the command of the Welsh marches, and the governorship of Wales.

Towards the end of June Douglas, faithful to his agreement, crossed the frontier; and was at once joined by Hotspur, with the force he had gathered. Hotspur's father was lying sick at Berwick, but was to follow, as speedily as possible, with the army collected in the north of the county, and from Dunbar's estates.

It had been arranged that Glendower should meet the allies at Lichfield; and on his being joined by his uncle, the Earl of Westmoreland, with his following, Hotspur marched south. His intention was, after effecting a junction with Glendower, to march and give battle to the army with which Henry and the Prince of Wales were advancing against him. At Lichfield, however, he learned that Glendower had not completed his preparations in sufficient time to join him. He therefore changed his direction, and made for Shrewsbury, towards which place Glendower was marching.

Percy's array had swollen as he went south. He had been joined by a number of archers, from Cheshire, and by other adherents of the late king; these regarding the war as an attempt, not to place the Earl of March upon the throne, but to overthrow the usurper who had dethroned their king.

Oswald rode with sixty spearmen from his own estate; while his father, with thirty men from Yardhope, rode in his company. Both regarded the failure of Glendower to come to the place appointed as a serious misfortune.

"Of course," Oswald said, "if he joins us at Shrewsbury, before the king comes up, it will not matter much; and indeed would be, in one respect, the better. Mortimer with his force will be coming on; and though he is scarce likely to arrive at Shrewsbury in time for the battle, for he could not leave Wales, to summon his levies to the field, until the Prince of Wales had drawn off his force and marched to join his father; his reinforcement, afterwards, will fill up the gaps in our ranks, and be a great assistance, should Henry be able to rally another army in the Midlands. He cannot hope to do so before we reach London."

"That sounds fairly, Oswald, but 'tis always better to carry out the plans you have made; and this absence of Glendower, at the point arranged, to my mind augurs ill."

Henry was an able general. Believing that the Percys would make for the Welsh border, he had posted himself at Burton-on-Trent; but as soon as he heard that they had changed their course he started for Shrewsbury, and marched so quickly that he arrived there before Hotspur, thus throwing himself between the Percys and the Welsh.

Hotspur, on arriving near the town, was enraged at hearing that Glendower had not arrived, according to his promise. The king's army was encamped on the eastern side of the town, and the northern forces took post a short distance away. That night Hotspur sent a document into the royal camp, declaring Henry to be forsworn and perjured: in the first place because he had sworn, under Holy Gospel, that he would claim nothing but his own proper inheritance, and that Richard should reign to the end of his life; secondly, because he had raised taxes and other impositions, contrary to his oath, and by his own arbitrary power; thirdly, because he had caused King Richard to be kept in the castle of Pontefract, without meat, drink, or fire, whereof he perished of hunger, thirst, and cold. There were other clauses, some of them regarding his conduct to Sir Edmund Mortimer. The claims of the young Earl of March to the throne were also set forward, and the document ended with a defiance.

Henry simply sent, as reply, that he had no time to lose in writing; but that he would, in the morning, prove in battle whose claims were false and feigned.

Nevertheless, in the morning, when the two armies were arrayed in the order of battle, the king sent the Abbot of Shrewsbury to propose an amicable arrangement. Hotspur and Douglas, however, rejected the offer. The trumpets then blew on either side, and the armies joined battle.

Their numbers were about equal. Each consisted of some fourteen thousand men. Douglas and Hotspur had taken their place in the centre of their line, having behind them a party of their best knights. These charged with fury down upon the king's standard, which stood in the centre of his array. Hotspur and Douglas, his former rival, were accounted two of the best knights in Christendom, and the fury of their charge was irresistible. The centre of the royal line was cleft in sunder, the king's guards were at once dispersed; and, had not Henry taken the precaution of arraying himself in plain armour, while two of his knights had put on royal surcoats, the battle would at once have been decided.

As it was, the two knights were both killed, as were the Earl of Stafford and Sir Walter Blount. The royal standard was overthrown, and the young Prince of Wales sorely wounded in the face.

He had already shown signs of great military talent; and, in spite of his wound, now showed a courage and presence of mind that justified the confidence his father had shown, in giving him important commands. He rode hither and thither among the disorganized troops, saw that the gap in the centre was again closed up, and was ever to be met where the fight was hottest.

The impetuous charge of Hotspur and Douglas was the ruin of themselves, and their army. Had they paused until their troops had advanced close to the enemy, and the mounted men-at-arms were all ranged closely behind them, and in a position to support them, the fight would assuredly have speedily terminated in their favour; but before these arrived the royal army had closed its ranks, and the rebel leaders, with all their principal knights, were cut off from the main body. In vain the men of the north tried to cut their way through the southern ranks, and to come to the assistance of their chiefs; who, surrounded now by the English knights and men-at-arms, were fighting desperately against overwhelming numbers.

An hour after the battle began, many parties of Welshmen came up and joined in the conflict; but the absence of leaders, and the loss of their respective captains, Hotspur and Douglas, paralysed the efforts of the Northumbrians and the Scottish contingent. Yet both fought stoutly, and suffered very heavy losses.

For upwards of two hours Hotspur maintained the unequal fight; but at length an arrow pierced Hotspur's visor, and he fell dead from his horse. Further resistance was useless, and the survivors of the group, which had been reduced to a mere handful, surrendered. For another half hour the main battle raged; then came the news that Hotspur was killed, and Douglas and Westmoreland prisoners; the English horsemen dashed down on the flanks of the northern line, the spearmen pressed forward, and the Scotch and Northumbrians broke and fled.

When the knights first charged, Oswald had been with his own following, and a hundred other horsemen, on the left flank. As soon as he saw what had happened, he endeavoured to ride round the right flank of the royal army; but was met by a much larger force of men-at-arms and, after hard fighting, driven back. Oswald himself, with Roger on one hand and his father on the other, had several times hewed his way deep into the enemy's squadron; and would have been cut off, had not the Yardhope moss troopers spurred furiously in to the rescue, and brought them all off again.

Several times the charge was renewed, but ineffectually. Half the rebel army had been killed; and when, at last, the infantry broke, and it was clear that there was no more to be done, Oswald, who was wounded in half a dozen places, called the survivors of his troop to follow him; and, with his party, rode off in good order.

A mile from the field they halted for a few minutes. Not one of them but had been more or less severely wounded in the desperate melee. They now took off their armour, and bandaged each other's wounds; and then, mounting again, they rode off.

"What do you say, Father," Oswald asked; "shall we circle round, and join Glendower? We know that his army is close at hand and, were they to attack tonight, they should win an easy victory; for the king's men have suffered well nigh as sorely as we have."

"No, Oswald; we have done enough. We have not been fighting for the Earl of March. We have been simply following our feudal lord, as we were bound to do. He is dead, and we have nought to do with this quarrel. What is it to us whether March or Henry is king?"

They were not pursued. The greater part of the English cavalry were exhausted by their exertions against Hotspur and Douglas. Their loss was extremely heavy, and those in a condition to pursue took up the comparatively easy work of cutting down the flying footmen.

The battle had been a disastrous one, for both sides. Their losses were about even, the number who fell altogether being put at ten thousand men. With Douglas, the Earl of Westmoreland, Baron of Kinderton, Sir Richard Vernon, and other knights were captured. Westmoreland, Kinderton, and Vernon were at once executed on the field of battle, as rebels; but Douglas, as a foreign knight, was simply viewed as a prisoner of war, and was kindly treated.

Glendower took no advantage of the opportunity for striking a blow at the royal army; and instead of attacking it, when spent by fatigue and encumbered with wounds, retired at once to Wales. Had he, instead of doing this, marched to meet Sir Edmund Mortimer, who was hurrying forward with a powerful array, the united force would have been fully double the strength of the English army; and a great commander would, at once, have fought a battle that would probably have altered the whole course of events in England. Glendower's conduct here showed that, although an able partisan leader in an irregular warfare, he had no claim whatever to be considered a great general.

Travelling rapidly, Oswald and his party crossed the Tyne; and hearing that the earl, now recovered from his illness, was marching down with his army to join his son, they rode to meet him. It was a painful duty that Oswald had to discharge, and the old earl, when he heard of the defeat of the army, the death of the son to whom he was deeply attached, and the capture of his brother, the Earl of Westmoreland, gave way to despair, dismissed his army to their homes at once, and retired, completely broken down in body and spirit, to his castle at Warkworth.

So depressed was he that when royal messengers arrived, summoning him in the king's name to surrender, and journey with him to London, he instantly obeyed. When questioned by the king why he had displayed the banner of revolt against him, he said he had done so on the urging of Hotspur; and the king, who was always inclined to leniency, when leniency was safe, pardoned him, and permitted him to retain his dignity and estates.

Oswald speedily recovered from his wounds, but his father suffered much.

"I have fought my last fight, Oswald," he said, when his son rode over to see him, a few days after their return from the south. "I say not that I am about to die, but only that methinks I shall never be able to wield sword manfully again. I have talked the matter over with your mother, and she agrees with me that it were well that I handed over Yardhope to you. I do not mean that I should leave the old place -- for generations my fathers have lived and died here, and I would fain do the same -- but that I should hand over to you the feu, and you should take oath for it to Northumberland, and lead its retainers in the field. Were it that there was a chance of another raid by the Bairds, I would still maintain my hold myself; but their power was altogether broken, at Homildon.

"Moreover, the border Scots and we are at peace now, as we have not been so long as memories run; seeing that we have fought side by side against the King of England, and have suffered the same misfortune in defeat; therefore, I can hang up my sword.

"But for you there may be more fighting. From what I know of the old earl, I am sure that he will never forgive Hotspur's death; and although, at present, he is reinstated in his estates, there can be no doubt that the king will strike further blows against the power of the Percys. Northumberland is a valiant soldier, tenacious in his purposes, and lasting in his hatreds. Had it not been that he was utterly broken by the news that we brought him, he would assuredly have marched down with his army, and tried to join Glendower and Mortimer; and at least have died fighting, the end that he would best like. I doubt not that we shall see his banner raised again, ere long."

"I hope not, Father. The undertaking would be desperate."

"However that may be, Oswald, as I can no longer render service for the feu, I wish to hand it over to you. 'Tis but a nominal change, but I should like to see the estate yours. I and my fathers have held our own, and were content to do so, adding somewhat to our means by such plunder as we could carry off from Scotland; but you have greatly advanced the family, and as a deputy warden of the marches, it is as well that Yardhope should be added to your holding. I should be glad, too, to have you known as Sir Oswald Forster of Yardhope, and not as Sir Oswald Forster of Stoubes; and in time, if things go well with you, I charge you to build a castle here, in place of this hold; which has been good enough for plain men like myself and my father, but which is no fit residence for the estate you now hold.

"I don't mean to say that I wish you always to live here, for, maybe, Stoubes is a more pleasant abode, standing in a fair country, and with the climate somewhat less hard than this; but I should like you to come up here, at times, and to be known as Forster of Yardhope."

"I will carry out your wishes, Father; but it would please me more for things to remain as they have been."

"My plan is best, lad. I shall be seneschal here for you, and little will be changed; save that you will ride at the head of the retainers, instead of myself. 'Tis not meet that I should hold the feu, when I can no longer render due service.

"Your mother is wholly of opinion that I have done enough of fighting for my life, and should trouble myself no longer with raidings and wars. Your mother has shown sound judgment, and her advice has generally been good; though I never fully recognized this, till I saw what great good had come of her wishing you to learn to read and write; for it is to that, to no small extent, that you owe your rapid rise and present dignity."

Accordingly, a few days later, Oswald rode with his father to Warkworth, to which castle the earl had returned after his visit to England. At the request of John Forster he received back the feu from him, and appointed his son to it. This done, Oswald rode to pay a visit to his cousins; while his father returned to Yardhope, with two retainers he had brought with him.

Oswald had not seen Adam Armstrong, since the latter had come to Yardhope after the rescue of his daughters; and he was received by him with the greatest warmth, as also by Allan, who, although now nearly recovered from his wounds, had, fortunately for himself, not gained sufficient strength to be able to accompany Douglas, either to Homildon or in his march into England to join Percy.

The girls were out when he rode up; but, upon their return, both showed the greatest pleasure, Jessie being the most demonstrative in her welcome.

"It has always been a sore subject with me, Oswald," Allan said, "that you should have ridden away in that gallant enterprise to rescue my sisters, while I was lying here helpless; and knew, indeed, nought of it, until after you had taken them safely to Yardhope.

"Ah! Roger, I am glad to see you again; and to thank you, too, for the share you took in it."

"In faith, Master Allan, there are no great thanks due. It was but a poor affair, and I had but one opportunity, and that not worth naming, of striking a hearty blow. It seems to me that these things are never fairly divided. Both in that adventure, and at Homildon, I scarce struck a blow; while in that affair in Wales, and at Shrewsbury, there was even more fighting than I cared for. I had to be nursed like a child after the first, and I am still stiff from the wounds that I got in the second.

"There should be reason in such matters. It vexed me sorely that we had to ride away from the Bairds, without striking a few good blows in part payment of their raid here."

"I am very glad that you did not have to do so," Janet said. "I think there was quite enough excitement in it, and especially as we went down that rope; though indeed, you are so strong that I felt that I was quite safe with you."

Roger laughed.

"I could have carried two of you; and sooth, you did not show your confidence at the time, for you held on so tightly to the rope that I began to think that we should never get to the bottom."

"You told me to hold tight," Janet said, indignantly.

"Yes, yes, that was natural enough. The difficulty was, that you would not let go, and at each knot it was as much as I could do to get you to let it slide through your fingers."

"Very well, Master Roger. Then I shall take care not to let you lower me down a rope again."

"I trust there will never be the need," Roger laughed; "but indeed, although your weight was as nothing, I felt uneasy myself as we went down; for I feared that I might grip you too tightly, seeing that I am altogether unaccustomed to the handling of girls."

"Well, I suppose, Roger," Jessie said, "that now the wars are over, you will be marrying and settling down."

"I don't know how that might be," Roger replied, slowly. "I do not say that the matter has never entered my mind; and seeing that I am now seven-and-thirty, 'tis one that should not be much longer delayed. I mean not that I have ever thought as to who should be the woman, but I have thought whether, when the time comes that Sir Oswald takes him a wife, it would not be well that I should do the same.

"But I know not how I stand. The abbot of Alnwick has, so far, allowed me to go out into the world, to unfrock myself, and to become a man-at-arms instead of a peaceful monk; but I have not been dispensed from my vows of celibacy and, were I to marry, the matter might be taken up by the Church, and I might be put to many and sore penances, and punishments, for the breach of them."

The others all laughed at the seriousness with which Roger had answered the girl's jesting remark.

"It is a matter that I have never thought of before, Roger," Oswald said; "but assuredly it would, as you say, be fitting and right that, when I take a mistress, you should do so also -- like master like man, you know. Since your thoughts have been turned that way, I will see the abbot, next time I go to Alnwick, and lay the case before him. Of a truth you have made a most excellent man-at-arms, and 'tis equally certain that you were an exceedingly bad monk. It would doubtless be well that you should obtain a complete absolution from your vows; for although I am sure that the good abbot regards you, now, as altogether beyond his control, and would take no steps against you were he to hear of your marriage, it might not be so in the case of his successor. He is an old man, and the next abbot may be of a very different character; and, looking through the books of the convent, he might say, 'What has become of Brother Roger? I see no record of his death.'

"Then, pushing matters further, he might discover your backsliding, and might summon you before him, and there is no saying what pains and penalties he might inflict upon you."

Roger moved uneasily in his seat.

"Do not speak of such a thing, I pray you, master -- imprisonment in a cell, flagellation, nay, even worse might befall me at the hands of a rigorous abbot; for in truth, nought could well be more serious than the offences that I have already committed; and he might hold that, even though the present abbot had been backward in taking notice of the matter, this in no way would absolve him from doing his duty.

"And indeed, as it is, it was to Hotspur that he gave permission for me to go out into the world. Hotspur is dead, and there is nought but my own word in the matter."

"That, at any rate, I can put right, Roger, by going myself to the abbot; and learning, from his lips, that he did give that permission to Hotspur. Moreover, I received it from Hotspur's own lips. Still, it would be useful for me to obtain, from the abbot, a letter giving full absolution for all offences committed, up to the present time."

"That would be a great thing," Roger said eagerly. "'Tis a matter that I have often turned over in my mind, when on a long day's ride, and I have thought of what might happen were a new man to become abbot of Alnwick; but such an absolution would assuredly go for much. No one can doubt, more especially an abbot, that absolution by an abbot is most effectual; and that the offences committed before it are wholly wiped out, and cannot be revived."

"It would be best to obtain total absolution from your vows. Can the abbot grant that, Roger?"

"'Tis a moot question," Roger replied. "Many affirm that he can do so, and assuredly many abbots have exercised that power; others again hold that, although abbots cannot lawfully do so, bishops can; while a few maintain that even these are incapable, and that nothing short of the absolution by the Holy Father himself is of avail. Still, whatever be the true state of things, I should be well satisfied with an abbot's absolution, and still more so by a bishop's; for though, were a great prince concerned, someone interested might contest the matter, none would be likely to do so in the case of a man-at-arms or an esquire."

"Very well, Roger. Then I will endeavour to obtain a full absolution from your vows, by the abbot; and should he decline to give them I will, when I next see the earl, pray him, in consideration of the good services that you have rendered, to obtain it for you from the bishop."

"And you have not yourself thought of marrying, Oswald?" Adam Armstrong said.

"Nay, Uncle. I came of age but a few days since, and it will be time to think of taking me a wife four or five years hence. So, until these troubles have wholly ceased, it were better, methinks, for a knight to remain unwed than to take a wife, with the risk of leaving her a young widow."

"In that case, Oswald, methinks there would be little marrying in Northumberland; for, saving short truces, and these but ill observed, there is ever trouble on the border."

"I speak not of that," Oswald replied. "Doubtless we shall always be subject to border raids, on both sides, and even to serious wars between the two countries; but I speak not of that, but of troubles in England. 'Tis natural to fight when Englishmen and Scotchmen meet, arrayed in battle; but when Englishmen meet Englishmen, 'tis terrible indeed; and though the slaughter at Shrewsbury was great beyond measure, who yet can say that the fire is extinguished? As long as one may be called to arms again, by the earl, it is, in good sooth, better to remain single than to have to ride to the wars, leaving the young wife behind."

"Spoken very wisely and well, Oswald," Adam Armstrong laughed. "'Tis well to argue as to policy; but such arguments go for nought, as soon as a man's heart is fixed on any particular woman."

"It may be so, Uncle; but as I have never thought of marriage, I am able to look at the matter dispassionately."

"Ah! Well, the time will come, Oswald, and you will then speedily come to consider that there are other things than the reasonableness of waiting to be considered.

"By the way, I trust that, should England invade Scotland again by the valley of the Esk, you will not forget our debt to the Bairds. Though I lamented the disaster at Homildon, where many of my friends and acquaintances fell; I could not but feel that the death of William Baird, and so many of his kin, was a relief, indeed, to me. I have strengthened my hold, as you see, but I should have been ever obliged to remain on guard. The Bairds never forgive nor forget, and the manner in which they were tricked out of their captives must have discomposed them sorely, and rankled in their minds; and, sooner or later, they would have tried to wipe out the memory in blood. I wonder that they had not done it before Homildon, but doubtless they had other matters in hand.

"Now I can live in peace; but I, too, have not forgotten the injuries I have suffered at their hands, and should rejoice, greatly, did I hear that their stronghold had been levelled to the ground."

"I hope that it will be long before our kings march against Scotland again. The ill success of all our efforts should have taught them that, do what they will, they will never conquer Scotland; and Henry is not likely to court another failure, such as he met with two years since. 'Tis not like the wars with the Welsh. They are a different people, speaking in a different language, while we and the lowland Scots are of one blood and one language -- scarce a noble in Scotland who is not of Norman descent -- and a quarrel between us seems, to me, almost as bad as a civil war."

"I hope that all will come to think so, some day, Oswald; but as long as the two kingdoms stand apart, with various interests and different alliances, it will hardly be likely that there will be a permanent peace between them."

"That is so," Oswald agreed. "'Tis the part that Scotland plays by her alliance with France, and the aid she gives her by always choosing the time when we are fighting there to fall upon us, that keeps the trouble afoot. If Scotland would hold herself aloof from France, I see no reason why we should interfere with her in any way."

"No good has ever come to us from such alliance. No French army has ever gone to Scotland, to aid her when pressed by Englishmen. France uses Scotland but as a cat's paw, with which to annoy and weaken England."

"That may be so; but you must remember that France does aid Scotland, when she keeps the main army of England busily occupied."

"Yes; but she does not fight England with that intent. She simply fights to gain back the provinces she has lost, and is ready to make peace when it suits, wholly regardless of the interest of Scotland."

"France is never to be trusted," Oswald said. "Glendower made a treaty with her, a few years ago, and what good has it done to him? Why, when he needed her aid the most, she had made a truce with England. 'Tis whispered that she made a treaty with the Percys, and what good came of it? She is ever ready to make treaties, but never observes them, unless it is to her plain interest to do so."

"I suppose it is with nations as it is with individuals, Oswald. Selfishness has a large share in the management of affairs. France, being a powerful country, is glad enough, when pressed by the English, to have diversions made for her, whether in Scotland or Ireland; but she has no idea of putting herself out, for the sake of her allies, when she desires peace with England."

France had indeed been quick to take advantage of the trouble caused to Henry by the rising in the north. While he was gathering his army, although there was a truce with England, a French expedition, in which many of the royal princes took part, had invaded Guienne, captured several castles held by the English adherents, made frequent descents on our coast, plundered every ship they met with, captured a whole fleet of merchantmen, taken the islands of Guernsey and Jersey and, while Henry was fighting at Shrewsbury, landed near Plymouth and plundered the whole country round. On the news reaching them of the result of the battle of Shrewsbury, they at once burned Plymouth to the ground, and then, re-embarking, sailed for France. All remonstrances on the part of Henry were met by declarations that these raids were carried on without the knowledge of the French king, and were greatly against his inclinations, which were wholly for the strictest observance of the truce.

Nevertheless, a few months later, the Count of Saint Pol landed a force in the Isle of Wight; but the people of the island rose in arms, and defeated the invaders, who sailed hastily away.

Although, having other matters in hand, Henry professed to believe the French king's assurances; the sailors and ship masters were in no way content to suffer unresistingly, and the men of the seaports of the east coast, and of Plymouth and Fowey, banded themselves together, and carried on war on their own account; capturing several fleets of ships, loaded with wine and other valuable commodities; burning the coast towns; and making several raids into the interior of France, and carrying off much plunder.

Enraged at this retaliation, the French incited the Flemings, Dutch, and Hollanders to cruise against the English; and these, sailing in great ships, executed so many atrocities upon English crews and ships that, later, Henry himself sent out a fleet, under his second son, who executed his commission, effectually destroying ships, burning towns, and putting the people to the sword without mercy.

Thus the breaches of the peace by the French recoiled terribly upon themselves, and they suffered vastly greater loss than they had inflicted upon the English.

From the time when he let slip the opportunities, both of joining Hotspur and of falling on the royal army after their victory, Glendower's power declined. For a time he continued to capture castles, and to carry out raids across the border, but gradually he was driven back to his mountain strongholds. His followers lost heart. He became a fugitive, and died on the 20th of September, 1415, in the sixty-first year of his age, at the house of one of his married daughters, whether at Scudamore or Mornington is unknown.

Mortimer died in Harlech Castle, during the time it was besieged by the English. It is said that his death was caused by depression and grief at the misfortunes that had befallen him.

The Earl of Northumberland, as John Forster had anticipated, raised the standard of revolt in 1405, in concert with the Archbishop of York and some other nobles; but before he could join these with his forces, they had been forced to surrender to the king, who had marched north with a great army. The archbishop and some of his associates were executed, and the earl, finding himself unable to oppose so great a force, fled into Scotland. Alnwick surrendered without resistance, and Warkworth after a siege of eight days. Berwick was captured, and its governor and several knights executed.

Escaping from Scotland, where he feared that he might be seized and surrendered to England, the earl sailed to Wales, and for some little time stayed with Glendower; then he crossed to the Continent, and in 1408 landed in Yorkshire and again raised his standard. The sheriff of the county called out the levies, and attacked him at Branham Moor, where the old earl was killed and his followers defeated.

In 1415 the king, being on the eve of war with France, and anxious to obtain the goodwill and support of the Northumbrians, restored Hotspur's son, who had been for years a fugitive in Scotland, to the estates and honours of his father and grandfather.

Fortunate it was, for Oswald, that the capture of his fellow conspirators caused the earl to retreat, in 1405, without giving battle. The young knight had, at his summons, called out his tenants, and with them and his retainers had joined Percy. As soon as the latter decided to fly to Scotland, his force scattered, and Oswald returned home with his following.

He took no part in the final rising. Before this took place he had married his cousin, Janet. His father lived to be present at the wedding, but died the following year; and, in accordance with his wishes, Oswald took up his abode at Yardhope, which he largely added to, and strongly fortified. Here his mother lived with him until her death, ten years later.

Oswald offered to Roger the command of his castle at Stoubes, but the burly squire preferred staying at Yardhope, with his master. He himself had taken a wife, the daughter of one of the principal tenants on the estate, on the same day that Oswald married Janet.

His uncle, after the surrender of Alnwick, lived at Yardhope until, at the return of Hotspur's son as Earl of Northumberland, he resumed his old position as captain of the garrison, and maintained it until his death.

<eob>

The Boy Allies In The Balkan Campaign

Or

The Struggle To Save A Nation

By

Clair W. Hayes



Chapter I.

In The Air.


"And how do you feel now, Mr. Stubbs?"

Hal Paine took his eyes from the distance ahead long enough to gaze toward that part of the military aeroplane in which three other figures were seated. It might rather be said, however, that two of the others were seated, for the third figure was huddled up in a little ball, now and then emitting feeble sounds.

In response to Hal's question, this huddled figure straightened itself up long enough to make reply.

"I feel sick," came the answer in a low voice. "How long before we can get back to earth, so that I may die peacefully?"

"Oh, I guess you won't die, Mr. Stubbs," said Hal, chuckling a bit to himself.

He turned his eyes ahead again and gave his entire attention to guiding the swiftly flying craft.

The first streak of dawn had appeared in the east but a few moments before and gradually now it was growing light. High in the air, it was very chilly and those in the aeroplane had drawn their coats closely about them.

"Where do you suppose we are now, Hal?"

This speaker was another of the passengers in the car, Chester Crawford, chum and bosom companion of Hal.

"Somewhere over Central Austria," replied Hal, not taking his eyes from ahead.

"I would rather that it were over Serbia, Montenegro or Greece," said the fourth occupant of the airship, Colonel Harry Anderson of His British Majesty's service. "I'm beginning to get a little cramped up here. I'd like to stretch my legs a bit."

"You won't ever stretch them again, you may be sure of that," said a hollow voice, none other than that of Anthony Stubbs, American war correspondent, who now aroused himself enough to predict dire results.

"What?" said Colonel Anderson. "And why won't I ever stretch my legs again?"

"The undertaker'll do it for you," groaned Stubbs. "This contraption is bound to come down pretty quick and when it does it'll be all off."

"Can't see why that should worry you any," remarked the colonel cheerfully. "It won't be your funeral."

"No, but I'll have one at about the same time," Stubbs moaned. "I go down when you do."

He raised his voice a trifle. "Let's go down, Hal," he continued. "I'm awfully sick."

"Go down nothing," ejaculated Chester. "Think we want to give the Austrians another chance at us, huh?"

"Better be shot by an Austrian than to die in this infernal machine," declared Stubbs in a feeble voice.

"This," said Chester calmly, "is an airship and not an infernal machine."

"Well, it's my idea of an infernal machine, all the same," Stubbs groaned. "We'll all come down in pieces, as sure as you're a foot high."

"Oh, I guess not," said Chester. "We -- whoa, there."

He broke off suddenly and seized the side of the machine, as did Colonel Anderson, just as the craft tilted dangerously to one side.

"Help!" came a cry from Stubbs, as he went rolling toward the side of the craft.

There appeared to be no danger that the little man would be thrown out, for the sides of the basket-like craft protected him, but he was plainly frightened and Chester gave him a hand, now that the machine had righted itself again.

"It's all right, Stubbs," the lad said; "no danger at all. Sit up, now."

The little man shook off the hand.

"I don't want to sit up," he whimpered. "I want to jump overboard and end all this suspense. I might as well die now as ten minutes from now. Oh my, I wish -- "

"Well, Mr. Stubbs," came Hal's voice, "unless I miss my guess, you are likely to get your wish. Here comes one of the enemy to watch you die."

"What's that?" exclaimed Chester and Colonel Anderson in a single voice.

"Off to the right," replied Hal, quietly.

Glancing in that direction, Chester and Colonel Anderson saw a large air craft headed in their direction.

"After us, do you think?" asked Chester.

"Can't tell," replied Hal, briefly.

"Hardly probable," said Colonel Anderson. "Chances are the fellow believes we are one of his own kind and wants a word with us."

"Maybe you're right," said Hal. "I'll hold to my present course anyhow and take a chance."

The aeroplane continued on as before.

Now Stubbs came to life once more.

"Well, why don't you get a little speed out of this thing?" he demanded. "What are you going to do? Stand right here and let that fellow get us? What's the matter with you, anyhow? Trying to get me killed?"

"Why, Mr. Stubbs," exclaimed Chester, in mock seriousness, "I thought that you were simply dying to be killed. Here's an Austrian coming in direct answer to your prayers. What's the difference whether he gets you now or ten minutes from now? It'll be all the same in a hundred years."

"Think you're smart, don't you," snapped Stubbs. "Why should I want to be killed? I ask you now, why should I want to be killed?"

"Well, really, I don't know," replied Chester, "unless it is because you are so awfully sick."

"Sick!" shouted Stubbs. "Sick! Who said anything about being sick?"

"Why, I understood you to say -- "

"Well, you understood wrong. Sick? No, I'm not sick, but we'll all be worse than sick if Hal can't coax a little speed out of this machine. Say!" this to Hal, "what are you waiting for, anyhow?"

"Now you just hold your horses, Stubbs," replied Hal. "I'm running this party at this moment and I'm going to run it my own way. Colonel Anderson, if you hear any more out of our war-corresponding friend, kindly sit on him, will you?"

"With pleasure," replied the colonel briefly.

"Oh, you will, will you?" cried Stubbs. "Well, you won't. I -- I'll -- "

He subsided after muttering to himself for some moments.

The others now gave their undivided attention to the other craft, which by this time had drawn close to them.

"Man wig-wagging forward, Hal," said Chester.

"I see him," replied Hal, "but I can't make out his signals. Can you, Anderson?"

"No, I can't. He evidently has something to say, though."

"Well," said Hal, "we'll have to hold a sudden council of war. What are we going to do about it? Shall we stop and talk, trying to fool him, or shall we run for it?"

"Well, if we were going to run, it would have been better before he got so close," said Chester. "Guess we may as well see what he has to say. These Austrian uniforms won't come in bad. You do the talking, Hal."

Hal nodded.

"All right," he said.

He reduced the speed of the machine and the Austrian came closer.

"Ahoy, there!" he said in German. "Who are you?"

"Lieutenant Drizladaz, attached to the Austrian army at Trieste," Hal shouted back.

"What are you doing here?"

"Mission," Hal yelled.

"Where to?"

Hal thought quickly.

"Greece," he said finally.

"What for?"

"That," said Hal, "is none of your business. I have my orders and I haven't time to fool around here with you. I'm due back to-morrow night."

There was a moment's silence from the other machine and then a voice called:

"Has your mission anything to do with Greece's intervention in the war?"

"Well, I can't say anything about that," replied the lad, thinking to give the other the impression that it was.

"I see," was the answer shouted back. "Well, I wish you luck. Sorry you can't tell me all about it."

"You probably will know soon enough," replied Hal.

"Good. Don't want any company, do you?"

"No, I guess not."

"You want to be careful crossing the Balkans. I understand there are some British and French aircraft with the Serbians and Montenegrins. Look out for them."

"I'll be on guard," replied Hal. "Thanks for the information."

"Tell you what," said the Austrian, "I've been doing some scout duty there myself. I'll just trail along. May be able to help you out a bit"

Hal didn't think much of this plan.

"I can make it all right myself," he declared.

"Suppose you can," was the reply, "but it is just as well to be on the safe side."

"Well, suit yourself," said Hal, "but don't expect me to wait for you."

"If you can distance me you will have to travel," returned the Austrian. "I've the fastest craft in the service."

"I'm glad to hear that," replied Hal, and added to himself: "I don't think."

"Set your pace," continued the Austrian. "I'll trail along behind."

"No use talking any more, I guess," Hal muttered to his friends. "May as well go along."

Chester and Colonel Anderson nodded their assent and the machine moved forward again.

Things might have gone well had it not been for Stubbs. Suddenly the little man uttered a yell and sat up straight in his seat.

"Ouch!" he shouted. "I've got an awful pain!"



Chapter II.

Montenegrin Mountaineers.


Hal drew a sharp breath and tightened his hold upon the steering wheel.

There was no question that Stubbs' voice had carried to the occupants of the second craft, and as Stubbs had exclaimed aloud in English there was little doubt in the minds of our three friends that the Austrians would seek an explanation. Nor were they wrong.

Came a hail from the Austrian:

"Who've you got aboard, there?"

"Prisoner," replied Hal, thinking quickly.

"What are you doing with him?"

"We -- " Hal began, but the Austrian interrupted.

"Spies, that's what you are! Down to the ground now, or I'll put a hole through you."

"Guess it's no use fooling any longer," muttered Hal.

He threw over the elevating lever and the large craft soared rapidly. At the same moment a shot rang out from aboard the Austrian, followed by a cry of surprise, and then the Austrian gave chase.

"Get your guns and see if you can pick 'em off," Hal instructed Chester and Colonel Anderson. "I'll run this thing, but you fellows will have to do the fighting."

"Suits me," responded Chester, examining his revolver carefully.

Colonel Anderson also nodded his agreement to this plan.

Hal now changed his course and the airship headed toward the south, bearing off a trifle to the east, in a direction that he believed, eventually, would land them in Serbia.

It became apparent now that the Austrian had not boasted of the speed of his craft without reason, for he gained perceptibly.

"We can't out-run him, Hal," shouted Chester.

"Then we shall have to try something else," was the reply.

Abruptly he reduced the speed of the craft and the Austrians dashed in range of the revolvers of the fugitives almost before they could have realized it.

"Crack! Crack!"

Chester and Colonel Anderson had fired. There came a scream of pain from behind and the Austrian craft wobbled crazily. A moment later a man sprang to his feet, sought to retain his footing, threw up his arms and went hurtling into space.

"Got one, Hal!" said Chester, quietly.

"Good!"

Came a volley of small arm fire from behind and bullets whined about the four friends. Again Chester and Colonel Anderson fired almost simultaneously and again their efforts were rewarded. A second man was put out of the fight, as they could see.

At this moment Stubbs came into action.

He arose from his seat and, grasping the side of the speeding craft with his left hand for support, stood to his full height. His right arm drew back, then flashed sharply forward again and a small object went spinning through the air toward the Austrian airship.

It struck home and there was a terrible explosion, followed by several sharp cries of pain, as the Austrian airship seemed to split into a thousand pieces. A moment later these pieces disappeared.

The three friends turned upon Stubbs.

"What is this, magic?" asked Chester in surprise.

"No," replied Stubbs, quietly. "Melenite. I just happened to see a stick of it here, so I threw it."

"Well, you did a pretty good job, Stubbs," said Colonel Anderson.

"I didn't pitch for my college team two years for nothing," returned Stubbs modestly. "But now let's go down. I want to get my feet on the ground again."

"It won't be much longer, Stubbs," said Hal. "Another two hours at this speed should put us across the Serbian frontier. Just be patient."

"I'll wait," replied Stubbs, "but I won't promise to be patient."

He sank back to his place and refused to talk further.

While the big army craft is speeding across Austria it will be a good time to explain the presence of the four friends in their present predicament and introduce them briefly to those who have not met them before.

Hal Paine and Chester Crawford were both American lads. With the former's mother, they had been in Berlin at the outbreak of the great war, and, after a series of interesting and exciting adventures, they made their way to Liége just in time to take part in the defense of that stronghold with the Belgian army.

There they won distinction and lieutenancies in the Belgian service, the latter bestowed upon them by King Albert himself. They had been in France with the British troops that had stopped the German drive on Paris and had gone with the Allied army on its advance. They had seen service on all fronts and now considered themselves veteran campaigners.

Colonel Anderson they had met in Berlin just after the Kaiser had declared war upon France. The colonel, lieutenant then, and Major Derevaux, a Frenchman, had taken the boys with them on their flight and the four had later encountered each other in many strange and unexpected places.

Stubbs they also had met while on one of their many missions and had earned the little man's undying gratitude; but he had repaid whatever they had done for him, with interest, more than once.

The boys, in their latest exploit, had been with the Italian army in the Alps. Two of the four friends having fallen into the hands of the enemy, the others had entered the enemy's lines in an effort to effect their escape.

It was a daring adventure, but after a fight and chase, the four had managed to seize the airship in which we now find them and had at last fought their way clear. They had then held a council of war and decided that it was best to head for the Balkans, rather than to run the gauntlet of the Austrian flying craft which kept constant vigil in the direction of the Italian lines.

Hal and Chester, typical American lads, were large and strong for their ages, which were within a year of each other, seventeen and eighteen now. In the rough lumber camps of the north, the two had had considerable experience in the use of firearms and the art of self-defense -- fists. Also, during the school term each had practiced the use of the sword until, though by no means experts, they could give a fair account of themselves with this weapon -- as each had done more than once.

Fortunately, both lads had made a study of languages and spoke French and German fluently. They never had trouble on that score.

The great war up to this point had not gone as successfully as the Entente Allies had hoped in the early days. The German lines on all fronts were seemingly stronger than ever before. Even the entrance of Italy into the war on the side of the Allies had failed to turn the balance, as it had been confidently expected it would. East and west, the German lines held, while in the Balkans the enemy was even now advancing against the heroic little Serbian army, which, before many days, was to be forced to relinquish its country to the iron heel of the invader. Montenegro, the smallest factor in the war, still was fighting hard -- the rugged and gigantic mountaineers giving a good account of themselves upon all sides.

This was the situation, then, as the airship containing Colonel Anderson, British officer, Anthony Stubbs, American war correspondent, and Hal Paine and Chester Crawford sped southward over Austria.

Several hours after the sinking of the Austrian aeroplane Chester spoke.

"Where do you suppose we are now, Hal?" he asked.

"I believe we must have crossed the frontier," replied Hal. "However, we'll wait another half hour before descending to have a look."

The half hour up, Hal sent the airship lower and lower. Soon, a faint gray speck below became visible, assuming larger and larger proportions, until all aboard made out the ground beneath.

And then, half a mile ahead, a body of troops were seen. Hal checked the speed of the craft immediately.

"Don't know who they are," he explained. "We'll be careful. They may be all right and then again they may not be."

He sent the machine higher again and a few minutes later the craft hung directly above the troops below.

"I can't make out those uniforms," declared Chester.

"Nor I," said Hal. "However, they are not Austrian, I can see that. We'll take a chance and go down."

Again the machine moved closer toward the earth, and a few minutes later came to rest upon the ground a short distance from the main body of troops. A squad of men, let by an officer, came hurriedly forward, covering the four friends with their rifles.

"By Jove!" exclaimed Colonel Anderson. "You must have miscalculated a bit, Hal. I recognize them now."

"Well, who are they?" demanded the lad.

"Montenegrins."

"Good," cried Chester. "Then we are among friends."

The four friends raised their hands in token of surrender as the officer and his men came toward them. A few paces away, the officer halted and addressed them.

Hal shook his head.

"Can't understand that lingo," he exclaimed.

He addressed the officer in English and the officer also indicated that he could not understand.

"Don't want to tackle him in German if I can help it," said Hal. "It might not suit him."

"Well, what's the matter with French?" Chester wanted to know.

"Nothing, I guess," returned Hal. "I'll try him. We are British officers," he said, addressing the Montenegrin officer, "and we have just escaped from the Austrians."

The Montenegrin understood and replied in broken French:

"How am I to know you are not of the enemy?"

"Well, I don't know, to tell the truth," Hal replied with a pleasant smile. "I am afraid it does look a little bad for us, as we have nothing to prove our identities. But if you have a British or French officer about here, perhaps we can convince him."

The Montenegrin nodded.

"Fortunately, we have," he said. He ordered one of his men to summon Colonel Edwards.

"By Jove!" said Anderson. "I know an Edwards. I wonder can it be the same?"

"No such luck, I am afraid," said Chester.

But it was; and a few moments later Colonel Edwards and Colonel Anderson were shaking hands affectionately.



Chapter III.

The King Of The Montenegrins.


With his hand upon Edwards' arm, Colonel Anderson approached Hal and Chester.

"I want you to meet my two young friends," he said.

Colonel Edwards shook hands with each lad in turn and then turned to Stubbs, who, during all this time, had been standing quietly, while he cast a critical eye upon the Montenegrin troopers who stood near.

"A likely looking bunch of men," he muttered to himself. "I'll bet they could give a good account of themselves in a -- "

He faced about just in time to acknowledge Colonel Anderson's introduction to Colonel Edwards; then turned again to survey the mountaineers.

"Good fighters, these," he said to himself, "or I miss my guess."

"Now," said Hal to Colonel Edwards, "there is really no use of our standing here. I'd like to look up a place where I can turn in for a few winks. I'm dead tired and I imagine the rest of you are, too."

Chester seconded Hal's motion and Colonel Anderson admitted his own fatigue. Stubbs settled the matter.

"Where there are men there are beds," he said; "or at least cots, or pallets, or something. I'm going to find one."

He moved toward a row of tents in the distance.

"Hold on there," said Chester. "We're all going, Stubbs."

In the meantime Colonel Edwards had been holding a consultation with the Montenegrin officer who had first accosted the friends.

"I am sure that if you vouch for them they are all right," said the Montenegrin.

"Thanks," said Edwards. "Then, with your permission, I shall conduct them to my own quarters."

"And you may also make free with mine," said the other.

Again Colonel Edwards expressed his thanks, in which the others joined, and then he led the way toward the distant tents.

Fifteen minutes later the four friends were sleeping soundly, with never a care in the world, for it had been long since they had closed their eyes and they were completely worn out.

Darkness shrouded the small tent when Hal opened his eyes. It was several moments before the lad could gain his bearings, but when at last he realized just where he was he bethought himself of the others.

"Still sleeping, I guess," he said.

He arose, moved to the door of the tent and passed out. A steady rumbling sound fell upon his ears and Hal, momentarily, was unable to account for it. But the solution soon came to him.

"Troops moving," he told himself.

He was right. Walking some distance from the tent, he made out, probably half a mile away, the dark forms of many men as they marched swiftly on in the darkness, their figures lighted up ever and anon by the gleam of a flashlight. But the camp in which the lad stood was perfectly quiet.

"Now I wonder -- " he muttered -- gazed silently ahead a moment and then turned back toward the tent, saying to himself: "Guess I'll wake the others up."

Chester and Colonel Anderson were aroused without much trouble. Not so Stubbs.

"What's the matter?" came the little man's query, when Hal prodded him gently in the ribs with his foot.

"Time to get up," said Hal, briefly.

For a moment Stubbs opened his eyes and peered into the darkness -- for Hal had made no light.

"Get up?" he exclaimed. "What! Anthony Stubbs get up in the middle of the night? Not much!"

"But we are going, Stubbs," said Hal. "We don't want to leave you here by yourself."

"Kind of you," said Stubbs sarcastically. "I can remember when you were not so solicitious of my welfare. Don't worry about me. I'll just sleep right along."

He turned over and a loud snore a few moments later told that he was again in the land of dreams.

Again Hal prodded him with his foot.

"Stubbs! I say, Stubbs!" he called.

Directly Stubbs opened his eyes.

"And what's the matter this time?" he demanded aggrievedly.

"Hurry!" Hal exclaimed, thinking to get the little man up by a ruse. "The Austrians are coming."

"Run, then!" replied Stubbs. "I'll hide here. They won't bother me."

"Now listen here, Stubs," said Chester, "just when do you want to get up?"

Again Stubbs allowed his eyes to open and he peered into the darkness sleepily.

"What day is this?" he inquired mildly.

"Tuesday," replied Chester; "but what -- "

"Then call me Saturday," said the little man gently, and closed his eyes in sleep once more.

"Ha! Ha!" laughed Colonel Anderson. "He had you there, Chester."

Chester appeared somewhat flustered.

"Well, he'll have to get up out of there," he said wrathfully.

"Oh, come on and let him be, Chester," said Hal. "I guess nothing will hurt him. We'll be back by daylight and I'll venture to say we will find him here, still snoring."

"Well, all right," Chester agreed at length; "but to tell you the truth, I don't just like that answer he gave me."

The three left the tent and Hal led the way toward where he had so recently perceived the passing troops.

Infantry, cavalry and artillery were still passing in dense masses, moving westward.

"I wonder where they are going?" said Chester.

"To the front, I suppose," replied Hal.

"Now do you really suppose they are?" asked Chester sarcastically. "I thought perhaps they were on dress parade. Say, just where are we anyhow? Do either of you know?"

"By Jove!" exclaimed Colonel Anderson. "I meant to ask Edwards, but I forgot all about it. He told us, you remember, he would be in the tent on our left. We'll go back and have him out. Perhaps we can learn a few things."

"Suits me," Hal agreed. "We can't see anything here but troops, and we have seen too many of them to be much interested. Come on."

Fifteen minutes later found them seated in the tent Colonel Edwards had commandeered for his temporary headquarters and the colonel himself doing the talking.

"You are perhaps fifteen miles northwest of Cettinje, the capital of Montenegro," he explained.

"And where are these troops going?" asked Hal.

"Reinforcements to the Austrian front," said Colonel Edwards. "Also some of them, can they be spared, will be rushed to the aid of the Serbians, who, from all accounts, are being sorely pressed by the new German offensive."

"New German offensive?" exclaimed Hal.

"Why, yes. Haven't you heard of it?"

"No. Will you explain?"

"I'll try," said Colonel Edwards. "I'll revert back to the start. On Friday, August 13, news reached London, where I was then stationed, that an Austro-German army of more than 300,000 men was massing at a point on the Serbian frontier and it was asserted that the Kaiser was about to strike a blow at Serbia in order to improve Teuton prospects in the Balkans, where Roumania and Greece had been reported as waiting a favorable opportunity to join the Allies.

"The great German victories in Russia, following the fall of Warsaw, had, however, caused the Balkan kingdoms to waver, and Bulgaria was said to have strong pro-German leanings. On August 16 the Austro-German army crossed the frontier and began a bombardment of Belgrade, the capital. This led to a crisis in the Greek parliament, where the Venizelos party caused the downfall of the cabinet, which supported the king's attitude of strict neutrality -- a neutrality he had promised his consort, who is the sister of the Kaiser, as you know.

"On August 21 Serbia made it known that in accordance with the advice of the Allies, she was willing to grant the demands of Bulgaria for the return of territory taken in the last Balkan war, and for a time it seemed that Bulgaria would enter the war on the side of the Allies. However, on September 19 it was said that Bulgaria would join the Central Powers, thus permitting Germany to establish an unbroken line of allies from the Baltic to the Bosporus.

"On October 5, the Allies, upon invitation of the Greek premier, began the disembarkation of troops at Saloniki to go to the assistance of the Serbians; and, so far as I know, they are still landing."

The three friends had listened attentively to this account of the Balkan situation. They had heard some inkling of the seriousness of the Serbian plight, but had not realized until now that Germany had at last set out to crush the little Balkan kingdom as she had crushed Belgium in the early days of the great war.

"And what is the latest on the Bulgarian attitude?" asked Colonel Anderson.

"Well, I haven't heard anything later than I have told you, but my personal opinion is that Bulgaria, sooner or later, will join the Germans."

"Fools," said Colonel Anderson, briefly.

"And Greece?" inquired Chester.

"I don't know, but I believe Greece will keep out of the war just as long as she possibly can. Certainly, the Greek people will never consent to aiding the Germans."

"You never can tell," said Colonel Anderson sententiously.

Outside the tent it was now growing light, for time had passed swiftly. Hal noticed the light filtering in.

"Great Scott! I had no idea it was morning," he said. "It must have been after midnight when we awoke. Let's get outside."

They left the tent and Hal went into their own quarters a moment, where he found Stubbs up and about to emerge. Together the five walked toward the eastern extremity of the camp.

Came a sudden blaring of trumpets and a body of horse swept toward them. The riders drew rein almost before the friends, dismounted and stood at attention, while a figure who had been in the center also jumped to the ground. This figure of huge stature, a man of advanced age, who dismounted nimbly in spite of his years, walked toward the spot where stood the five friends. Edwards came to attention, as did the others.

"The king!" said Colonel Edwards in a low voice.



Chapter IV.

Into The Mountains.


Nicholas, king of the Montenegrins, came forward slowly, his head bowed as though in grief, and it seemed for a moment as though he would pass Hal, Chester and the others without seeing them. But even as he drew abreast of the five, he looked up suddenly. His gaze rested upon Colonel Edwards and the Englishman bowed low. Colonel Anderson did likewise. Hal, Chester and Stubbs remained erect.

The king smiled slightly at Colonel Edwards, whom he plainly knew, and glanced inquiringly at the others.

Colonel Edwards approached him.

"Your majesty," he said, "I would crave your permission to present another of my countrymen and three Americans, who have seen service with your allies in the western theater of war."

The king nodded his head affirmatively and Colonel Edwards motioned the others to approach. The king extended a hand to each and spoke a few pleasant words.

"I hope," he said, "that you will make yourselves perfectly at home in my camp. I am sorry I have no better to offer you." He turned to Edwards. "I have faith in you English," he said, "and for that reason I was about to summon you this morning. I have a mission of importance, and some danger, I would have you undertake."

"I shall be pleased, sire" replied Colonel Edwards with a bow.

The king smiled.

"I knew you would be," he said. "Now this mission will necessitate probably more than a single man. You shall pick the others. It seems simple, but I can assure you it is not. Among the Albanian tribesmen, I am told, there is a disposition to doubt the justice of our cause and the cause of our allies. A spirit of unrest is rife there. I would have it looked into. I have faith in the majority of the Albanians, but a few agitators could do much harm right now. The reason I say one man could hardly undertake the task is that he would hardly have time to cover the necessary ground. Two might do; even more would be better."

At this point Colonel Anderson stepped forward.

"If you please, your majesty," he said, and hesitated.

"Speak, sir," said the king.

"If you please, your majesty," Colonel Anderson repeated, "it would give me, and my friends here, the utmost pleasure to be of some slight service to you. With your permission, we shall offer our services to Colonel Edwards."

A smile stole over the king's rugged face.

"I have always said," he declared, "that the British and the Americans come nearer to being like my own people than any others. You have my permission, sir, for yourself and your friends, and I have no doubt of the success of the mission." He turned again to Colonel Edwards. "You will make all possible haste?"

"What we may, with caution," was the reply.

"Good. Then I shall expect you back within the week."

Again all bowed before the king and after a few words of farewell the Montenegrin monarch resumed his walk.

"Well, I feel better now," declared Hal. "We've got something to do, so we won't feel as though we had no business here."

"My sentiments, exactly," agreed Chester.

"Well, they are not mine," declared Stubbs. "Say! what's the matter with you fellows, anyhow? Look at all the trouble we had finding a safe place to come down, and now you are running around looking for more trouble. You are not going to get Anthony Stubbs into any Albanian mountains, I can tell you that."

"You don't have to go if you don't want to, I'm sure," said Colonel Anderson stiffly. "I had no idea you were afraid."

"Afraid!" echoed Stubbs. "And why shouldn't I be afraid, I ask you? Why shouldn't I be afraid, eh? I don't know anything about mountains. I don't know anything about mountaineers. I don't want to know anything about any of them. All I want to do is -- "

"Get a little news for the New York Gazette," Chester interrupted.

"Eh?" exclaimed Stubbs. "What's that? News? Sure, I've got to get some news. By George! Might be a good feature story up in those mountains." He turned to Colonel Edwards. "Count me in on this little trip, will you?" he said.

Colonel Edwards hesitated. He didn't know Stubbs as well as the others.

"Well -- " he began.

"Oh, he's all right, Colonel," said Hal. "It's just his way. He's no coward. He is no more afraid than you are."

"Don't you believe it, Colonel," said Stubbs. "I assure you I am scared to death. But I am more afraid of losing my job with the New York Gazette than I am of these Albanian mountaineers, so if I go I am just choosing the lesser of two evils. I want to go with you fellows. But please remember one thing: I'm no fighter. If it comes to a fight, you can count me out; but if it's a question of run -- well, you'll find me with you, or far ahead."

"Then if the others have no objections, I am sure that I shall be pleased to have you accompany us," said Colonel Edwards.

"And when shall we start?" asked Hal.

"Just as soon as we can."

"Walk, ride, or what?"

"Horses, until we reach the top of the mountains. Then we'll walk. Also, we will discard our uniforms -- anyhow, I don't imagine you like the cut of those Austrian garments."

"I don't, and that's the truth," Hal agreed.

"Good. We'll change immediately. You go to my quarters and wait. I'll rustle up some civilian clothes and have them sent you. Also I'll arrange for our mounts and other details. I'll meet you here two hours from now."

With this Colonel Edwards betook himself away and the others returned to his quarters.

Half an hour later the clothes arrived and the four friends hastened to climb into them, Stubbs the while muttering to himself.

"Great Scott, Stubbs!" said Hal at last. "Quit your grumbling. Any one would think you were going to a funeral."

"And so I am -- maybe," returned the little man. "And what worries me is that it is likely to be my own."

"You are a cheerful sort of a companion, I must say," declared Chester. "What's the use of yelling before you are hurt?"

"Because I probably won't be able to afterwards," was the reply.

Colonel Edwards was waiting when the four made their way to the appointed spot. The horses were picketed nearby.

"All ready?" asked the colonel. "Guns? Ammunition?"

All nodded.

"Then there is no use waiting longer. We may as well be moving."

He led the way to the horses and leaped lightly to the saddle. The others followed suit. Edwards waited until all were mounted and then headed his horse toward the north.

"Let us ride," he said.

All through the morning hours and well into the afternoon they rode along without adventure. They were challenged several times by Montenegrin outposts, but were allowed to proceed after an explanation by Colonel Edwards.

It was four o'clock by Hal's watch when Colonel Edwards at last drew rein in the far outskirts of a tiny mountain village.

"We'll leave our horses here," said the colonel, dismounting.

He led the way to a small barn near a smaller hut. Approaching the hut he gave a loud whistle. A man emerged and Colonel Edwards engaged him in conversation. At length the man nodded. Colonel Edwards turned to the others.

"We'll turn our horses over to him," he said. "I told him we would be back within seven days and wanted him to keep the animals here for us. He has agreed."

"But will he?" asked Hal.

Colonel Edwards shrugged his shoulders.

"You know as much about it as I do," he replied. "However, we have no choice."

"Well, they might come in handy if we get back," declared Stubbs. "When we return this far we are liable to be in considerable of a hurry, and if the horses were not here it would be a terrible disappointment for us, at least. If we come back, we'll probably come on the run."

"And why will we come on the run?" Chester wanted to know.

"Bayonets behind," returned Stubbs briefly. "Rifles, revolvers and whatnots. Oh, yes, we'll -- "

"Stubbs," said Hal severely, "you would be a kill-joy at any feast. When it comes to plain, downright pessimism, you take the cake. Your equal does not exist."

"I'm glad to hear you say I'm good for something," muttered Stubbs.

"Well, if a pessimist is good for anything, you come first always," said Chester.

By this time the mountaineer had stabled their horses. Colonel Edwards gave him a piece of money, and mumbling his thanks, the man moved away.

"Which way?" asked Colonel Anderson.

Colonel Edwards drew a small map from his pocket, which he consulted for some moments.

"About five miles straight along this mountain road," he said at last. "There we cross the Albanian frontier, and there, also, we part company, or some of us do. Some of us will strike off to the right and the others to the left. You know what his majesty said. We would not learn much if we all went together."

"True," returned Hal. "Well, let's be moving."

They trudged along the rough, hilly road at a fair gait; but the walking was difficult and it was almost two hours later that Colonel Edwards again called a halt at what appeared to be a fork in the mountain pass.

"We'll split up here," he said briefly.

"And how?" asked Chester.

"That's up to you fellows. Of course, I'll take charge of one party, and I suppose Colonel Anderson should be entrusted with the other."

"Of course," said Chester. "I'll go with Colonel Anderson. Hal and Stubbs can go with you."

"One way as well as another," was the reply.

And so it was decided. There was a last handshake all around and the two parties went their separate ways -- Colonel Anderson and Chester taking the more level trail to the right, and Colonel Edwards, Hal and Stubbs moving off along the rough pass to the left, leading more abruptly upward.



Chapter V.

A Shot From Ambush.


Up, up and still up the road that Colonel Edwards, Hal and Stubbs had selected continued, winding first to the right and then to the left until all three had practically lost all sense of direction. Hal mentioned this.

"Don't know just where we are," he said.

"No," agreed Colonel Edwards. "However, it doesn't make much difference. We'll be around here for several days. Chances are the sun will come out before we get ready to leave and then we can get our bearings."

"Maybe there won't be any sun," said Stubbs.

"There you go again," said Hal. "Of course there'll be a sun. What's the use of hunting trouble?"

"I'm not hunting trouble," Stubbs disclaimed. "I just said maybe there won't be any sun."

Hal threw up both hands in a gesture of dismay.

"You're beyond hope," he declared.

After what seemed like hours of climbing, though in reality it was not more than two at the most, the three reached what apparently was the top of the mountain, and the road stretched out level ahead of them, heavily shaded on both sides with trees.

"Nice place for a fellow to hide and shoot a man," said Stubbs almost cheerfully.

Hal just looked at the little man but said nothing. Edwards grinned.

"Real cheerful little fellow, aren't you?" he said dryly.

Stubbs grinned back at him.

"I just said -- " he began.

"We heard you," interrupted Hal.

The three trudged along silently for a few moments. Then, coming to a place where the trees crowded the road even closer and the branches hung low across their path, Stubbs again broke the silence.

"An assassin -- " he began.

The interruption this time came from another source.

The little man's hat suddenly leaped from his head. There was the low whine of a bullet and a rifle cracked from the woods on the left.

Stubbs threw himself to the ground almost before his hat settled near him and he gave a loud cry.

"Help!"

Startled though they were by the unexpectedness of the attack, Colonel Edwards and Hal acted promptly. A revolver flashed in the hand of each and both fired into the woods toward the point from which the shot had come. Then they leaped for shelter among the trees that lined the road on the right. Stubbs, for the moment forgotten, still lay in the road and seemed to be attempting to bury his head in the dirt.

Hal, now sheltered by trees, perceived the little man's plight.

"Can't leave him there," he called to Edwards. "Cover me if you can."

Edwards nodded and held his revolver ready.

Hal dashed quickly from his shelter, grasped Stubbs by the right arm, jerked him violently to his feet and turned his face toward the woods on the right.

Stubbs seemed too frightened to realize in what direction lay safety, and breaking from Hal's hold, whirled about and dashed across the road, almost directly toward the spot from whence had come the shot a few moments before.

Hal gave a cry of dismay and dashed after him. But even as he would have given chase, there came a second rifle shot from the trees and Hal felt the breeze as a bullet sped by his ear. At the same moment Edwards yelled:

"Come back!"

Hal wasted no time in thought. He obeyed Edwards' command and dashed back to shelter with all speed.

"Whew!" he muttered. "That was pretty close."

"Rather," agreed Edwards dryly. "Where did the little man get to?"

"Oh, he's over there with our unseen enemy some place. He got away from me."

"I saw him," said Edwards grimly. "He's likely to have a warm time on the other side of the road."

Hal grinned in spite of himself, as he replied:

"He is that. I suppose we should do something to help him, but I am frank to say I don't know just what."

"We'll have to figure some way to get rid of that fellow," said Edwards. "He's dangerous. Apparently there is only one."

"Tell you what," said Hal, "you stick here. I'll sneak through the trees here for a quarter of a mile, cross the road and double back. If I can go quietly enough perhaps I can catch him off his guard."

Edwards considered this plan.

"Might be done," he said finally. "I don't think of anything else. Off with you then."

Hal walked still deeper into the woods and then turned to his left. Keeping himself well screened from the road he made his way carefully and silently along. At last, when he felt sure that he could no longer be seen by their unexpected foe, he approached the road again.

The lad poked his head out cautiously and, after a quick glance back to make sure there was no one in sight, crossed the road at a bound, almost expecting as he did so to hear a bullet whiz near.

No bullet came.

Once safe on the other side, the lad turned again to his left and doubled back. He went more cautiously now, making sure of each footstep that he might not warn the unseen foe of his approach.

In the woods there was the silence of death.

Hal, moving slowly forward, now felt that he must have reached the point from which the two shots had been fired and stopped and listened intently. Once he thought he heard the sound of a snapping twig and became perfectly quiet, waiting for the sound to be repeated; but it did not come again.

"Guess I must have been mistaken," the lad told himself, as he moved forward again.

Five minutes later Hal stopped suddenly in his tracks. He had heard a sound close at hand and knew he was not mistaken this time. A twig had snapped perhaps twenty yards to his right and as far ahead.

Hal grasped his automatic more firmly.

"Hope I get the first shot," he muttered.

Suddenly he caught sight of a form as it flitted from one tree to another. Quickly the lad raised his revolver and fired.

There was no outcry, and looking again, the lad saw no one.

"Missed him," he muttered. "Well, I've betrayed myself! Now I'll have to be more careful."

He lay down upon the ground behind the tree where he had taken shelter and waited patiently. Ten minutes later he thought he saw an object move behind a tree a scant fifteen yards away.

Again the lad fired.

This shot was followed by a startled cry as a figure leaped to its feet and started off through the woods at full speed.

Hal sprang to his feet.

"Halt!" he cried.

The figure seemed to run faster than before.

Hal paused and leveled his revolver in deliberate aim. His finger tightened on the trigger -- then, suddenly he let his arm fall.

"Stubbs!" he cried in amazement.

The running figure was indeed the little war correspondent.

"By Jove!" muttered Hal. "Another moment and I would have shot him." He raised his voice in a shout: "Hey, Stubbs!"

But the little man ran on, unheeding.

"He'll run right smack into that other fellow if he doesn't watch out," Hal told himself. "Well, I suppose I'll have to stop him."

Still holding his revolver in his right hand, he also broke into a run and made after the fleeing Stubbs.

Several times he called, but Stubbs paid no heed. Then Hal grew angry.

"I'll get you if I have to chase you right back to the door of the New York Gazette" he muttered to himself.

He gained at every stride and was rapidly overtaking the war correspondent, although Stubbs, with head lowered, looking neither to the right nor to the left, his arms working like pistons, ran blindly on.

Suddenly Hal stopped almost in his tracks and his heart leaped into his throat.

From behind a tree directly in Stubbs' path, stepped a short squat figure, with great long arms dangling at its side. A revolver was clasped in the right hand and the weapon was slowly raised until it covered Stubbs.

Hal gave a loud cry of warning, raised his own revolver and fired. But even as his finger tightened on the trigger he knew he had missed. Stubbs was so close to the other figure that the lad had been afraid of hitting him. Consequently the bullet went wild.

But though it missed its mark, Hal's bullet undoubtedly saved Stubbs' life, for it attracted the attention of the enemy for a brief moment; and in that moment, Anthony Stubbs, still unaware of the danger that confronted him, dashed head first into his would-be slayer.

So great was the force of the impact that both were hurled to the ground. With rare presence of mind, Stubbs, recovering his breath before his unexpected opponent realized what had happened, reached out and procured the other's revolver and hurled it aside.

Then he attempted to get to his feet, but at this point the other came back to life and seized him by the legs.

"Hey! Leggo my legs!" shouted Stubbs.

The other held him tightly.

"Let me up!" cried Stubbs again.

Still the other clung fast, while Stubbs raised a cry for help.

At this juncture Hal reached the combatants. He was about to lend a hand, when he saw that Stubbs' opponent was unarmed, and drew back.

Stubbs did not see him, and apparently believing that he was to get no help, he turned to give battle. He kicked out with his left foot and the foot came free. He followed suit with the right foot and felt it strike something soft. At the same moment there came a cry of pain from Stubbs' opponent and the grasp upon his other leg relaxed.

Quickly the little man leaped to his feet and darted toward the spot where he had thrown the revolver. He snatched it up and leveled it at his adversary.

"Hands up there!" he called.

There came a choking cry from the queer figure and the long arms were raised high in the air.

"Good for you, Stubbs!" cried Hal at this juncture.

Stubbs gazed about sharply.

"About time you were getting here," he said. "I had a terrible fight with this fellow."



Chapter VI.

A Strange Encounter.


Hal laughed aloud.

"Terrible fight, eh?" he exclaimed. "Of course you did. What else could you do? You had to fight. Pretty lucky, Stubbs."

"Lucky!" echoed Stubbs. "What do you mean, lucky? If you had been here in time to see me tackle this fellow you would have known what a hard time I had."

"I saw you," replied Hal. "You can put down your gun, now. I'll take care of this fellow."

He leveled his own revolver at the queer-looking creature before him and Stubbs placed his newly-acquired revolver in his coat pocket.

Hal motioned to his prisoner to approach. The latter did so with an ugly scowl on his face. He seemed not to have the slightest fear and came up to the lad unflinchingly.

"Speak English?" asked Hal.

There was no reply.

"French?"

The man nodded.

"Who are you?" demanded Hal.

"Nikol."

"Nikol what?"

The man did not reply, and Hal surveyed him critically. He was at least thirty-five years of age, could not have been an inch more than four feet in height, and his long, knotted arms, apparently as strong as a gorilla's, reached almost to the ground, where his huge hand clasped and unclasped nervously. Involuntarily Hal shuddered.

"Must be as strong as an ox," the lad muttered. "Lucky for Stubbs he kicked at the right time and happened to land."

"What's your last name?" the lad demanded again.

"Haven't any," was the reply.

"What are you, an Albanian?"

"Yes."

"What are you doing here?"

The man did not reply.

Stubbs had been an interesting listener to the conversation and became decidedly impatient when the dwarf refused to answer Hal's questions.

"Why don't you speak?" he demanded aggressively, taking a step forward. He felt perfectly safe now that Hal had the man covered.

Instantly there was an unexpected change in the dwarf's manner. He stepped back a pace and bowed his head before the angry Stubbs.

"I did not know that you wished me to answer," he replied civilly. "I will talk to you, for you are the first man who has ever conquered me; and you are a small man, too -- a dwarf."

"What's that?" exclaimed Stubbs still more angrily, for "the dwarf" had touched upon a tender spot. "Dwarf, am I? What do you mean by talking to me like that?"

Again he took a step forward and the Albanian drew back.

"You will please excuse me," he said humbly. "I did not mean to offend. For myself I am proud that I am a dwarf and I was glad that it was one of my own kind who conquered me."

Stubbs, greatly flattered, threw out his chest and turned to Hal.

"You see," he exclaimed, "if you have any doubts as to how I overcame this man, he will tell you himself. Won't you, Nik -- Nikol?"

Nikol bowed.

"I will, sir," he replied.

"Well, you seem to have done a good job," Hal replied. "I don't believe I could have overcome him. In fact, I am sure of it. Now if you will kindly order your newly made slave to answer my questions, perhaps we may learn something."

Stubbs gave the order in the tone of a man born to command and the dwarf nodded his understanding.

"If my boss knew I could give orders like that, I'd have a better job," was Stubbs' comment as Hal turned to Nikol.

"What are your sympathies in this war?" asked the lad quietly.

"My sympathies," was the reply, "I have kept locked up here," and Nikol tapped his breast with one of his huge fingers. "But, now that my conqueror requests me to talk, I will tell you. My sympathies are with Montenegro; always have been and always will be."

"Good!" exclaimed Hal. "Then perhaps you can tell me something of the Austrian sentiment in these mountains."

"The Austrian sympathy is very strong," was the reply. "Not so much here as further north. Thousands of tribesmen there are only awaiting the arrival of the Austrians to join their ranks. Some have joined already."

"And is there not danger for a man of your sympathies in these parts?"

The Albanian shrugged his shoulders.

"I have said," he replied, "that I keep my sympathies locked up here," and again he tapped his breast.

Hal was silent for a few moments, considering a plan that had come to him. At length he turned to Stubbs.

"Will you ask your newly made friend," he said, "if he will join us? He will be invaluable. He can lead us where we would go without question."

Stubbs grasped the situation instantly.

He put the question to the Albanian. For long minutes the man hesitated, and then he, in turn, asked a question.

"You say that you are working in the interests of Montenegro?" he asked.

"I can give you my word," replied Stubbs soberly.

The dwarf extended a hand to Stubbs and looked him in the eye.

"Such men as you, such fighters as you, do not lie," he said gravely.

Stubbs blushed like a schoolboy as he extended a hand, which was seized in a grip that brought tears to the little man's eyes. But he bore the pain bravely, for he did not wish to lose caste in the eyes of his new admirer.

"Come then," said Hal. "We'll pick up Colonel Edwards again and be moving."

He led the way back to where the first shot had been fired and raised his voice in a shout:

"All right, Edwards?"

"All right," was the reply.

"I've caught the enemy," explained Hal. "You can come from under cover."

He led the way to the road and a moment later Colonel Edwards joined them.

"What have we here?" he exclaimed, after a glance at the dwarf.

"A guide," replied Hal; "the same being the man who fired at us, and also Stubbs' own prisoner."

"Stubbs' prisoner?"

"Exactly. He captured him single-handed."

Colonel Edwards eyed Stubbs in the greatest surprise, until Hal explained in a low voice, so that neither Stubbs nor the dwarf might hear.

"Well, we may as well be moving then," said Colonel Edwards. "Have your guide take the lead, Stubbs."

Stubbs, undeniably proud at the honor now being bestowed upon him, did as requested, and the dwarf led the way down the road at a rapid gait.

Hour after hour they walked along encountering no one, until shortly before nightfall when they drew up near a small hut. Here Nikol went forward and secured food, which he brought back in his hands. This they devoured hungrily, drank from a little brook, and moved forward again.

Now Nikol deserted the beaten path and struck off through the mountains proper, climbing steep hills, leaping ruts and gullies, rocks and brooks, but making such good progress that the others were hard pressed to keep up with him.

Darkness fell suddenly and Stubbs shuddered.

"Nice place for an assassin here, too," he muttered gloomily.

"Back at it, are you?" said Hal. "What will your friend Nikol say?"

Stubbs did not reply.

Suddenly the dwarf halted and motioned the others to silence. All listened intently and directly made out what the sharp ears of Nikol had caught first -- the sound of approaching footsteps.

Nikol motioned the others back into the shadow of a great rock and stepped boldly forward. Then he hesitated a moment, came back and spoke to Stubbs in a low voice, yet loud enough for the others to hear.

"If I should chance to be outmatched," he said, "you will come to my assistance? The others," he snapped his fingers, "are no good. You will come?"

Taken wholly off his guard, Stubbs stuttered and stammered.

"You will come?" Nikol repeated again.

"Ye-e-s, I'll come," Stubbs articulated at last.

Nikol wasted no further time in words, but moved forward perhaps a hundred yards. Then he halted and stood still, waiting.

The sound of footsteps drew nearer and still nearer, and then suddenly Nikol sprang forward, silently and swiftly.

There came a sudden startled cry from ahead and then a great, boisterous laugh.

"Ho! Ho!" exclaimed a voice in French. "Look what has attacked Ivan Vergoff."

For some reason that he could not explain, Hal left his place of concealment and moved toward the combatants. The others followed him.

"Ho! Ho!" came the great voice again. "Ivan Vergoff, the greatest of the Cossacks, attacked by this puny pygmy."

Hal had now approached close enough to see the gigantic figure of Nikol's antagonist and to witness the struggle.

The giant had stooped over and seized Nikol by one arm. He pulled, but the dwarf, his feet firmly planted on the ground, did not budge. It was a great exhibition of strength, for Hal knew that the stranger must be a powerful man.

This time the giant did not laugh.

"A strong man," he muttered aloud. "A strong man, though he be a pygmy."

He now extended another arm, seized the dwarf around the middle and lifted him high above his head. With his right arm the dwarf struck the face that gazed up at him as he was suspended high in the air.

The big man gave a roar like that of an angry bull, hurled the dwarf from him and then jumped after the flying figure with remarkable agility for a man of his huge size.

But even as he would have seized Nikol again, Hal stepped forward.

"Wait!" cried the lad, who had been doing some quick thinking. "Your name is Ivan Vergoff and you are a Cossack?"

The big man paused suddenly and glanced about him.

"Yes!" he shouted. "What of it?"

"Only," replied Hal quietly, "that I bring you word of your brother, Alexis!"



Chapter VII.

New Friends.


The big man paused and turned an enquiring eye upon Hal, whom he could dimly perceive in the darkness.

"Alexis!" he echoed. "What of him? How do you know I have a brother Alexis?"

Hal replied rapidly in the Russian dialect which he had picked up during his service with the Cossacks, as told in the story of "The Boy Allies With the Cossacks," while the man listened intently. Then the giant set the dwarf upon his feet remarking:

"Now, you just stay there a little while. I may have more to say to you later, but right now I would know something of my brother Alexis, whom I have not seen in years. And my brother Stephan, also, what do you know of him?" he demanded of Hal.

The lad shook his head.

"Not much," he said. "But come, we'll find some spot where we can make a fire and I'll tell you what I know of Alexis."

"Good," boomed the big man. "Follow me."

Without another word he turned on his heel and strode away whence he had come. The other four followed him, Nikol the while muttering angrily to himself.

Stubbs turned upon him suddenly.

"What's the matter with you?" he demanded. "Don't you know it's cold here? I want to sit by the fire awhile. Keep still."

The dwarf made no reply, but became silent. It was plain enough that he stood very much in awe of Stubbs.

After a five-minute walk through the dark woods, the big Cossack wheeled sharply to the left, and walking swiftly for perhaps fifty yards drew up before what appeared to be a solid rock.

Looking closer in the darkness, however, Hal saw a slight opening at the bottom, the space between the rock and the ground being perhaps three feet. The rock, apparently, rested upon more solid ground farther back.

"Follow me," said the big man again.

He dropped on his hands and knees and wriggled through the opening.

At this point Stubbs manifested a desire to leave the others in the lurch.

"Say!" he exclaimed. "You're not going to get me under there. How do you know what he may have in mind to do to us?"

"Come, Stubbs," said Hal. "Don't be a quitter all the time. Nothing is going to hurt -- "

Before he could finish his sentence he felt himself seized in a powerful grip from behind. He twisted about with an effort and looked down upon the scowling face of Nikol.

"Here! What's the matter?" he cried.

The dwarf grinned at him evilly, and still retaining his hold, gazed at Stubbs.

"He insulted you," he said. "What shall I do with him?"

"Great Scott! Let him down!" exclaimed the little man, anxiously. "He didn't do anything to me."

"But he insulted you," protested Nikol. "I heard him say -- "

"Oh, that was just in fun," cried Stubbs. "Let him go."

The dwarf's hold relaxed and Hal jumped away.

"Don't try any of that on me again," he said, facing Nikol angrily. He turned to Stubbs. "You just instruct this fellow to keep his hands off me, or I shall have to take my gun to him."

"Oh, he didn't mean any harm," Stubbs protested.

"Maybe he didn't and maybe he did," replied Hal. "At any rate, I don't like that kind of treatment. You tell him what I said."

"He was just sticking up for me," said Stubbs, aggrievedly. "But I'll tell him."

He did so, but the dwarf said nothing.

At this juncture the big Cossack poked his head from beneath the rock.

"Are you coming in here or not?" he demanded in a gruff voice.

"Coming," said Hal, dropping to his knees.

"Look here, Hal," said Stubbs, "I don't like the looks of this place. Maybe we had better stay outside."

"Nonsense," Edwards spoke up at this point. "The man means us no harm."

Hal had disappeared beneath the rock and Edwards dropped to his knees and crawled after him.

"Well," said Stubbs to himself, "I don't like this, but I guess I might as well go along."

Motioning Nikol to follow him, he, too, dropped to all fours and crawled slowly beneath the big rock.

Beyond the rock, a brisk fire made dimly visible what appeared to be a large cavern. The fire seemed to be in the exact center of a large underground room and beyond it Hal thought he could make out the mouths of dark passageways that led off in several directions.

"Come up to the fire and get warm," the big Cossack invited.

The others accepted the invitation, first discarding their heavy outer garments. When all appeared comfortable, the big Cossack spoke.

"Now," he said, addressing Hal, "tell me of Alexis. He is -- "

"Dead," Hal interrupted quietly.

Ivan sprang to his feet.

"Dead!" he shouted. "And you dare to tell it to me? You, no doubt, had a hand in his death!"

"On the contrary," returned the lad quietly, "I tried to save him, as did my chum; but it was too late. But he died like a brave man and a true Cossack."

Ivan was silent for several moments, and then said sneeringly:

"And what do you know of the Cossacks?"

"Well, very little, to be sure," Hal confessed, "though, for a short time, I had the honor of serving in a Cossack regiment."

"What, you?" exclaimed Ivan incredulously. "Impossible."

"No; what I say is true," said Hal. "And it was there that I met your brother Alexis, than whom I have never seen a braver man."

"'Tis true," muttered Ivan. "Alexis was ever a brave man, though much given to boasting. Also, barring perhaps myself, he was the most powerful man I have ever seen."

"He was indeed," replied Hal, "and it will give me pleasure at some time to relate to you some of the remarkable feats I have seen him accomplish."

"Alexis has related enough," returned Ivan dryly. "But come, now, tell me what you know of him."

"Well," Hal began, "I met Alexis first -- "

He stopped suddenly and listened attentively.

"What was that?" he demanded.

"What?" asked Edwards.

"I thought I heard a voice calling. Sounded like a cry for help."

Ivan broke into a loud laugh.

"Ho! Ho!" he cried. "Guess you heard my prisoners."

"Prisoners?" Hal repeated inquiringly.

"Yes. I came across them this afternoon. They sought to ply me with questions. I treated them respectfully enough, but when they continued to plague me, I just picked them up and brought them here. I have a suspicion they may be Austrian spies and if there is one race of men for whom I have no use, it is the Austrians. But they do not annoy you, do they? If so, I shall go back and have a word with them. After that I assure you they will annoy you no more."

"Oh, no," Hal hastened to say. "They do not annoy me in the slightest. But what do you intend to do with them?"

"Well, I don't know exactly," returned Ivan. "You know I have read somewhat, and I remember the things I have read. For instance now, I would like to be like one of the old kings, or say even a present-day American, of whom I have heard much. They have slaves and things. Why not make my prisoners my slaves?"

"I assure you you are wrong about the Americans," said Hal. "I chance to be one myself, so I know. Of kings, I cannot say."

"Never mind," said Ivan. "We'll attend to them later on. Right now I have a desire to hear your story. Proceed."

Hal did so. He related his and Chester's first meeting with Alexis, the big brave-hearted man who had once played an important part in their lives, as related in "The Boy Allies With the Cossacks." He told of the many exciting adventures the three had gone through together.

And as the lad progressed with his narrative, Ivan became more interested with each word; and by the time Hal had come to an account of his brother's last great fight, Ivan was on his feet, his face glowing.

"By St. George!" he cried. "I knew he could do it. Boaster or not, he was a brave man. But go on. And after he had killed the three Germans there on the sand, then what?"

"Why, then," said Hal, "a German bullet struck him in the right shoulder; a moment later another lodged in his right side. But Alexis did not pause. He rushed right into the thick of them, using his now empty pistols and at last striking out with his bare fists. Men tumbled on all sides.

"From behind and from both sides, the Germans darted at him, firing their revolvers and stabbing him with the swords. By this time, we had finished repairing our machine and we rushed to his aid, and for a moment the Germans gave back. Then they closed in and we were all hard pressed. Alexis was bleeding in a dozen places but he fought on. And then aid came from an unexpected source."

"Where?" demanded Ivan excitedly.

"Troops," replied Hal. "Troops sent to protect the neutrality of the country; and with their approach the Germans who were still upon their feet fled. Chester and I dragged Alexis to our own craft and we also ascended. There we did what we could for him, but he realized that he was past aid, and he died as a brave man should. We buried him in England with honor, and with him the Cross of St. George, personally bestowed upon him by the Czar."

For a long time after the lad had finished, Ivan was silent. Then he said, his fists clenching:

"I would I had been there! There would have been a different story to tell!"

Hal was about to reply, but a voice sounded suddenly. Hal pricked up his ears. Surely he recognized that voice. The cry came again.

"Chester!" shouted Hal, and sprang to his feet.



Chapter VIII.

A Desperate Venture.


Before Ivan could raise a hand to stay him, had such been his intention, Hal had darted across the cavern in the direction from which had come the sound he had recognized as Chester's voice. It was very dark there and the lad could not make out his surroundings, but he seemed to have brought up against a solid wall. He explored the smooth surface with his hands, but could find no opening in that particular spot. Then he came upon one of the narrow passageways and entered it without hesitation, for he believed it was in that direction he would find Chester.

Now heavy footsteps sounded behind him and Ivan's voice roared:

"Where are you going?"

"It is Chester -- my friend who was with me when Alexis died," returned Hal. "I heard his voice. He must be near some place and in trouble."

"Ho!" said Ivan. "He will be one of my prisoners, I expect. I remember that one was rather young."

"Well, let him out, will you?" exclaimed Hal.

"Certainly," returned Ivan.

He passed Hal and led the way down the dark passage. Presently Hal heard a huge rock move and then footsteps came toward him.

"Who is it?" he asked.

There came a cry of surprise.

"That you, Hal?" came in Chester's voice. "How on earth did you get here?"

"That's rather a long story," replied Hal, "but it seems that it's a good thing I did get here. I thought a heard a sound awhile back. It must have been you."

"Anderson and I have been yelling for the last week, it seems," said Chester ruefully. "We didn't hope to be fortunate enough to raise you, but we thought some one might hear us."

"Well, come on out here to the fire -- and you, too, Colonel," his last to Colonel Anderson, who now came forward, closely followed by Ivan.

They needed no urging, for they had been shut up in the cold so long that they were almost frozen. Introductions now followed all around and Ivan seemed genuinely pleased to meet Chester. He was profuse in his apologies for his rough treatment, while Chester was dumbfounded to learn that his captor was the brother of his old friend Alexis. They shook hands heartily.

"If you had not pestered me with so many questions, I would not have bothered you," Ivan explained. "To tell the truth, I took you for a couple of Austrian spies."

"Tell us, Chester," said Hal, "what have you learned?"

"Learned?" echoed Chester. "We haven't learned anything, except that it is awfully cold in these mountains. I'm going to tell you right now, it's no fun being locked up in an icebox."

"It is not," Colonel Anderson agreed dryly, stretching his feet out to the fire.

"I'll tell you how it came about," said Chester, smiling at Ivan. "Colonel Anderson and I had just completed a most terrible climb. Coming once again to a level spot we sat down to rest. We saw a man coming along -- a big man, none other than Ivan here. I suggested that we ask him a few questions."

"You asked them, all right," said Ivan.

"Well," Chester continued, "he didn't tell us much. In fact, he was as mum as an oyster. Colonel Anderson took a hand with no better luck. It seems that between us we talked too much. Ivan here didn't like it. He said he guessed he'd have to take us along with him. We said we were satisfied to stay where we were. This didn't suit Ivan. He reached for me and I dodged; but with his other hand he grabbed Anderson and held him helpless.

"I drew my gun but I was afraid to fire for fear of hitting the Colonel. I thought I would rap the big man over the head with the butt of the weapon. I ventured a trifle too close and he nailed me, too. He shook me so hard that I dropped my gun. Anderson hadn't been able to get at his. Then Ivan relieved him of it, and still holding us each by an arm, he brought us here.

"When he shoved us under the rock ahead of him, we decided to jump him if he came in. We jumped him. It didn't do much good, did it, Colonel?"

Chester turned to Colonel Anderson with a smile.

"Not much," was the Colonel's dry response.

Ivan grinned sheepishly.

"I didn't mean to hurt you too much," he said. "You see, sometimes I don't realize my own strength. I guess maybe I squeezed your arms too hard."

"Well, now tell us about yourself, Hal," said Chester, "and who is this little fellow who hangs so close to Stubbs?"

"This little fellow," returned Hal, "has appointed himself Stubbs' best friend. Stubbs overcame him in fair fight this afternoon and he thinks Stubbs is a great man."

"Well, what's the matter?" Stubbs broke in. "Don't you?"

"Of course," Hal hastened to assure him.

Stubbs subsided grumbling.

"The question now is," Colonel Edwards declared, "what are we going to do? There is no use staying here longer than we can possibly help. We had better be moving."

"Hold on," shouted Ivan, jumping suddenly to his feet. "Tell me what it is you are going to do? Perhaps I may lend a hand. I know something of these mountains."

Colonel Edwards glanced at Hal. The boy nodded.

"Might be a good idea," he said.

Then Colonel Edwards explained. Ivan heard him patiently.

"Well," he said at length, "nothing would please me more than to join this expedition." He spoke to Hal. "You have told me of the service rendered the Czar by my brother Alexis. I am ashamed that I have been idling here in these mountains while my country needs me. I shall try and make up for it in the future. Now, I believe I can tell you what you want to know."

"Then," asked Colonel Edwards, "is there a strong Austrian sentiment among the Albanians?"

"Until a month ago there was little Austrian sentiment," returned Ivan, "But recently there has been a change, and the change I lay at the door of a single man."

"An Albanian?"

"It is even worse than that. The man is a Montenegrin. And still worse. He bears the same name as the king of Montenegro, Nicolas. He has, most likely, another name, but I do not know it."

"But why should a Montenegrin seek to raise the enmity of the Albanians against his own people?" Chester demanded.

"There is but one reason -- gold," said Ivan simply.

"And his methods?" inquired Colonel Anderson.

"More gold," was the reply.

"I see," said Colonel Anderson. "Furnished by the Austrians, eh?"

"How else? I have had several interviews with this Nicolas. He seems to think I could be of use to him. In fact, he has made me offers. But while I have taken no part in active fighting, although I admit I have neglected my own country, I have not fallen low enough for that sort of work. However, I did not tell Nicolas that. I temporized with him and I suppose he believes he can win me over if he cares to make his offer tempting enough."

"All this," said Hal slowly, "suggests a plan."

"Well?" said Chester, expectantly.

"And by this plan of mine," Hal continued, "we may accomplish even more than we set out to do."

"Explain, Hal," said Colonel Anderson.

"It's very simple. We'll have Ivan take us to Nicolas. He can tell him we are Germans, or what you please. Being, apparently, friends of Ivan's, we shall be received. Then Ivan can appear to fall in with his plans. At the first opportune moment, we shall take charge of Mr. Nicolas and escape."

"H-m-m-m," mused Colonel Edwards. "You say all that easily enough, but you can take my word for it, it will be no small job."

"Of course not," Chester agreed, "but still we should be able to do it. And if we do, we shall have removed the cause of the Albanian enmity toward Montenegro. There will be no such strong Austrian sentiment once the supply of gold is cut off."

Ivan jumped to his feet and clapped the lad on the back.

"Good!" he exclaimed eagerly. "I'm with you; and if it comes to a fight, you will find that you can use me to advantage."

"I am sure of it," smiled Hal.

Ivan, in turning, cast his eye upon the little dwarfed figure of Nikol. He walked quickly toward him and extended a hand.

"We didn't finish our little argument awhile ago," he said simply. "I see no reason why we should finish it. Why should we fight each other when there are others to fight?" He turned to Hal. "I'll guarantee this man will give a good account of himself," he said. "I doubt if there is another man in the mountains, besides myself, who has his strength. He will prove his worth."

He turned to Nikol again and the dwarf grinned at him, showing strong white teeth.

"You are right," he said and gripped Ivan's hand hard.

"Well then," said Colonel Edwards, "the sooner we get started the sooner we may get back again. When shall we start, Ivan?"

"Immediately," was the reply, and the giant moved toward the mouth of the cavern.

"Now, look-a-here, you fellows," said the voice of Anthony Stubbs. "I've been a whole lot of places with you and I hope to go with you a whole lot more, but I claim it is downright foolishness to stick our heads into a brigand's lair. What's the use? The best we can get is the worst of it."

"Stubbs," said Hal quietly, "you don't have to go along if you don't want to. You can stay right here."

"What?" exclaimed the little man. "Stay here by myself? I should say not. I don't want to stay here alone and I don't want to go hunting brigands. What I want to do is get some place where it's safe. I don't like this country, if you want to know it."

"It's a good country," said Nikol abruptly.

Stubbs looked at the dwarf in surprise. It was the first time the Albanian had talked back to him.

"What do you know about it?" demanded Stubbs. "You never saw a regular country."

The dwarf bowed his head in some confusion. Apparently Stubbs' spell still held good over him.

"Come, Stubbs, don't be stubborn," said Chester.

"Well, all right," said the little man, shaking his head sadly. "I'll go if the rest of you do, but I want to tell you right now, I protest!"



Chapter IX.

The Traitor.


"If I am not mistaken," said Ivan, "here comes Nicolas now."

He pointed to a large, bearded individual, who, surrounded by probably a dozen other figures, was advancing toward them. The man swung along with the free and easy stride of the mountaineer, looking neither to the right nor to the left, his head erect and of haughty mien.

"Pompous sort of a looking customer," said Colonel Anderson to Hal.

"Rather," said the lad dryly. He glanced at the others, Colonel Edwards, Stubbs, Nikol, Ivan and Chester, and muttered hurriedly: "After this we must do all our talking in German."

The others nodded their understanding and all fell silent as the Montenegrin traitor and his henchmen approached.

It was the morning following the night upon which they had left Ivan's retreat. The journey had consumed the whole night, but in spite of their fatigue, each member of the party of seven was on his mettle. Now, as Nicolas drew closer, Ivan took a step in advance of the others to greet him.

The traitor's face lighted with pleasure as he recognized the big Cossack.

"Ah, Ivan," he said, "I am glad to see you."

He noticed the others, and a slight frown flitted across his face. He swept his arm toward them in a comprehensive gesture. "Who are these?"

"One of them you probably know," said Ivan and he indicated Nikol.

Nikol nodded affirmatively.

"The others," Ivan continued, "I came across in the mountains last night. They are Germans and were seeking you."

"Seeking me?" exclaimed Nicolas in astonishment. "And why should they be seeking me?"

"You will probably know," returned Ivan, "when I tell you they come from Germany."

"Ah," said Nicolas. "Of course I know, Ivan. Will you have them come forward?"

"One moment, Nicolas," said Ivan. "First I would have a word with you myself."

"Proceed," said the Montenegrin.

"Well, then," Ivan went on, "you may remember a certain proposal you have made me upon several occasions?"

"I do," exclaimed Nicolas, with unfeigned eagerness. "Can it be that at last you have decided to -- "

"Accept?" interrupted Ivan. "Yes; I have decided to accept; and these Germans here have had something to do with my decision. They have told me how Germany and Austria combined will eventually win the great war and of the good things that will be in store for all of us when that day comes. You are right, Nicolas, it is well to be on the winning side."

"And I am glad you see it that way," declared Nicolas, extending a hand, which Ivan grasped, much to his distaste. "I have long wanted a trusted lieutenant, and you shall be he."

"Thanks, Nicolas," returned Ivan. "I had not expected that. Had you told me before it might have influenced me sooner. But now I shall have the others approach. By the way, you speak German?"

"Yes."

"Good; then there is no need of an interpreter."

He raised his hand and at the signal the others came forward. Ivan presented each in turn, applying to each a German name that had been agreed upon during the night's travel. Nicolas expressed his pleasure at seeing them and after a few words of pleasantry, said:

"Now, gentlemen, if you will accompany me to my quarters, I shall try and make you feel at home."

As they walked along Hal and Chester took stock of the Montenegrin. Big he was, fully as tall and as broad as Ivan himself, and his great arms hung below his knees. He was the personification of rugged strength and brutality. From Nicolas the lads turned their eyes to Ivan. There was scarcely a noticeable difference in the stature of the two men and from casual observation it would have been hard to choose between them in the matter of strength. But the one noticeable difference was in the eyes.

Ivan's eyes looked one straight in the face, while Nicolas' shifted uneasily when he was observed closely. It was the difference in the eyes that told the difference between the two men better than anything else.

Presently Nicolas stopped before an extremely large hut, built up close beside a giant rock. He stood aside and motioned the others to enter. They did so and Nicolas, after a word to his men, came in after them and closed the door. Then he motioned them all to seats and sat down himself. He eyed his guests in silence for a few moments, and finally remarked:

"Well?"

Hal took it upon himself to do the talking.

"First," he said, "we would like to know how you are progressing?"

"Beautifully," was Nicolas' reply. "I have distributed the gold given me for that purpose, first, of course, taking out my own share. The Albanians, knowing the poverty of the Montenegrins, have been convinced by the gold that final success in this war must crown the Austrian arms. Austrian sentiment is becoming greater each day. But I need more money."

"That is what we have come to see you about," said Hal. "You see, that while you are well informed as to just what is going on here, we have only your word for it. You may be telling the truth -- and you may be lying."

Nicolas jumped to his feet, his fingers twitching.

"You dare -- " he began.

"Nonsense," said Hal, remaining perfectly quiet. "This is no time for heroics. I have come here to find out something and I am going to find it out. Now how much of this gold have you given out as ordered, and how much have you kept for yourself?"

"I -- I -- well, I have -- " Nicholas began.

"As I thought," said Hal. "You have been holding out. We can't have anything like that, you know. Where is the gold?"

Nicolas, for a moment, seemed about to make a denial, but Hal eyed him steadily, and he said at last:

"It is under this floor here," and he tapped the floor with his foot.

"All right," said Hal. "In shape to be carried?"

"Why yes, I guess half a dozen men could carry it well enough."

"I am glad to hear that," said Hal, "because I want you to dig it out right now."

Again Nicolas started to protest, but apparently thinking better of it, changed his mind and said:

"It shall be as you say. But you will not hold this against me, my having held some of the gold for my own?"

"Not if you do as I say."

"And I shall have more gold?"

"We shall see; perhaps."

"Then I shall uncover the other," said Nicolas.

He stooped to his knees and lifted a loose board in the floor.

"One moment," said Hal. "Your men outside. We can take no chances with them. If they knew you had all this gold stored here there would be a fight. Step outside and tell them to go away."

This time Nicolas obeyed without even hesitating.

While he was outside, Hal whispered quickly to the others:

"There is no use delaying. We'll give his men time to get out of hearing and then we'll grab him."

"But the gold, what are you going to do with that?" Ivan wanted to know.

Hal smiled a bit.

"I don't know how I happened to think of that," he said, "but now that we practically have it in our hands, I vote that we turn it over to the impoverished little kingdom of Montenegro."

"By Jove! Good!" exclaimed Colonel Edwards. "My boy, you have a wonderful head on your shoulders. I am proud to know you."

"Thanks," said Hal. "Now, as long as I have been doing the talking, I may as well continue. We'll keep quiet until we are sure this traitor's men are out of earshot and then we'll take possession of Mr. Nicolas and his unearned gold."

A few moments later Nicolas re-entered the hut.

"Get rid of them?" asked Hal, briefly.

"Yes."

"Good. Then get busy and bring your gold out."

"Look here," said Nicolas, eyeing Hal somewhat angrily. "I don't like your tone exactly."

"I don't exactly care whether you do or not," returned Hal quietly. "You are pretty small fry in this game, Nicolas, and I'm not afraid of you. Remember, if anything should happen to me, you'll have the German government on your trail, and then what would you do for gold?"

Nicolas opened his mouth to reply; then thought better of it and closed his lips without uttering a sound.

"All right, now that we understand each other," said Hal. "Get to work and produce the gold."

Nicolas waited no further, but did as commanded.

"One," counted Hal, as the man drew from beneath the board a little sack of gold.

One after another Hal counted them as they were laid on the floor at his feet, until in all there were seventeen little sacks, just small enough to permit of being stowed away in outside coat pockets.

"Two for each of us to carry," said Hal, looking around, "and one over. I'll carry the extra one in my hand."

"And don't I get any of this?" demanded Nicolas, looking at the bags of gold longingly.

"You do not," replied Hal, quietly. "This money is to be given where it will do the most good. You have had your chance with it. Now it is my turn."

"Very well," said Nicolas, with a shrug of his shoulders. "But I have made my agreement with the Austrian government; and when the war has been won, I shall get my pay."

"Perhaps," said Hal, with a double meaning, that was, of course, lost upon Nicolas, "you shall receive your just pay before the war ends."

"Do you really think so?" asked Nicolas eagerly. "I hope so."

"But now," said Hal, "it is time to be moving. Pick up the gold, men, and let's get away from here."

The others obeyed. Each stowed two sacks in his pocket and Hal carried the seventeenth package in his hand. Then Hal motioned them out the door. He emerged after them and his hand was on his automatic as he did so.

"Which way?" asked Chester.

"Straight ahead," said Nicolas.

"No," said Hal quietly. "About face. We are going the other way."

"Where to?" demanded Nicolas surlily.

"Right back to Cettinje," replied Hal, "where you shall be turned over to the Montenegrin authorities to meet the fate you deserve!"



Chapter X.

Flight.


Nicolas stopped short in his tracks. His face went red, then white, then flushed a dull red again. For a moment there was a deathly silence and then the Montenegrin sprang toward Hal with a cry of fury. The boy stood his ground.

"I wouldn't if I were you," he said very quietly.

His automatic glistened in his hand at his hip. Nicolas gazed down and then pulled himself up short as his eyes rested on the weapon. He said nothing.

"I'm glad to see you're sensible," Hal continued. "Now you will take the lead, and for your own sake, I advise you to take the shortest cut in the general direction of Cettinje. Ivan, and you, Nikol, will see that he goes in the proper direction."

The dwarf's face was covered by a comical grin and his long arms waved about eagerly as he gave his assent. He turned to Stubbs.

"You will walk with me?" he asked.

For a moment Stubbs hesitated. He gazed first at the little man and then at the great bulk of Nicolas. Then his eyes roved to the huge form of Ivan.

"By Jove! I'd rather be alongside Ivan there," he muttered to himself, "but it wouldn't do to let this little fellow think I'm afraid. You're taking a long chance, Anthony, but I guess you had better do it. All right," he said to Nikol, and ranged himself at the dwarf's side.

"I wouldn't try any tricks if I were you, Nicolas," said Ivan, as he swung into step behind the traitor, Nickol and Stubbs, the prisoner in the center.

Colonel Edwards and Colonel Anderson came next in line and Hal and Chester brought up the rear.

"It's a good two days' journey back," said Hal to Chester, "and, the chances are, we will encounter many of Nicolas' friends en route. We'll have to be careful."

"We shall indeed," returned his chum. "One little slip and there is no telling what may happen."

Night brought them to Ivan's cavern again and there they decided to spend the night. It had now been more than twenty-four hours since they had closed their eyes and all were tired out.

They experienced no difficulty getting Nicolas under the rock into the cavern, nor did the Montenegrin seek to attack them as they crawled after him, as Hal had half feared he would. He seemed completely dejected and downcast. He had not spoken a word during the day's march.

"I'll put him in your erstwhile prison," Ivan said to Chester with a grin. "I guess he'll be safe enough there for the night."

He did so.

"Well, I'm going to turn in," said Stubbs. "I'm dead for sleep. I tell you, it's no fun hoofing it over these mountains, particularly when you are guarding a prisoner like I have been all day, never knowing what minute he may make a break for liberty. No, sir, it's no fun."

"Did you watch him pretty closely, Stubbs?" asked Chester.

"I did," replied Stubbs, briefly.

"Why?" continued Chester. "Afraid he might jump you? Hope you didn't think he could catch you if you had a two-foot start."

Stubbs drew himself up majestically.

"What do you mean by that?" he demanded in a ruffled tone.

"Oh, nothing," said Chester, smiling.

"If you mean to insinuate that I was afraid -- " began Stubbs in an injured tone.

"What!" interrupted Chester. "You afraid, Mr. Stubbs? You do me an injustice, I assure you. Why, I have seen you fight, Mr. Stubbs. Now, do you, by any chance, remember your battle with three wildcats?"

"I do," said Stubbs, considerably pleased. He turned to Nikol. "Did I ever tell you about that fight?" he asked.

Nikol shook his head and eyed the little war correspondent with interest.

"Well, I did," continued Stubbs. "It was in Belgium. Three of the beasts attacked me in the dark and gave me a terrific struggle. But I killed them all, as these two boys can tell you."

Nikol was all smiles. He was glad that the man who had conquered him was such a royal gladiator.

"And you were not hurt?" he asked.

"Oh, nothing to speak of," said Stubbs, modestly. "A few scratches. Nothing serious."

"They are bad beasts to fool with," said Nikol. "My brother had both eyes scratched out in an encounter with a single wildcat. And you killed three."

"There wasn't much chance of your eyes being scratched out, was there, Mr. Stubbs?" said Chester.

"And why not?" demanded the little man,

"Come now, Mr. Stubbs," said Chester, "you don't mean to tell me you have forgotten you were lying flat on your face dodging bullets when the cats jumped you."

"No, I hadn't forgotten," said Stubbs in an injured tone. "But was it my fault that I had stumbled over a stone in the darkness a moment before?"

"Well, no, possibly not," Chester admitted. "But it's funny you didn't think to mention that stone at the time."

"If you are determined to laugh at me," said Stubbs with an air of ruffled dignity, "I have nothing more to say. Any man is likely to fall."

"So he is, Mr. Stubbs," agreed Chester, "and I don't know but I'd fall myself if I saw three wildcats coming for me. Yes, I would, and I'd try to get my head just as deep in the ground as possible, like an ostrich, and then maybe they couldn't see me."

For a moment Mr. Stubbs glared at the lad angrily and seemed about to speak; then turned on his heel angrily and strode to the far side of the cavern, where was the pallet which had been assigned to him.

Chester broke into a little laugh, which died suddenly as he stared down into the angry face of Nikol, which glared up at him.

There was a deep frown on the dwarf's face and he tapped himself upon the breast with one finger as he said:

"Any man who insults my friend, insults me. You have cast reflections upon my friend's courage. He, being your friend, overlooks it; but I, the man whom he worsted in fair fight, cannot. You must apologize."

Here Hal interfered. He had had such an encounter with the dwarf himself and he understood the situation.

"Hey, Stubbs!" he called. "Come back here, quick!"

Stubbs, just about to lie down upon his pallet, hurried back. He took in the situation at a glance and turned upon Nikol angrily.

"Here," he cried. "You keep out of my quarrels. I was big enough to attend to you, I can do the same with the rest of them."

"But he said -- " protested the dwarf, pointing a finger at Chester.

"I don't care what he said," Stubbs said. "I can fight my own battles."

Nikol, deeply offended, drew back, and without another word, walked to the pallet that had been assigned to him. Stubbs, feeling somewhat better now that he had been able to berate some one and thus soothe his injured feelings, also stalked away without another word and lay down on his pallet. A moment later he was fast asleep.

"Do you suppose there is need for one of us to stand watch, Ivan?" asked Hal.

"I do not believe so," was the reply. "No one knows where my cavern is and we are not likely to be disturbed."

"I vote we turn in immediately then," said Colonel Edwards.

"Second the motion," said Colonel Anderson. "We've got to be on the move early and we've got to have some sleep first."

"Here goes, then," said Chester, and moved to his own place.

The others also sought their pallets and soon there was silence in the cavern. Completely worn out, the travelers slept like logs.

Several hours later, had they not been so completely exhausted, the sleepers undoubtedly would have heard strange noises from that part of the cavern in which Nicolas had been confined.

Came a faint grinding sound, which gradually became louder and louder, but which, after a time, ceased altogether. Then came a softer sound, that of footsteps coming slowly from the dark passageway; and a moment later Nicolas himself stepped into the glare of the fire.

His clothing was torn about the shoulders and his open hands dripped little drops of blood. He rubbed them together tenderly.

"Had I been a weaker man it would have been impossible," he muttered.

For he had pushed aside the heavy rock that guarded his prison -- a rock that Ivan had believed not another man save himself could move. Apparently Nicolas had been underestimated.

Now the Montenegrin moved softly toward the entrance to the cave, fearful at every step that he would awaken the sleepers. It was dark within and this fact probably is all that prevented his escape.

In moving toward the entrance he passed close to the pallet upon which Stubbs slept. One of the little man's hands was stretched out across the floor and Nicolas' heavy boot came down squarely upon it.

A sudden loud cry shattered the deathly stillness of the night, followed by a more piercing cry.

Instantly every one was awake, though only half so, for the awakening had come so suddenly.

At Stubbs' first outcry, Nicolas, with a muttered imprecation, had dashed for the exit. He fell upon his knees and was about to crawl outside when Nikol, more wide awake than the others, flung himself forward and clasped his long arms about the Montenegrin's neck.

Nicolas drew back in the cave and pulled himself to his feet in spite of the dwarf's frantic efforts to hold him down. Then, seeing the size of his opponent, Nicolas laughed aloud and sought to fling the little man from him. But Nikol held him firmly.

But in spite of the dwarf's great strength, Nicolas was too big and powerful for him. The powerfulness the dwarf might have overcome, but the size was too much.

Plucking away the arms that were tightened about his neck, Nicolas held the dwarf away from him with his left hand, then struck him heavily in the face with his right. Taking a step more toward the center of the cavern, he hurled his opponent across the room.

Nikol struck the floor with a thud and lay still.

Now, realizing the need of haste, Nicolas turned quickly and made as though to move toward the exit. But he had delayed too long. The dwarf's efforts to hold him, though futile, had been enough to prevent the Montenegrin's escape.

A second huge form -- the form of Ivan -- barred the exit.

"Come on, have a try," said Ivan, with a grin.

Nicolas gave a loud cry -- the cry of a cornered beast. Then he sprang.

"I'll kill you!" he yelled in a voice of thunder.



Chapter XI.

A Fight.


All the others in the cavern were on their feet now, all save Nikol, who still lay unconscious where Nicolas had hurled him. Stubbs shrank back in the dark, but Hal, Chester and the two British officers quickly produced revolvers with which they covered Nicolas.

Ivan, out of the tail of his eye, caught sight of these movements. He let out a roar even as Nicolas sprang upon him.

"Put up those guns!" he shouted. "I'll attend to this fellow with my bare hands. Stand back!"

There was something in the voice of the big Cossack that impelled the others to obey; and they drew back, circling about to watch the struggle. Even Stubbs picked up courage enough to come forward; and hardly had the fight begun when Nikol, too, pulled himself up and cast his eyes upon the combatants.

Nicolas sprang upon Ivan with outstretched arms, his fingers spread wide. His object was to clasp one of his strong hands about Ivan's throat, thus obtaining an advantage at the outset. But Ivan had divined his intention at the moment he sprang, and ducking with remarkable agility for a man of his size, he came up inside the other's arms and grasped his opponent around the middle with both arms.

Then he squeezed; and the spectators drew their breaths audibly, for it seemed that no man could stand such a strain. But Nicolas bore up under it, and when Ivan, out of wind, was forced to relinquish his hold, Nicolas whirled upon him quickly and the fingers of his left hand sank into the Cossack's throat. Chester uttered a faint cry of alarm, for a hold such as this, obtained by such a powerful man as Nicolas, was indeed a thing to be feared. Ivan leaped quickly backward, carrying Nicolas with him, but the latter retained his hold; and then he brought his right fist up under Ivan's chin. It was a hard blow and Ivan staggered.

With his left hand, Nicolas jerked the big Cossack forward again, and shot his right fist into Ivan's face as he did so. Then, apparently thinking his opponent done for, he released his grip on Ivan's throat and stepped back.

But he had counted without the endurance and courage of the giant Cossack. The fingers about his throat gone, Ivan, his head reeling dizzily from the effects of the hold and the two hard blows, staggered back several paces; then, with a loud cry, sprang forward again.

Nicolas also cried aloud as he stepped forward to meet the antagonist he considered all but beaten. Ivan came forward with arms outstretched, and unheeding the two hard blows that Nicolas struck him, he again grasped the Montenegrin in a tight embrace. Nicolas wrapped his arms about Ivan; and there they stood for the space of several seconds, each vainly trying to move the other.

Suddenly Ivan gave back a step and as Nicolas came forward with him, the Cossack thrust a leg behind his opponent and pushed with all his might. Nicolas was caught off his balance and before he could recover himself Ivan twisted sharply with his leg. Nicolas went over backwards, with Ivan on top of him.

The two men struck the floor with a terrible crash; a cry was wrung from the spectators, for it seemed that a fall with such force could mean nothing less than broken bones for one of the fighters. But apparently it did not; for, still locked in each other's embrace, the men were struggling furiously for advantage upon the floor.

Ivan was still on top, but the Montenegrin, with both arms around the Cossack's neck, was making desperate efforts to roll his opponent over.

Nicolas lay squarely upon his back and Ivan's arms, wrapped around him at the moment of encounter, were pinioned beneath the other. The big Cossack was making strenuous attempts to free his right hand and still hold his opponent down with his great bulk. And at last he succeeded.

At the same moment Nicolas also released his hold and flopped over on his face. Apparently he had given up all hope of overcoming Ivan and was now acting purely upon the defensive. Ivan acted too late to prevent his opponent from turning over, but now he seized him by both shoulders, and planting his feet firmly upon the ground, by a mighty effort, jerked Nicolas to his feet.

It was a marvelous exhibition of strength and brought a cry from Stubbs, than whom there was no more interested spectator of the struggle. Nicolas now whirled suddenly and his right fist caught Ivan a terrible and unexpected jolt on the point of the chin. Ivan reeled back several paces and Nicolas followed him closely, shouting:

"I've got you!"

The words seemed to have a strange effect upon Ivan. He seemed to recover himself with an effort and his right and left fists shot almost simultaneously in mighty blows. The first went wild, but the second caught Nicolas squarely upon the side of the neck and checked his rush. Before he could give ground, Ivan brought his huge right fist forward again to the point of Nicolas' chin. The Montenegrin reeled.

But Ivan, having the advantage for really the first time, gave his man no time to recover. He leaped forward and for a third time seized his opponent in a close embrace. This time Nicolas had been unable to draw a deep breath before the great arms closed about him and he weakened suddenly.

In fact, he weakened so suddenly, that Ivan, believing victory his, released his hold; and this overconfidence almost proved the Cossack's undoing. Nicolas, realizing that he could not again free himself from Ivan's embrace, had decided upon a bold stroke, and by apparently giving up the struggle had placed himself in Ivan's power absolutely.

Then, when Ivan released his hold, Nicolas dropped suddenly to his knees and seized Ivan by the legs and pulled sharply. Caught completely off his guard, Ivan toppled over backwards. Nicolas jumped upon the prostrate form and again his fingers sought Ivan's throat.

But Ivan was too quick for him and the fingers failed to find their mark. Ivan doubled up his knees suddenly and thus prevented Nicolas from obtaining his hold; then, straightening out his legs, he hurled Nicolas from him. Instantly the Cossack was on his feet and after his opponent.

Nicolas also sprang to his feet and as the two men came together again they threw wrestling tactics to the winds and brought their fists into play. It was plainly apparent that neither had ever been schooled in the art of self-defense and there was nothing skillful about the fight that followed.

The attempts of each to ward off the blows of the other were ludicrous and of little avail. Almost every blow started went home and it became apparent to the spectators that in this kind of fighting the man who could withstand the most punishment and land the hardest blows must be the victor.

Several hard jolts had found their way to Ivan's face, but he did not show any symptoms of being unable to continue the battle. His face was a sight, but so was the face of Nicolas, for the matter of that. Both men swung hard and often, and nine out of every ten times each landed.

Also both were panting heavily now and it was perfectly plain that the fight must come to an end soon. And it did, but more suddenly than could have been expected.

Nicolas, swinging wildly for Ivan's chin, had left an opening as large as a house. The merest novice must have taken advantage of it. To Hal and Chester, both skillful boxers, it was the best opening that had been presented during the entire fight, and Hal cried out:

"Quick, Ivan!"

But his words were not needed. Ivan had seen the opening and had acted promptly.

"Smack!" his right fist landed heavily between Nicolas' eyes.

"Smack!" it was his left landing on the point of Nicolas' jaw.

"Crash!" It sounded like the breaking of bones. There was a brief silence, followed by another crash. The first was Ivan's right over Nicolas' mouth and the second was the sound caused as Nicolas tumbled to the ground, unconscious.

There was a twinkle in Ivan's eye as he surveyed his fallen foe.

"Some fighter, that fellow," he said. "I didn't believe he had it in him. But I would have had him sooner if he hadn't fooled me."

"You certainly would," said Hal. "You see, Ivan, that's your trouble. You know nothing of boxing. Had you been, a boxer you could have polished him off easily."

"There is no science to using your fists," said Ivan decidedly. "The only thing is to hit your opponent before he hits you."

"True enough," said Chester, "and that's where skill plays a part. For instance now, I suppose I could keep you from ever touching me, big as you are, and I venture to say I could land upon you almost at will, though possibly not hard enough to put you out. You're too big for that."

"Ho! Ho!" laughed Ivan gleefully. "Hear the little fellow talk. Why, you couldn't even lay a finger on me. I would just hold out one of my long arms and you couldn't get near me."

Chester smiled.

"It sounds easy enough," he said. "But take my word for it, I know what I am talking about."

"Well, show me," said Ivan.

"I will some time," was the reply. "Right now we'll have to tie Nicolas up and finish our sleep."

But when Nicolas had been safely secured, Ivan declared that he would not go to sleep until he had proven to Chester just how easy it would be to handle him.

"Well, all right, then," said Chester, "I'll show you. But remember, don't you crack me too hard if you do happen to land."

Chester placed himself quickly in an attitude of defense, left arm extended slightly, right arm well back. Crouching slightly and treading on his toes, he stepped lightly around Ivan, who, with arms wide, waited for him to come in.

Chester feinted quickly with his left and brought his right forward as he stepped in close. The right fist bumped the giant's chin gently, for Chester had not struck hard. A moment later his left landed almost in the same spot, a trifle harder, and he escaped Ivan's rush and wild swing by side-stepping nimbly.

There was a puzzled expression on Ivan's face as he followed the lad about the cavern, Chester dancing nimbly first to this side and then that. Once the lad let the giant come close, and when he swung, Chester jerked his head aside sharply and the blow passed over his shoulder.

Quickly then Chester stepped forward and with his open left palm smacked Ivan smartly across the left cheek. He performed a similar operation with his right; then stepped back and dropped his hands.

"Well?" he said, eying Ivan inquiringly.

"Well, you did it," said Ivan, greatly crestfallen. "How, I don't know. Will you teach me?"

"Some time," said Chester. "Now, let's finish that sleep."



Chapter XII.

A Chase.


"We ought to be pretty close to the place we left our horses," said Chester.

"I was just thinking that, myself," agreed Colonel Anderson. "Must be around here some place."

"We shall be there within the hour," said Nikol, to whom the situation had been explained. He had declared he could lead them straight to the place they had left the animals.

"So you see, Mr. Stubbs, we are not coming back in such a hurry after all," said Hal.

"We're not there yet," mumbled Stubbs. "An hour is an hour. We've been altogether too lucky, if you ask me. It's about time something happened."

"Croaking again, eh?" said Chester. "I never saw a fellow like you before. You see trouble in everything."

"So I do -- when I'm with you," declared Stubbs. "It's been my experience that wherever you and Hal happen to be, there also is trouble. I'm a peaceable man, I am. I believe in taking all precautions. But here we go, walking along as though we were on your uncle's farm. No thought of danger among any of you. But I've got a hunch -- "

"You've always got a hunch," Hal interrupted.

"Well, all right," said Stubbs. "Just remember I've warned you."

They continued on their way in silence.

"To tell the truth, we have been remarkably fortunate," declared Colonel Edwards. "I had expected to bump into some of Nicolas' friends before this. It's funny."

"It's not too late yet," said Stubbs.

"Mr. Stubbs," said Chester, with some exasperation, "if you -- "

"Hold on," said Stubbs. He pointed ahead and slightly to the left. "Here comes a gang after us now."

The others glanced in the direction indicated. A body of men afoot, perhaps a dozen all told, were approaching.

"Yes," said Chester, "here comes a gang, but that's no sign they are enemies."

"Everybody is an enemy in these parts," said Stubbs sententiously.

"By George, you are the limit, Stubbs!" declared Chester. "Now, I'll tell you what I'll do. I'll just bet you something pretty you're wrong in this case."

"Well, I ain't wrong," returned Stubbs, forgetting his grammar. "I'll take that bet. But in the meantime you fellows have a look at your guns. I may need protection."

This was good advice and the others realized it. They acted on it and the chamber of Colonel Anderson's revolver snapped with a click that emphasized his next remark:

"Can't trust them," he said.

The men were close now, and they appeared to be friendly enough. At sight of the prisoner in the center, one of them cried:

"Ho, Nicolas! where are you going?"

Quickly Hal stepped behind the prisoner and out of sight of the strangers, his revolver was pressed into Nicolas' back.

"No foolishness," he said in a low voice.

"Rather risky for you in these parts, isn't it, Nicolas?" said another of the strangers.

Nicolas heeded Hal's advice.

"I'm with friends," he returned. "There are enough of us here to look out for ourselves."

"Where are you bound?"

"Not far. I have a little business a couple of miles farther on."

"Want any company?"

Nicolas hesitated a moment and there came a queer gleam into his eye. And before Hal could say a word, he replied:

"Well, you can come along if you want to."

This reply staggered the others a bit, but it was too late now. Hal saw that he had not acted promptly enough, but to order Nicolas to change his decision would have aroused the suspicion of the others. There was nothing for it but to make the best of a bad situation.

"All right, we'll come along then, Nicolas," said the man who appeared to be the leader of the newcomers. "Might be a little gold in it for us, eh?"

"There might be," agreed Nicolas, with an evil smile.

Hal held a whispered consultation with the others and it was agreed it would be foolish to bring matters to a climax now.

"Wait until we get our horses," was Chester's advice.

The augmented party now continued on its way.

Half an hour later they came to the place where they had left their horses some days before. The man who had taken care of them advanced to meet the party.

"Horses still here?" asked Colonel Edwards.

The man nodded.

"And can you spare us three extra ones?"

The man considered.

"Do you wish to buy?" he asked at last.

Colonel Edwards indicated that he did.

"Then I can accommodate you," was the reply. "I have a dozen of my own animals, but times are hard and I need the money."

He named a sum and Colonel Edwards agreed to pay it.

"Have them all brought out immediately," the Colonel instructed.

The man bowed and departed after pocketing the money the Colonel gave him. Colonel Edwards returned to the others.

"It's all right," he said in a low voice. "Our horses are still here and I have bought three more -- one each for Nikol, Ivan and Nicolas."

"Good," said Hal.

He gathered his friends about him, Nicolas in the center, and in a few brief words explained a plan he had hit upon:

"We'll walk slowly toward the barn," he said. "Nicolas will tell the others to remain where they are." He eyed the traitor coldly. "Then we'll dash into the barn and mount. When we are all ready, we'll make a dash for it, shooting as we do so."

"As good a plan as any, I guess," said Colonel Edwards, after a moment's hesitation. "Let's get started."

Slowly they moved toward the barn. Nicolas' friends, seeing him moving away, followed, but still kept at some distance.

The friends entered the barn without being molested. The mountaineer had just finished with the last horse and Hal gave the word for all to mount.

"Keep Nicolas in the center," he said, "and if he makes a false move, shoot him. He's too dangerous a man to be running around loose."

While the others mounted, Hal moved to the door to watch the men without. He arrived there just in time to meet a man who would have entered. Hal produced his automatic.

"Get back there!" he commanded.

The man took one look at the revolver and leaped back in a hurry. A moment later a voice called:

"What's the matter in there, Nicolas?"

"Answer him," said Chester, prodding Nicolas with his revolver. "Tell him everything is all right."

Nicolas did so.

Came the voice from without again:

"Trying to give us the slip, eh? Don't want to divide up the gold with us, I guess? Well, we're coming in after you."

"All ready?" asked Hal at this juncture.

Chester glanced around quickly.

"Ready, as soon as you mount," he replied quietly. "Hurry!"

Hal took one more look out the door and saw that the men were approaching, separated widely.

"They're coming!" he cried, and leaped astride his horse. Then he called to the mountaineer,

"Open the door wide!"

For a moment the mountaineer hesitated. He saw that there was trouble coming and he knew that it was none of his business.

Hal aimed his automatic at him.

"Open it wide, quick!" he commanded.

The man hesitated no longer. He threw wide the door.

Again Hal glanced quickly about him; then gave the command in a sharp voice:

"Forward!"

Out the door they charged at a gallop -- Hal and Chester in the lead, next Colonel Anderson and Nicole, then Nicolas and Stubbs, with Ivan and Colonel Edwards bringing up the rear.

Outside the door the enemy had drawn somewhat closer together and they stood with drawn revolvers as the riders charged.

There was no time for flight, and in spite of the fact that the charge was a distinct surprise, the foe opened with their revolvers.

Without checking their wild speed, Hal and Chester fired point blank into the faces of the men who barred their way. Whether they hit or not it was impossible to tell, but two men who were unable to jump out of the way in time, were knocked down by the foremost horses and the rest of the little troop passed over their prostrate forms.

But now beyond the enemy, Hal and Chester, leading, did not check the speed of their horses, for Colonel Edwards had mentioned the fact that there were more horses in the barn, and all knew that there would be pursuit.

Behind, some of the men had fallen to their knees and taken deliberate aim at the flying riders, and the sharp crack, crack of the weapons continued for several seconds. Bullets flew near, but not one struck home.

Out of revolver shot, Hal and Chester drew up their horses to take stock.

"Any one hit?" demanded Hal.

There was no reply.

"All right," said Hal, "we'll move on again."

Colonel Edwards, glancing to the rear at that moment, called:

"Here they come!"

The others looked back.

It was true. With loud shouts and waving their revolvers aloft, almost a dozen men galloped forward.

There came a cry of alarm from Stubbs, in the center of the little troop.

"Hey! Let's get away from here."

He dug his heels into his horse's ribs and dashed through the others.

"Spread out!" ordered Hal. "We make too good a mark this way."

The others obeyed this order, Ivan still keeping close behind Nicolas, and then Hal commanded:

"Forward!"

They went forward at a rapid gallop. The pursuers gave chase with wild yells, firing wildly as they did so.



Chapter XIII.

A Sad Loss.


The leader of the flight was Anthony Stubbs. He had covered considerable distance when the others started and was now well in advance. The little man's heels continued to dig at the ribs of the horse he bestrode, and the animal, snorting and with ears laid back, covered the ground in great bounds.

Hal and Chester, riding close to each other, kept an eye on the others; and after they had ridden perhaps half a mile, they perceived that Nicolas and Ivan were lagging behind.

"Nicolas is holding back!" shouted Chester.

Hal shook his head.

"His weight is too great for the horse," Hal shouted back. "Same with Ivan."

This was plainly true and the lads saw that the pursuers were gaining on them.

Hal headed his horse diagonally across the road and slowed down a bit. Chester followed suit. Perceiving this movement, the others also checked the speed of their horses, all save Stubbs, who was now far ahead.

As Nicolas came abreast of Hal he suddenly leaned over his horse, and before the lad could realize what was up, he seized Hal's revolver, which was in a holster at his side. Hal grabbed for it too late.

With an evil light in his eye, the Montenegrin leveled the revolver directly at Hal and his finger tightened on the trigger. But another brain had acted more quickly than Nicolas'.

Two sharp reports came almost together. Hal felt a bullet brush past his ear. Nicolas dropped suddenly from his horse. Turning, Hal gazed into the calm face of Nikol and in the dwarf's hand was a smoking revolver. He had whipped out his revolver and fired in the nick of time.

Hal realized that he owed his life to the dwarf and he smiled at him slightly.

A quick look at the prostrate form of Nicolas showed that he was beyond human aid, and Hal also realized the need of haste, as the pursuers were even now within range and bullets whined about the fugitives.

"Forward!" he cried.

Again they set off at a gallop.

Ten minutes later Hal again noticed that Ivan was lagging behind. He drew his horse down until Ivan came up with him. A moment later Colonel Edwards also dropped back on even terms with them.

"Go ahead. Don't wait for me," shouted Ivan.

Hal shook his head slightly, as did Colonel Edwards.

"I tell you, it's no use," said Ivan. "This horse can't carry me much farther. Ride on!"

The others paid no heed.

Suddenly Ivan drew rein, pulling his horse back on his haunches, and leaped lightly to the ground. Then, before the others realized his intention, he drew his revolvers and faced the pursuers.

Quickly Hal and Colonel Edwards checked their horses, wheeled about and hurried back to him.

"You are fools!" said Ivan hoarsely. "There is no need for all of us to die. I could have held them off until the rest of you were safe. It is not too late yet. Ride on!"

For answer Hal leaped lightly to the ground and Colonel Edwards followed suit. The latter produced two revolvers and Hal one, for his other still lay beside the body of Nicolas.

"Into the woods here, quick!" Hal commanded.

The others obeyed him; and they moved from their perilous positions not a moment too soon, for the pursuers had found the range and revolver bullets whistled about them as they darted for shelter.

Ahead, Chester now discovered that the others had stopped. He checked his own horse, and calling to Colonel Anderson and Nikol, wheeled about and dashed down the road, the others following.

Chester allowed the reins to fall loose on his horse's neck and in each hand glistened a revolver. Colonel Anderson and Nikol were also prepared.

Some distance beyond where Hal, Colonel Edwards and Ivan had dismounted, the pursuers had drawn rein; and now Chester, Colonel Anderson and Nikol charged right at them.

In spite of their numbers, the pursuers, after one hasty volley, turned and fled as the three charged down upon them. The three fired once each at the foe and one man dropped. Then they checked their horses, dismounted and made their way into the woods, where they joined the others.

"Well," said Chester. "Here we are. Now what?"

"I don't know," said Hal. "We might push on through the woods, leaving the horses here, or we might wait until dark and make another break. We can probably lose our pursuers some way."

"I should say the latter is the better plan," said Colonel Edwards. "If Ivan will start first, we can come on an hour later. We can protect his flight. Because of his great weight his horse cannot keep up with the rest of us."

Ivan protested. He didn't want to go and leave the others behind. But at last he agreed.

"Then I can see no reason for waiting until dark," said Chester. "Let Ivan mount now and make a break for it. We can cover him. They won't get by us. An hour later we can start."

After some further discussion, this plan was adopted; and grumbling somewhat, Ivan mounted in the shelter of the trees. When the Cossack was ready, Hal peered out. A short distance back he could see the pursuers and his appearance drew a shot. But the men were too far away to aim with any degree of accuracy and the shot went wild.

"All right, Ivan," the lad said. "Go!"

The big Cossack dug his heels into his horse's ribs and with a shout dashed out into the road.

There was an answering shout from behind and the thundering of horses' hoofs told those among the trees that the enemy was on the advance.

"We'll have to stop 'em!" cried Hal. "Aim carefully now."

They waited until the riders were close and then stepped into the open.

"Crack! Crack! Crack! Crack!"

The revolvers of the six friends spoke as one. Two of the approaching horsemen reeled in their saddles, then toppled to the ground. Two more dropped their weapons and uttered loud cries. The pursuers beat a hasty retreat.

"Guess that will give Ivan a chance to get away," said Hal briefly. "Now, all we have to do is to wait until he has a good start."

But the mountaineers had no mind to remain idle and let the fugitives make all the plans. Even now they were in deep consultation. There were many gestures and noddings of heads. And at last the mountaineers seemed to have hit upon a plan of action.

The men split up into small groups, and leaving their horses, picketed by the side of the road, plunged in among the trees. Hal, glancing from his place of concealment at that moment, took account of the activities of the foe.

"Something up," he whispered to the others. "They probably will attempt to surprise us. We'll have to look sharp now."

"My advice," said Colonel Edwards, "is that we split up a bit, to return here at a given signal. If we all remain here, it will be simple for them to surround us. Scattered, we may catch them at a disadvantage."

"A good plan," Hal agreed. "We'll scatter a hundred yards in each direction. And the signal to return?"

"I'll whistle," said Colonel Edwards.

"Good! Let's move."

Five minutes later, in the spot where the five had been, there remained only the five horses.

With revolvers in hands, the five friends were scattered near by, eyes wide open for the first enemy to show himself.

And the first chanced to be a scant twenty yards from Chester. He came crawling along the ground, glancing furtively about. He spied Chester at the same moment the lad saw him. The two revolvers spoke almost as one.

Chester felt a slight pain in his left arm. His opponent gave a loud cry and toppled over.

"Guess he won't bother us any more," muttered the lad grimly.

He kept his eyes peeled for sign of another of the foes. And in other parts of the woods the others did likewise.

Hal saw no sign of an enemy and after the one whom he had accounted for, neither did Chester. They kept careful watch, the while awaiting the signal that was to call them back to their horses in a final dash for safety.

From their places of concealment the lads heard a shot. There was not a second. Each was greatly worried, for neither knew who had fired it or whether friend or foe had been hit. All they could do was wait.

At last the whistle came, the signal agreed upon. It came so faintly as to be scarcely audible to those who had been awaiting it. Hal and Chester moved toward the spot where stood the horses. There they saw Colonel Edwards holding the bridle of his own animal. A moment later Colonel Anderson and Nikol appeared.

"All right. No use waiting longer," said Colonel Edwards. "Mount and we'll run for it!"

All suited the action to the word.

"Go!" commanded Colonel Edwards.

There was a strange catch in the colonel's voice and Hal glanced at him sharply before touching his horse. He saw Colonel Edwards reel suddenly in his saddle, then fall heavily to the ground.

With a cry to the others, Hal leaped quickly to the ground, ran to the fallen figure of the colonel and bent over him anxiously.

The others, at Hal's cry, also dismounted and returned to the fallen man.

"Stand guard there till I see what's wrong!" Hal commanded.

Colonel Anderson, Chester and Nikol stood with drawn revolvers.

Gently Hal lifted Colonel Edwards' head to his knee. The eyes were closed. The lad put a hand over the officer's heart. There was a faint beating.

A moment later Colonel Edwards opened his eyes. He smiled feebly.

"Guess I'm done for," he said quietly.

Hal did not reply, for the little wound just above the heart showed where the bullet had gone home.

Now Colonel Anderson knelt down beside his old friend.

"What's the matter, old man?" he said. "Did they get you?"

"They got me," replied Colonel Edwards. "You fellows go on. You can do nothing for me. It's too late."

A sudden shudder shook him and he burst into a fit of coughing. His eyes closed, but he reached forth a hand and his fingers clasped Colonel Anderson's hand.

"Tell the folks at home -- " he said feebly, then became still.

Quickly Colonel Anderson placed a hand over the other's heart. Then he looked at Hal.

"Dead!" he said simply.

For long minutes all stood there silently, their hats off. How long they would have remained, it is hard to tell, but the sound of a shot close at hand awakened them to their own danger.

"We can do no good here," said Colonel Anderson quietly. "We may as well go."

"First," said Hal, "we shall move his body to a little hole in the ground I saw back here. We'll cover him up and then we'll go."

Under the very revolvers of the enemy this was done; and the four returned to their horses.

"Mount!" ordered Colonel Anderson.

The order was obeyed. Colonel Anderson gazed lingeringly toward the spot where lay the body of Colonel Edwards, and there were tears in his eyes as he did so. He drew a hand sharply across his eyes, shook himself a bit and commanded:

"Forward!"



Chapter XIV.

Safe.


Away they went at a gallop, only four of them now. The horses, once upon the road again, let themselves out nobly and sped on like the wind. There was a single volley from the foe as the four came into the open, but all the bullets went wild, and before a second could be fired they were out of range.

Then the pursuers hurried for their own horses, mounted and again gave chase.

But if the ranks of the pursued had been thinned, so had those of the pursuers. Back in the woods lay four bodies cold in death. Of the survivors who still pursued there were seven.

The horses ridden by the four friends had benefited by the brief rest and were in condition for a long run; and all might have gone well had it not been for an unlooked-for occurrence.

As they were dashing swiftly along, Chester's horse stumbled and emitted a groan. Instantly the lad checked the animal, jumped to the ground and ran to its head. There was a look of pain in the horse's eyes and he held up one foot. Chester glanced down.

"He can't go on," the lad said; "the leg is broken."

He drew his revolver.

"Here! What are you going to do?" demanded Colonel Anderson.

"Shoot him," replied Chester quietly. "Put him out of his misery."

"Wait a moment," said the colonel, dismounting. "I know something about horses. Maybe it's not as bad as all that."

He examined the leg carefully. When he straightened up he looked at Chester and nodded.

"It's the best way," he said quietly. "There is nothing that can be done for him."

Chester stroked the horse's head gently and the animal whinnied in pain.

"I'm awfully sorry, old fellow," said the lad, "but it will be best for you."

The horse seemed to understand. Chester took aim and fired quickly.

"And now what are we going to do?" he asked.

"Climb up behind me," said Hal. "We've got a pretty fair start. May be they will not overtake us."

Chester did as Hal suggested, and the party moved on again, but more slowly now.

It was perhaps half an hour later, when hoofbeats were heard behind.

"Here they come!" cried Hal, and dug his heels into his horse's side.

The animal responded nobly, but five minutes later it became apparent that they would be unable to distance their pursuers at this speed. The hoofbeats became plainer.

Hal drew rein.

"Dismount!" he cried.

His command was obeyed instantly.

Taking his horse by the head, Hal led him in among the trees. The others followed his lead.

"When they get by, we'll go forward again," said Hal.

They waited silently.

A few moments later the pursuers flashed by, going at a rapid gallop. When they were out of sight, Hal led his horse to the road, as did the others, and all mounted.

"We'll follow them," said the lad. "We'll have to keep our ears open, though, for they are likely to turn almost any time."

An hour later, rounding a turn in the road, Colonel Anderson, who was in advance, checked his horse suddenly. The others also drew up sharply.

"What's the matter?" asked Hal.

For answer Colonel Anderson pointed down the road.

There, probably half a mile away, were their pursuers, stationary.

"What do you suppose they are waiting for?" demanded Chester.

The answer came from an unexpected source.

From beyond the pursuers arose a puff of smoke, followed by a faint report. It was the sound of a revolver.

"They've bumped into another enemy of some kind," said Chester. "Wonder how strong this new force is?"

"Can't be very strong or those fellows would be heading this way," declared Hal. "Maybe they think it's us."

"That's about the size of it," declared Colonel Anderson.

There was another puff of smoke at this moment, and one of the enemy fell.

"Bully for you, whoever you are," shouted Chester. "Say!" he added, "what's the matter with taking them in the rear? They haven't spotted us yet."

"I was thinking of that," said Colonel Anderson. "Guess it can be done all right. Will your horse carry double that far, Hal?"

"He'll have to," replied the lad grimly.

"Good. Are you ready?"

"When you give the word."

"Then charge!"

Down the road at a rapid gallop went the three horses, carrying the four friends.

Hal, Colonel Anderson and Nikol each guided their mounts with their left hands, flourishing their revolvers in the right. Chester held fast to Hal with his left and also flourished a revolver with his free hand.

Nearer and nearer they came upon their unsuspecting enemies, who still stood where they had been when first discovered. Occasionally one fired his revolver at the spot from which shots came at frequent intervals now.

"Wonder why those fellows beyond don't charge, now that they must see us coming," muttered Hal to himself.

He watched the puffs of smoke as they came at intervals, and he was suddenly struck by an idea.

"By Jove!" he shouted, to make himself heard, "I'll bet there is only one man there. That's why the shots are so far apart."

"Well, we're pretty evenly matched," said Chester. "There are only six of them in condition to fight."

"Five," said Hal suddenly, as another of the enemy pitched suddenly to the ground, a shot from beyond having struck him.

"See! they are going to charge him!" cried Chester, peering over his friend's shoulder.

It was true. The enemy had spread out as much as the road would permit and the man who appeared to be the leader raised his hand.

"We'll have to stop that," muttered Hal.

He raised his voice in a shout, which carried plainly to the foe.

The five men wheeled about suddenly and for the first time saw they were beset in the rear as well as in front. For a moment they hesitated, then turned and charged the new arrivals.

"Keep going!" shouted Hal. "And don't miss!"

The enemy fired first, but all the shots went wild. Suddenly Nikol checked his horse, took deliberate aim and fired. A rider fell to the ground. The range was still great, but Nikol's aim was true. A second man dropped at his second bullet.

Now Colonel Anderson and Hal fired simultaneously. Another man dropped -- it was impossible to tell whether Hal or Colonel Anderson had scored a hit.

The two remaining riders drew their horses upon their haunches, and headed them for the friendly protection of the trees. Hal and Colonel Anderson fired a parting shot, but they were unable to tell whether the bullets had gone home.

Chester, behind Hal, had been unable to get into the battle, Hal's figure interfering with his aim.

"Well, I don't think the two of them will bother us," said Hal.

"No," Chester agreed. "And there are two loose horses. I'm going to get one of them."

"Better make it two," said Colonel Anderson. "Our ally beyond, whoever he may be, may need one."

Chester nodded.

"He deserves one," he said. "He knocked off three of these fellows."

He secured the two horses without much trouble, mounted one and led the other.

"Now we'll have an interview with our friend," he said.

They rode forward slowly.

"Funny he doesn't come out and show himself," said Hal.

"Guess he thinks we are enemies, too," suggested Colonel Anderson. "Well -- whoa, there."

He broke off suddenly and ducked his head, for a bullet had whistled just above him. He raised his voice in a shout:

"Hey!" he cried in English, forgetting just where he was, "what do you mean shooting at us? Quit it. We're friends."

"That you, Hal?" came a familiar voice.

Hal, Chester and Colonel Anderson gazed into each other's eyes almost dumbfounded.

"Well, what do you think of that?" exclaimed Hal.

There came a pleased chuckle from one member of the party, who rushed forward happily.

It was Nikol.

"Now where is he going?" demanded Chester anxiously.

"Going to greet his friend Stubbs," returned Hal. "To Nikol, Stubbs is a brave man and a grand fighter; and what has happened just now will only increase his admiration. Come on, let's go and have a look for ourselves."

"Is that you, Hal, Chester?" came Stubbs' voice again.

"Yes," Hal shouted back.

They rode forward.

Anthony Stubbs, now that he had found his friends again, came forward as fast as his queer stature would permit. He was puffing and blowing so hard by the time he reached them that he could hardly talk. Of Nikol, who stuck close to his side, eyeing him admiringly, he took no notice.

"By George! It's good to see you fellows again," declared Stubbs. "I thought my days were numbered when that gang of ruffians set upon me. I didn't want to fight, but I had to. It seems to me I got seven or eight of them."

"Well, how do you happen to be here, anyhow?" demanded Chester.

"My horse threw me and went away by himself," said Stubbs mournfully. "If I ever see him again I'll tell him about it. He might have got me killed."

Nikol now forced himself in front of Stubbs and extended a hand.

"Mr. Stubbs," he said quietly, "you are a brave and gallant man."

Stubbs was pleased. He made as though to take the hand; then thought better of it. He remembered the grip of those powerful fingers.

He shuddered.

"I know it, Nikol," he said gravely.

He put out his hand and patted the dwarf on the head.



Chapter XV.

Mr. Stubbs Eases His Mind.


The remainder of the journey to Cettinje was without incident. After the defeat of the mountaineers the lads felt safe, for they were once more within the borders of Montenegro and were unlikely, they knew, to encounter other enemies.

Stubbs, when informed of the death of Colonel Edwards, was greatly grieved.

"Poor fellow," he said, and added after a pause: "There is no use talking, Hal, this is no life for any one. He's likely to be snuffed out at a moment's notice. I'm going to be careful where I go in the future."

Besides the three bags of gold he had carried when he left the Albanian mountains, Hal now had the two he had taken from the body of Colonel Edwards. The two Nicolas had carried had been left with him, for there had been no time to get them. Stubbs had held on to the two entrusted to him, and Ivan, wherever he was, had two more.

It was while speaking of the gold that Hal's thoughts turned to Ivan.

"I wonder what can have happened to him?" he said.

Chester shrugged his shoulders.

"No telling," he replied. "However, I guess he'll turn up sooner or later."

And the lad was right.

It was dark when the little party came again within the first line of Montenegrin troops. Colonel Anderson announced that he would seek an audience of King Nicholas immediately. He made his wants known to the officer of the guard, and after he had explained the situation, the officer departed to learn whether the king would see the returned travelers. He returned fifteen minutes later with the announcement that the king would receive them in his field quarters immediately.

As they started for the monarch's quarters, Stubbs and Nikol both hung back.

"Come on now, Mr. Stubbs," said Chester. "The king will be as glad to see you as any of the rest of us."

"I'm not much used to kings," Stubbs protested. "Besides, this is none of my expedition. You're the fellows he wants to see."

"Nonsense," said Hal, and struck with a sudden thought, he added: "Perhaps the king will give you an interview. It would be a good thing for the New York Gazette."

"By Jove! you're right there," Stubbs agreed. "I must be a great newspaper man to have overlooked a thing like that. If my boss knew it I'd get fired. I'll go along."

Still Nikol hung back, and it took considerable coaxing before he consented to go; and then it took Stubbs to clinch matters.

"Look here, now," he said, eyeing Nikol sternly, "I took you for a brave man. You're not afraid of a king, are you?"

Nikol shook his head negatively.

"Well, if you don't come along I'll think you are," declared Stubbs. "Look at me now. I don't care particularly about going, but I want to show King Nicholas I'm not afraid of him. Come on."

He took the dwarf by the arm and the latter moved along grumbling to himself.

The king received the party in his private quarters -- a large field tent. When the party was ushered into his presence, he was attended by a single orderly. He arose at their entrance. His eyes surveyed the group quickly, and he demanded:

"Where is my friend, Colonel Edwards?"

Colonel Anderson, delegated spokesman for the party by reason of his superior rank, stepped forward and replied quietly:

"He is dead, sire."

The king took a step backward and passed a trembling hand across his brow. He was silent for some moments before replying.

"Dead! One more victim of the Kaiser's militarism. Tell me, how did he die?"

Colonel Anderson explained quietly and briefly. Then, at the king's request, he went into the details of the journey; and when he had concluded, King Nicholas expressed his deep thanks for the service each member of the party had rendered him.

"And you say Nicolas, the traitor, is dead?" he questioned.

"Yes, your majesty. Nikol here," and Colonel Anderson indicated the dwarf, "saw to that."

The king turned to Nikol. Then he commanded:

"Come here!"

Trembling, in spite of his denial that he was afraid of a king, Nikol approached. The king extended a hand, and Nikol bent one knee and put his lips to the hand.

"I thank you," said King Nicholas.

Nikol, with flushed face, muttered something unintelligible and backed slowly away.

Then the king thanked each member of the party separately. Even Stubbs seemed somewhat abashed by the king's manner.

Later Colonel Anderson mentioned the gold they had brought and it was all deposited -- fifteen bags of the precious metal -- before the king.

"Again I thank you," said the monarch. "You may make sure that this gold will be used where it will do the most good."

A few moments later the king signified that the audience was at an end. As they passed out he spoke a final word:

"If, at any time, there is anything I am able to do for any of you, you have but to command me."

All bowed low.

"One moment," said the king as they were about to withdraw, "have you quarters?"

"No, sire," returned Colonel Anderson.

The king spoke to the officer who attended him.

"You will see that these gentlemen are provided with suitable quarters at once," he commanded. "They are my guests."

The officer saluted and motioned the others to follow him. Outside they were turned over to a second officer, who escorted them to a tent somewhat larger than the rest.

"You will make this your quarters," said the officer. "I shall send you an orderly, and if at any time there is anything you require, you have but to mention it to him."

He saluted and departed.

Left to themselves at last, Hal, Chester and the others looked about. The tent was fitted up comfortably, almost luxuriously. There were seven or eight cots within and the tent had the appearance of having sheltered men of note.

"Style to this place, if you ask me," said Stubbs, "Makes a fellow want to turn in and sleep a bit."

"And that is just what we'll do," said Chester. "I'm tired out myself."

"Same here," agreed Hal.

Colonel Anderson and Nikol also announced that they were ready to seek repose at any time, and after some further talk, all lay down and soon were fast asleep.

The sun was high in the heavens when Chester opened his eyes. He was up and dressed quickly. Glancing around, he saw that the others, with the exception of Stubbs, who had one eye open, were still fast asleep.

"Guess I'll take a little trip by myself," the lad muttered.

He moved toward the exit.

"Wait a minute, there," Stubbs called, hopping out of his cot. "I'll go with you."

"How's that, Mr. Stubbs?" said Chester, pausing. "Why do you arise so early? Thought you always stayed until last."

"Don't you believe it," said the little man. "I like to sleep the same as the next fellow, but when I have business on hand I attend to it first."

"Business?" repeated Chester. "And what business have you on hand this morning?"

"Got to get busy and get some news," was the reply. "I'm going to have a look about this camp, ask some questions, then do a little writing; after which I'll hunt up the official censor and the rest of the gang and see what arrangements I can make toward getting my stuff sent through."

"Then I'll go with you on your hunt," Chester decided. "Maybe I can get a few pointers. I might want to get into the newspaper business myself some day."

"Don't," said Stubbs. "Take my advice and do anything else. Look at me now, I'm a fair example. Here I've been in this business for fifteen years, and what has it got me, eh? I'll tell you. It's got me a chance to get out and get shot so that people over in the good old U.S.A. can read, with their morning cup of coffee, what is going on in this benighted land. And what do I get for it? Nothing."

"And still, the excitement," said Chester.

"Excitement?" echoed Stubbs. "Now I ask you, what do I want with excitement? I can get all the excitement I want right back in New York. This is a long way to come looking for excitement."

"Well, perhaps so," Chester admitted, "but when you get back home you will be able to tell people who want to know, more about this war than they could read in the Gazette."

"So I can," Stubbs agreed, "but I wouldn't if these two by four censors didn't stick to their jobs so closely."

The little man slapped on his hat and stalked from the tent, calling over his shoulder:

"Come on."

Chester followed him.

Outside, Stubbs made a straight line for the first line troops.

"If you want to find out anything, you have got to get right where it is," he declared. "I could stay back here and ask questions, but I want to see things for myself."

Chester offered no objections.

Suddenly the camp seemed to spring to life. Bugles blew shrilly, men came pouring out of the tents to form into ranks. Officers darted hither and thither, shouting hoarse commands. For a moment all seemed to be confusion, but a moment later, in response to sharp commands, all became quiet and orderly.

"Something up," said Chester.

Stubbs nodded.

"An advance, I imagine," he said. "We'll see."

He approached a gruff-looking officer of forbidding aspect and addressed him in French.

"Where to?" he asked.

"To the attack," was the reply.

At the same moment a bugle rang out. Others took it up. It was the command to advance.



Chapter XVI.

An Engagement.


Right, left, front and rear of where Stubbs and Chester stood the troops began to move. In front they could make out the heavy guns being dragged forward, officers dashing about and gesticulating excitedly, but order reigning in the midst of apparent confusion.

From the rear now dashed a squadron of cavalry, a handsome appearing body of men. A second squadron came into sight and disappeared ahead, to be followed a moment later by a third. Other squadrons passed in rapid succession.

Chester and Stubbs kept their positions.

Half an hour passed and still the mounted horsemen swept by. Then came the infantry. Column upon column came swinging along at a dog trot, their officers urging them on. They moved silently and swiftly, apparently all ready for the terrible business in hand.

"A handsome body of men," said Stubbs. "I have never seen better."

"And the size of them," exclaimed Chester. "Must all be over six feet."

It did seem so. Great, big, husky-looking fellows they were, strong as gorillas -- heavily bearded, most of them, and warmly and snugly dressed.

"They'll make these Austrians move around some, with an even break," declared Chester.

And still the troops passed, seemingly without end.

"Must be an attack in some force," said Chester.

"Or reinforcements to check an enemy's advance," declared Stubbs.

"Well," said Chester, "if there is going to be a battle, we ought to try and see something of it."

"They'll arrest us if we go fooling around here," declared Stubbs.

Chester thought quickly.

"I'll tell you," he said at length, "you saw the orderly stationed outside our tent?"

Stubbs nodded.

"We'll go back and get him. Also we'll take Hal and Colonel Anderson. They wouldn't want to miss this."

"Don't forget my old friend Nikol," said Stubbs. "Remember he is something of a fighter, too. He'll want to have a look."

They made their way back to the tent quickly and aroused the others. The orderly placed at their disposal, once their wants were made known, volunteered to conduct them to the front.

"I'll get an automobile," he said, and departed.

Five minutes later he was back with a big car and all climbed aboard. A moment later they were being driven rapidly toward the extreme front. There, just behind the first line troops, Hal and Chester made out that the movement was in reality a defensive one. Apparently the men rushed forward so early in the morning were reinforcements.

The troops had entrenched themselves hurriedly and were preparing to resist an attack, which, the orderly informed his charges, was expected momentarily. It appeared that the Austrians had made some slight gains the day before and the Montenegrin general staff had reason to believe the offensive would be continued to-day. Accordingly, steps had been taken to resist the invader.

As the orderly explained the situation, the battle would probably be fought along a twenty-five-mile front; and he announced that at this particular moment the party was somewhere between the center and the left wing of the Montenegrin army.

"Well, we can't see much from here," said Chester.

He gazed across the hills. Then he pointed to his right, toward a not far distant elevation, somewhat higher than the others nearby, and also somewhat closer to the Montenegrin center.

"Now, if we were up there," he said, "we might be able to see something."

The orderly seemed nonplussed.

"It is from that eminence that the king and the general staff will witness the struggle," he said, "I do not know -- "

"Oh, that will be all right," said Stubbs. "The king is a good friend of ours. Why, only last night he said that if we desired anything all we had to do was to call on him. Now, taking the king at his word, what we would desire most is to be allowed to witness the battle from that eminence."

The Montenegrin officer hesitated; but only for a moment. Then he said:

"If those were the king's words, he no doubt will forgive me for leading you thither."

"Most certainly he will," declared Stubbs; "in fact, he will thank you for bringing us to him."

The officer, without further words, proceeded as desired, and ten minutes later, having left the big army automobile, they climbed the eminence and took their positions not far from where the king and the general staff stood viewing the Austrian lines through their glasses.

Even as they settled themselves as comfortably as possible, the first big gun of the enemy boomed. Other big guns from the Montenegrin lines took up the action and soon the artillery engagement became general. The air was filled with terrible din and it was next to impossible to make oneself heard above the roar of battle.

Hidden batteries in the Montenegrin lines were making their fire felt. Shielded from the enemy in front, they were also, in most cases, made invisible to the Austrian air craft that continually hovered overhead, sheltered as they were in dense clumps of trees and bushes.

From the Montenegrin lines now went a small fleet of aeroplanes, seeking out the hiding places of the enemy artillery and signaling back the range to the Montenegrin gunners.

For an hour the duel of big guns continued without other action of any kind. Now and then the spectators were able to make out the effect of an enemy shell as it struck within the Montenegrin line, but they were unable to determine the result of the Montenegrin fire.

Came the sound of a bugle from the rear.

"Something up!" shouted Chester at the top of his voice.

Hal nodded but said nothing. He did not feel equal to making himself heard above the terrible roar of battle.

From the Austrian line suddenly issued a squadron of cavalry, closely followed by many other squadrons. It became apparent to the spectators that the enemy had determined to silence the Montenegrin guns, or a portion of them, at any rate, by a charge.

On they came in the very face of a hail of lead that cut great gaps in their ranks, mowing men and riders down like chaff before a storm. But as fast as the ranks were thinned, they filled up again as the Austrians continued their charge, while from their rear the great Austrian guns continued to hurl their messengers of death over their heads into the ranks of the Montenegrins beyond.

Straight for a little woods in the center of the long battle line the Austrian cavalry dashed, their intention apparently being to seek temporary shelter there before charging some other part of the Montenegrin line.

Now they were almost to the trees and it seemed that they must find shelter there. This would mean that it would be a hard task for the Montenegrins to dislodge them. They were less than a hundred yards away when there came a fresh, terrible rumble and roar.

A Montenegrin masked battery had opened with its rapid-firers. Men dropped in great heaps, but the others came on.

The Austrian officer in command, realizing that he was in a trap, took the one chance left him. With what men he had, cut off from his infantry support as he was, he must either capture that masked battery, die or surrender. The only support he had now was from his own artillery, and a moment later that, too, became silent, for the masked Montenegrin battery could not be shelled without imminent risk of shooting down Austrian as well as Montenegrin.

On came the Austrians in a desperate and spectacular charge. Of the number that had sallied forth from the Austrian trench, less than half remained when they came to the edge of the little woods. These few hurled themselves forward with the utmost bravery and abandon, and for a moment it seemed that they might reach the guns, which Hal and Chester, from the eminence, could see.

But at that moment four squadrons of Montenegrin cavalry, fresh and eager for the fray, were hurled forward. They dashed out with a yell, and the two forces met just beyond the fringe of trees.

There was a terrific shock as they came together and in a moment all was confusion. Men cursed, slashed, stabbed and discharged revolvers at each other, while the horses of the opposing forces fought as well as their riders.

The Montenegrin battery had now become silent, for to have fired would have been to endanger the life of friend as well as foe. The horsemen struggled desperately, hand-to-hand.

But the force of the Austrian charge had been spent. The few who remained fought bravely, but they were no match for the fresher and more powerful Montenegrin horsemen, among the best fighters in the whole world.

Slowly the Austrians were forced back. Then they gave ground faster and faster, until finally those who were left turned their horses and fled back toward their own lines. For perhaps a hundred yards the Montenegrins pursued, then, at the call of a bugle, they halted and turned back.

A moment later the rapid-firers broke loose again, cutting great holes in the ranks of the fleeing Austrians. The latter retreated even faster than they had charged, but by the time they reached the shelter of their own lines their number had been thinned by fully three-fourths.

All the way across the field dead and wounded strewed the ground. The successful Montenegrins paused for a moment and cheered wildly; then they took stock of their own dead and wounded, for they had not escaped scot-free. The hand-to-hand struggle, though brief, had been severe while it lasted, and the Austrians fought hard and well. The Montenegrin losses, though comparatively light, had been severe.

While the cavalry action was being fought, the artillery fire had slackened perceptibly; but now the cavalry of each side -- what was left of it -- had returned to its own lines.

The big guns took up the duel anew with even greater vigor than before.



Chapter XVII.

The Battle Continues.


Hal, Chester and Colonel Anderson had watched the battle with the eyes of veterans; Stubbs had taken in the scene with the eye of a newspaper man in the search of news. Nikol, the dwarf, had gazed at the struggling knot of horsemen in undisguised amazement.

As the Austrians, defeated, had withdrawn, each had drawn a deep breath.

"A terrible spectacle, when you stop to think of it," said Hal slowly.

"Terrible, indeed," agreed Colonel Anderson quietly; "and yet it must go on and on until the power of the Teuton allies has been crushed out forever."

"Which it will be," said Chester quietly.

All turned their eyes to the battlefield once more.

Even from where they stood they could discern a sudden activity in the Austrian lines. The action of the big field pieces became more vigorous than before. Hal, Chester and Colonel Anderson guessed the answer immediately, as, probably, did the officers of King Nicholas' forces.

The next Austrian move was to be a grand assault under cover of artillery fire. The problem to be solved was where it would be delivered -- in the center, on the right, or on the left flank.

For a brief instant Hal turned his eyes from the battlefield to the place where King Nicholas and his staff stood. Officers were arriving and departing in haste, carrying orders to the various commanders.

The fire of the Montenegrin guns also became more violent; but it was evident that the Montenegrin staff had decided to take no action until they were confident of just where the Austrians would strike.

The noise of the cannonading was tremendous. It was like the continual roar of the loudest peal of thunder. The very ground trembled from the vibrations of the big guns.

From the Austrian trenches now poured thousands of men at the double -- poured in dense masses toward the Montenegrin center, the while the Austrian artillery shelled the Montenegrin center with greater energy than at any time since the battle began.

Apparently the enemy had determined upon the Montenegrin center as the objective of its grand assault.

In the open field, a small plateau, the Austrians reformed coolly, in spite of the death-dealing fire from the Montenegrin lines. The field was packed closely with the enemy, now less than half a mile away.

At this distance the fire of the Montenegrin artillery was terribly effective, but the Austrian line did not waver.

Steadily forward it came; and now the Montenegrins moved to meet the attack. Apparently satisfied that there was no question that the center was to be the main objective of the enemy, the Montenegrin staff ordered the bulk of the Balkan army massed there to beat back the foe.

Regiments and brigades were hurriedly drawn from the two flanks to reinforce the center. The left wing was weakened badly.

A quarter of a mile from the first Montenegrin trench the Austrians charged fiercely. All eyes were turned to that section of the field. The shock was but a few moments away.

At that moment -- almost the moment of impact -- a second line of men issued from the Austrian, trenches, this time on the Montenegrin left wing. These, too, supported by artillery and strong bodies of cavalry, came forward in a charge.

It seemed the Austrian commander had outgeneraled the Montenegrins, for it did not seem possible that the Montenegrin left flank could be reinforced in time to successfully withstand the shock of the Austrian attack, and there could be no doubt now that the left flank was where the main attack would be delivered.

The assault upon the center had been a feint -- nothing more. The main bodies of Austrians were to be hurled against the Montenegrin left, in an effort to turn it before reinforcements could be hurried from the right flank to support the threatened center and left.

But King Nicholas, taking matters in his own hands, acted quickly. In spite of the protests of his officers, he ordered the reinforcements so recently massed in his center back to strengthen his left; then ordered that the center hold firm at all hazards and against all numbers.

He hurried reinforcements from his right to support his center, and having taken these precautions, he was ready to give battle.

The Austrian attacking force and the Montenegrin center had come in contact long before the king had made his other moves, but there was no doubt in Nicholas' mind that his sturdy mountaineers could hold their trenches against larger numbers of the enemy.

One, two, three times the Austrians charged the trenches in the Montenegrin center. Three times they were driven back with terrible losses. The Montenegrins, in the shelter of their trenches, fought stubbornly and tenaciously. Once the first line of Austrians succeeded in obtaining a foothold in the first trench and hand-to-hand fighting ensued.

At this style of fighting the Austrians were no match for the sturdy Balkan warriors, and they were soon forced out again.

Meanwhile the Austrian main attack had come in contact with the Montenegrin left wing. Outnumbered two to one, sometimes more, the defenders fought gallantly. But the Austrians, by the very weight of numbers, swooped down upon the defenders of the first line trenches in spite of the heavy Montenegrin artillery fire.

The Montenegrins were forced to fall back to their second line; but they contested every inch of ground and by the time they had been forced out, reinforcements began to arrive. The second line of trenches held in spite of all attempts of the enemy to force them.

Reinforcements continued to arrive.

The Austrian artillery had now slackened its fire perceptibly, for there was danger of mowing down its own men.

King Nicholas decided upon a bold stroke. Secure in the fact that the Austrian guns could not be used at the moment, and having every confidence in his stalwart troops, in spite of the fact that they were heavily outnumbered, King Nicholas ordered a charge.

A cheer went up along the Montenegrin line.

With bayonets fixed and every nerve tense, the Montenegrins poured suddenly from their trenches. They charged like wild men.

The advantage of the surprise was theirs -- the advantage of their impetuous devotion to the cause they served; and the force of their charge was irresistible. It carried all before it.

In vain the Austrian officers tried to rally their men. The sight of these determined, grim-faced men pouring from their trenches bewildered the Austrian troops. They gave ground, slowly at first, then more swiftly; and five minutes later they were in full retreat, with the Montenegrins in close pursuit.

Once the Austrian commander succeeded in reforming his men for a stand; but the Montenegrins rushed on as though they could have carried the Rock of Gibraltar itself, and again the Austrians broke and fled.

The Montenegrins pursued them for probably a quarter of a mile, cutting them down and bayoneting them as they ran. Then the bugle sounded a recall and the Montenegrins drew off.

It was then, too, that the great Austrian guns opened on them again, doing fearful havoc. The Montenegrins suffered greater losses on their return to their trenches than they had during the entire engagement up to that time.

In the center, the battle was still raging; but now that he had been victorious on his left, King Nicholas immediately hurled his weary men to the support of his center. Also he drew upon his already weakened right wing; for the advantage was his and he was determined to make the most of it.

The Austrians fell back in the center.

Now the Montenegrins opened with their heavy artillery, which was rushed forward to shell the retreating foe. Again King Nicholas ordered a charge along his entire front.

With the present morale among the enemy, King Nicholas decided it was time to push his advantage further. He had determined to drive the foe from its own trenches.

The Montenegrins advanced confidently all along the line, pursuing the Austrians closely in the center. Cavalry and infantry, under the protection of the giant batteries, were hurled forward and dashed upon the Austrians with ferocity.

Rapidly they covered the open distance to the first Austrian trenches and leaped into them without thought of death. The Austrians, brought to bay at last, fought desperately, but the Montenegrins, once having gained the whip hand, were not to be denied.

The fighting in the Austrian trenches continued for what seemed an eternity; but finally the Austrians broke and fled.

The Montenegrins, flushed with victory, advanced again, and under cover of their artillery, stormed the enemy's second line trenches. These, too, were won after a desperate struggle and heavy losses on both sides, and with these the Montenegrins, worn and spent, rested content.

The troops were for pushing on after the Austrians, but King Nicholas called a halt.

"My brave men!" he exclaimed, with tears in his eyes. "They have done a day's work to-day that will live in memory for generations to come. It is a brilliant victory."

The duel of heavy guns continued, but the infantry fighting was over for the day. The Montenegrins, in their newly won trenches, fell to preparing them to resist the attack that they knew would come sooner or later, while the Austrians were taking account of their losses and making ready for a new assault.

Stubbs laid a hand on Chester's arm.

"Didn't I tell you they looked like real fighters?" he exclaimed.

"Certainly, I have never seen better," returned the lad.

Stubbs turned to Nikol.

"Well, Nikol," said he, "what do you think of these fellows as fighters?"

Nikol eyed him in silence for several moments. But at last he spoke.

"Mr. Stubbs," he said quietly, "they are better fighters than you or I."



Chapter XVIII.

Ivan Again.


"Come," said Colonel Anderson, "the battle is over. There will be no more fighting to-day. Let us move."

Slowly all made their way back toward their quarters, talking over the battle as they went.

It was late in the afternoon. The battle had raged all day, and now for the first time the friends felt the need of food. Instead of taking camp fare, to which they were invited by the Montenegrin officer who accompanied them, they decided to go to a little village not far from the camp, where the officer informed them they could get a substantial meal at a certain, little restaurant.

Thither they made their way and to their satisfaction found the information correct. Then, their appetites satisfied, they left the restaurant and started back to the camp.

It was now after dark and as they walked slowly, discussing events of the day, they came upon a knot of men engaged in some sort of an argument.

"My curiosity always gets the better of me," said Chester. "Let's have a look," and he led the way toward the gesticulating group.

It was plain, as they drew nearer, that the argument was heated. Loud voices broke the stillness of the night, and one of them, a deep bass, had a familiar ring. One look at the faces in the crowd and they recognized its owner.

It was none other than Ivan, whom they had last seen when he made his dash for liberty in the mountains.

Ivan was in the very center of the crowd, and as Hal, Chester and the others came close, in the glare of a dim light he could be seen gesticulating violently.

"I tell you," he shouted, "I have no money."

"But you showed two bags of gold in the restaurant," said one of the men pressing in on him.

"Well, what if I did?" demanded Ivan. "That gold is not mine. It belongs to your king and I am taking it to him."

"A likely story," said one man in the crowd with a sneer. "You stole it some place. We want a share."

"Oh, you do?" said Ivan, and he broke into a loud laugh. "Well, you won't get it. First, however, I want to tell you again, that I did not steal the money and that it is not mine."

"Then why," said another of the crowd, "why did you dip into one of the bags to pay for a drink at the restaurant?"

"Why?" echoed Ivan in a loud voice. "I'll tell you. Because I was dry."

"But if the gold is not yours?"

For a moment Ivan appeared somewhat flustered. But he made answer after a moment.

"I am entitled to the price of a glass of wine for carrying this gold for the king. That's why."

"It's my belief you filled up on wine before you got the gold," said another voice in the crowd.

"You may have any belief you choose," shouted Ivan angrily. "But now stand aside. I am going on my way."

"Not until you give us a share of your spoils," said a voice close to him.

"Ho!" said Ivan. "You think so. Ho! Ho!"

He took a step forward and his merriment subsided.

"Stand aside there!" he commanded sternly.

For a moment it appeared that the crowd would give before him, but a man in the back of the crowd cried:

"What! will you run from one man, a drunken man at that?"

Another, closer to the giant, reached out a hand and sought to clutch the bag of gold Ivan held in his left hand.

With a sudden movement and a loud cry, Ivan stretched forth a hand and seized the man by the throat. Then he lifted him high in the air and hurled him through space. The man struck the ground with a loud cry of pain.

At the same instant a second man struck at Ivan with a club.

With a cry of anger, Ivan reached forth and seized the club; then, whirling it about his head, brought it down on the man's skull. The man toppled over like a log.

Now Ivan began to laugh in glee.

"Ho! Ho!" he cried. "Come on and take the gold," and he brandished it aloft in his left hand. "What! Are you afraid of one man? Ho! Ho!"

The crowd gave back as Ivan moved forward.

A man from behind sprang forward and stabbed the giant between the shoulders with a thin knife.

Ivan whirled about with a terrible cry. Then, raising his recently acquired club, he dashed in among the crowd and laid about him right and left. Men went down on all sides and in a moment the others turned and fled.

One, from a distance, drew a revolver and fired. Whether the bullet came close to the giant, Hal could not tell, but he drew his own revolver, and springing forward, cried:

"That's enough of this! The next man to make a move I'll put a bullet through."

Chester, Nikol and Colonel Anderson ranged themselves by Hal's side and also produced their automatics. Seeing nothing else to do, Stubbs also joined them and flourished a revolver.

The crowd gave back.

Ivan turned upon the newcomers in surprise. Then he cried in a great voice:

"Well! Well! and where did you come from? I had made sure you had deserted me."

"No, we haven't deserted you," said Hal. "We simply missed you, that's all."

"Well, it's all right, anyhow," said Ivan. "Now come to the restaurant with me and I shall buy wine for all of us."

"Thanks, Ivan, but we don't drink wine," said Hal quietly. "If you will come with us to our quarters we will talk matters over."

"Not I, not until I have had wine," declared Ivan.

"But you have had enough wine," declared Chester.

"And how do you know I have had enough wine?" demanded Ivan, turning upon the lad.

"The way you talk makes it plain enough," replied Chester quietly. "Come, Ivan, let's get away from here."

"Well," said Ivan hesitatingly, "maybe you are right." Turning he caught sight of Nikol.

"Why, there is my old friend Nikol," he shouted. "Nikol, you will join me in a bottle of wine?"

"I shall be pleased," said Nikol, with a smile.

"Good. Come with me." He turned and made as though to move away, when suddenly his eyes lighted upon Stubbs.

"Ho! Ho!" he laughed. "And my friend Stubbs here shall accompany us."

"Thanks; some other time," said Stubbs nervously.

For answer Ivan leaned down, picked the little man up in his arms and walked away with him in spite of Stubbs' cries and struggles.

Nikol went along and for once he did not offer to take Stubbs' part.

"Great Scott! Hal, we can't stand for this," said Chester. "What shall we do?"

"Go along, I should say," said Colonel Anderson.

"But we don't drink wine," protested Hal.

"There is no reason you should. If you can get Ivan seated and talk to him he will be all right in a few minutes. Besides, he is likely to get into more trouble this way."

"I guess you're right," said Hal. "Come on, Chester."

The three followed Nikol, Ivan and the latter's struggling burden in the person of Stubbs.

They entered the restaurant right behind the others and took seats at the same table. Ivan greeted them with a smile.

"Glad to see you came along," he said. He turned to Stubbs. "What will you have?"

"Thanks, I don't drink," said Stubbs fearfully.

"Now, Mr. Stubbs!" said Ivan with a comical grin.

Hal now decided the affair had gone far enough.

"Listen to me, Ivan," he said quietly. "Stubbs doesn't want any wine and neither do the rest of us. You have had enough."

"And what have you to do with it?" demanded Ivan loudly.

"Just this," said Hal, and produced a revolver. "Before I'll stand for any more of this nonsense, I'll put a hole through you. Understand?"

Ivan looked at the lad, apparently bewildered, for some moments. Then he said with a laugh:

"Don't you ever shoot at me with that gun. Not ever!"

He rose to his feet and faced Hal threateningly. The lad was nonplussed. He had no idea that his bluff wouldn't work. He knew of course that he could never shoot the Cossack.

It was Chester who saved the day.

"Ivan," he said quietly. "That's not your money."

"What -- what's that?" said Ivan, turning to him suddenly.

"I said that's not your money. Surely you are not a thief?"

"A thief?" cried Ivan. "Who says I am a thief?"

"I do, if you touch the money in the bag you hold there," said Chester quietly.

For a moment it seemed that the big Cossack would spring upon Chester; but the lad stood his ground, and suddenly Ivan sank down in a chair.

"No, I'm not a thief," he mumbled. "I'm not going to be a thief."

He threw the bag of gold down heavily on the table and looked thoughtfully into space.

Chester approached him and laid a hand on his shoulder.

"There," he said calmly, "I knew you wouldn't. This, you know, is the king's money. You wouldn't touch that?"

"No," said Ivan, then added hastily: "but I have touched it. I bought wine with it; and it wasn't my money."

His remorse was so apparent that Chester was forced to smile.

"Why, that's all right," he said. "You are going to pay him back. Now come with us."

Again Ivan was silent for several moments.

"That's right," he said at last. "I'm going to pay him back." He rose to his feet. "Come, I shall go with you," and they all passed out into the night.



Chapter XIX.

Into Serbia.


Two days later and we find our friends once more in the air and sailing swiftly toward the rising sun.

"Seems to me we should be along about there some place," declared Hal, taking his eyes from the distance ahead for a brief moment.

"Unless you have not gauged your course accurately," replied Chester.

"I'm sure I have made no mistake," said Hal.

"Then we should be about there."

"About where, that's what I want to know," put in Anthony Stubbs, from his place in the rear of the large army plane, the same in which the four friends had made their escape from the Austrians not so many days before. "Where are we headed for, anyway?"

"That will be a little surprise for you, Mr. Stubbs," Chester returned.

"I'm getting too old to care much about surprises," declared Stubbs. "In the first place, I have no business in this machine, anyhow. I never was much good when my feet were not on the ground, and I feel pretty sick up here."

"Oh, you'll get used to that, Stubbs," spoke up Colonel Anderson.

"Don't you believe it. I've tried it before and I haven't become used to it yet. No, sir. In the first place, a man has got no business up here. If he were meant to fly, he'd have wings, like a bird. I claim it's tempting Providence to go floating about through space in one of these things."

"Well, you didn't seem to hesitate much when we asked you to come," commented Chester.

"Of course not. Think I want to be left alone in this benighted land, with a couple of million Austrians likely to swoop down on it at any minute? I guess not. The air may not be safe, but it can't be any worse than I would have been if I were left behind to await the arrival of the invader. But where are we going?"

"Belgrade," said Chester briefly.

Anthony Stubbs half started to his feet.

"Great Scott!" he exclaimed, and sank back again. "Out of the frying pan into the fire. Say!" and his voice rose a trifle, "What do we want to go to Belgrade for? What's the use of sticking our heads into a hornet's nest?"

"Look here, Mr. Stubbs," said Hal, again turning in his seat. "Don't you want to go to Belgrade with us? If you don't, I'll go down and let you off here."

He reduced the speed of the craft a trifle.

"No, no. Never mind," said Stubbs hurriedly. "I was just joking. Of course I want to go to Belgrade. They tell me that the Germans are just about to come in. But that won't make any difference, will it? No, indeed. Not to us. I suppose we are going to be there to welcome them. I'll bet they'll be glad to see us."

The others smiled, but they made no reply to this outburst. They had known Stubbs long enough now not to pay much attention to him at times. And this was one of those times.

Stubbs now turned a bit in his seat and spoke to another figure who was close to him.

"How do you like this kind of travel, Ivan?" he asked.

"I belong on the ground," was the brief response.

Ivan's face was a chalky white, but he was sitting tight and saying nothing except when it was absolutely necessary. Just behind him sat Nikol, and the latter seemed to be in a condition similar to Ivan. Nor did he make a sound.

Suddenly, as the aeroplane moved swiftly along, there came a loud explosion. The machine rocked crazily and Hal's prompt action at the wheel was all that saved the occupants from being pitched head-first into space. He righted the craft with an effort.

"What's the matter?" demanded Chester in no little alarm.

"It's all over now," mumbled Stubbs with a groan. "Pray, Ivan."

The big Cossack seemed to have no doubt that it was all over and while he clung to the side of the machine with both hands, he mumbled strange words in his native tongue. Apparently he was following Stubbs' injunction.

"I don't know," replied Hal, answering Chester's question. "Something seems to have gone wrong with the engine. Guess we had better go down."

He tilted the elevating levers and the plane descended gradually and swiftly.

Under Hal's firm hand it settled gently upon the ground and all immediately climbed out. Stubbs drew a great breath of relief.

"I never expected to reach here alive," he declared.

Ivan and Nikol also were plainly relieved. They said nothing, but the expression upon both their faces spoke plainer than words.

Hal bent over the engine. As he straightened up, Chester asked:

"Anything serious?"

"Believe I can fix it within an hour," replied Hal. "I'll have a try at it, anyhow."

"Need any assistance?" asked Colonel Anderson.

Hal shook his head.

"Nothing you can do, I guess," he replied.

"Then I am going to take a little prowl into these woods here," said the colonel, indicating a small clump of trees that stood perhaps a quarter of a mile to the east.

"I'll go along," said Chester. "I feel like stretching my legs a bit."

The two walked away together. Ivan and Nikol remained behind and watched Hal tinker with the engine.

Chester and the colonel prowled about among the trees for the better part of half an hour and then turned to make their way back to the machine. As they walked along, Chester suddenly caught Colonel Anderson by the arm, stopping him in his stride.

"Sh-h-h," muttered the lad and listened intently.

"What's the matter?" demanded Colonel Anderson, in a low voice.

"Thought I heard voices," replied Chester. "Listen."

Both became silent; and directly they caught the sound of a low voice off to the right. Then there came a second and a third voice.

"Don't see what they can be doing here, whoever they are," declared Chester in a whisper. "We'll see if we can get a look at them."

He led the way softly in the direction from which the voices had come. The voices became louder; and directly, parting two large bushes, Chester made out the forms of three figures not ten yards away.

He turned quickly to Colonel Anderson and laid a finger to his lips. The colonel approached cautiously.

From the spot where the two stood it was possible to see the three men in front of them without danger of being seen themselves, for they were screened from sight by the large bushes. One of the men was attired in what Chester took to be a Serbian uniform, but the others were in civilian attire.

"We'll do a little eavesdropping," whispered Chester.

Colonel Anderson nodded and they became silent.

"So you say that everything is ready for Bulgaria's entrance into the war?" spoke the man with the uniform.

"Yes," replied one of the others, a man of perhaps forty years of age, with a long flowing beard.

"And she will strike when?"

"The moment Belgrade has fallen before the Germans," replied the third man, who, the watchers saw now, was little more than a boy, smooth of face and bright of eye.

"And they will strike where?"

"At the Anglo-French force being rushed from Saloniki to the aid of the Serbians."

"Why wasn't I kept posted on all this? How was I expected to do my part here, being left in ignorance of diplomatic affairs?"

"I don't know anything about that. All I know is that we were ordered here to learn what success you have had in undermining the Serbian officials. Also to get your views upon which way the Serbians will retreat."

"Well, I can tell you that in a few words. I have had very little success with the Serbians. They are loyal to their cause and seem determined to fight to the last ditch. But I did get close enough to one man -- a member of the general staff -- to learn that in the event of reverses to Serbian arms, the Serbian army will retreat into Greece."

"So? I had deemed it most likely they would fall back and join the Montenegrins."

"Such is not the plan of the general staff. Their reasons I cannot tell you; but at a guess I should say it is because they hope that, by a juncture with the Anglo-French forces, they may hope to show an effective front until Italy can throw an army to their support, or possibly until the long expected Russian offensive materializes."

"Then we shall have to bring some pressure to bear upon Greece," said the younger man. "We cannot permit that. Bulgaria must get in the game sooner and thus foil such a plan."

"Well, you probably know best," said the officer, "but remember one thing. To all intents and purposes, Bulgaria is still neutral. Announcement that she has decided to cast her lot with the Central Powers, if premature, undoubtedly would spoil many plans. Particularly, if it came to the ears of the Anglo-French commander at Saloniki."

"Exactly," replied the young man. "Our plans now are to permit the Allies to advance a considerable distance toward Belgrade, and then to have Bulgaria declare war at the psychological moment."

"A good plan, that," returned the officer. "But I must get back now. My absence will be noticed and I do not care to arouse suspicion."

The men moved off.

Chester and Colonel Anderson gazed at each other.

"Rather neat little play," said Colonel Anderson.

"Rather," repeated Chester dryly.

"And to think," continued Colonel Anderson, "how leniently Bulgaria has been treated by the Allies. Well, her day of reckoning will come."

"We'll have to get word of this to the Serbian commander in Belgrade," said Chester.

"So we will," said the colonel. "And also to the commander of the Anglo-French forces in Saloniki."

"Let's get back then and see if Hal has the machine fixed so she'll fly."

They retraced their footsteps; and even as they arrived, Hal arose from his position above the aeroplane.

"She'll go now all right," he said. "All aboard!"

Stubbs, Nikol and Ivan hesitated and Stubbs protested. Chester drew Hal aside for a moment and told him what he and the colonel had learned. Hal wasted no further time.

"In here with all of you," he commanded gruffly. "We're going right now."

The others hesitated no longer, and a few moments later the big machine was flying swiftly toward the Serbian capital.



Chapter XX.

The End Of A Traitor.


It was two years after the outbreak of the great war that the Austro-German armies were hurled forward in a great and final effort to crush Serbia. Since the early days of the struggle, heavy battles had been fought upon the Austro-Serbian frontier, with success first to one side and then to the other.

Belgrade, the Serbian capital, had been bombarded time after time by the great Austrian guns and once the city had been occupied by the foe. Later, however, the Serbians had driven out the invader and reoccupied the capital. And now, the Austrian army, reinforced by a hundred thousand Germans, bringing the total number of troops to half a million, was again knocking at the gates of Belgrade; and the Serbians, realizing the utter hopelessness of their cause unless aid arrived from the Anglo-French troops at Saloniki, were preparing to flee.

This was the situation when the aeroplane bearing Hal, Chester and their friends descended just outside the city.

Hardly had they alighted when they were taken in charge by a squad of Serbian troops. Colonel Anderson, acting as spokesman for the party, explained their presence in a few well-chosen words and asked to be taken to the commanding officer. There was considerable red tape to go through before the friends finally were ushered into the presence of the Serbian commander, and that worthy immediately informed them he had but a few moments to give them.

Colonel Anderson, therefore, came to the point at once. He told him of the conversation he and Chester had overheard a short time before.

"And you say one of the men wore a Serbian uniform?" asked the general.

"Yes, sir."

"You don't know who he is -- you didn't hear his name mentioned?"

"No, sir; but I would know him again if I saw him."

"Good. You shall have the chance. Now, how far from the city do you say this conversation took place?"

"Must have been all of ten miles, sir."

"Then the men have hardly returned to the city yet. And you say you did not hear the name of the member of the general staff, the first traitor, or spy mentioned as having divulged information?"

"No, sir."

"Very well. Now I will leave all of you here for an hour or so. I have some matters to attend to. When I come back we'll see if you can identify the man you speak of."

The general bowed to them and took his departure, leaving them alone in his quarters.

From without a heavy cannonading could be heard.

"I guess the last advance has begun," said Chester slowly.

"You probably are right," agreed Hal. "And I feel sorry for these Serbians. If the British and French could only get here in time."

"Well, I don't see why they don't," declared Chester. "England has promised more than once since the war began that she would not permit Serbia to be crushed. Seems to me she should have taken some decisive action before now."

"You forget," said Colonel Anderson, "that England has her hands full in other parts of the great war theater -- France, Belgium, the Dardanelles, Egypt, India and Africa."

"That's the trouble," said Hal. "England has too many irons in the fire. That's where the Germans and Austrians have the edge, as we say in the United States. Their armies are not scattered all over the world."

"That's true enough," replied Colonel Anderson, "and it is, without doubt, the reason the Central Powers have not been crushed long ago."

Ivan now took a hand in the conversation.

"These wonderful tales you told me of my brother Alexis," he began.

"Well, what of them?" asked Hal.

"Why," said Ivan. "When I came with you I thought I should see some fighting. All I have done is fly through the air, like a bird, and hear a thousand miles of talk. I want to see some fighting, like Alexis saw."

"You probably will see it soon enough," returned Chester quietly. "Even now you can hear the booming of the great guns without. The Austro-Germans are moving on Belgrade and it will only be hours before the Serbian retreat begins."

The conversation continued along various lines until the return of the Serbian commander, General Save.

"If you will come with me," he said to Colonel Anderson, "I will see if you can identify the traitor. Which of your friends here was with you?"

Colonel Anderson nodded toward Chester.

"Then he shall come, too. The others may remain here until we return."

Hal, Ivan and Nikol were undeniably disappointed at this turn of affairs. Not so Stubbs.

"This comes nearer being what I call comfort than anything I have enjoyed since coming across to Europe," he said, settling himself in the commander's easy chair and drawing exhilarating puffs from his pipe. "I don't care how long we stay here."

"Mr. Stubbs," said Hal, "I am afraid you are lazy."

"Mr. Paine," said Stubbs, "I know I'm lazy."

Leaving the general's quarters, Colonel Anderson and Chester accompanied the Serbian commander toward the front.

"The enemy has begun his advance," General Save explained, as they walked along. "He is attacking in force all along the line. We are resisting as well as we may. That is why every available man has been sent forward. We will find the traitor there some place."

"And do you have any hope of holding back the enemy, sir?" Chester asked.

"None," returned the general quietly. "We will resist to the last, but even now preparations are being made for evacuating the capital. With the coming of darkness, the retreat will begin. We shall fall back to Nish, which, I trust, we shall be able to hold until Anglo-French assistance arrives."

"I hope so, sir," declared Chester.

"And as soon as you have picked out this traitor for me," said General Save, "I will ask you to undertake a mission for me."

"We shall be glad to be of service, sir," replied Colonel Anderson. "And the nature of the mission?"

"Why," said the commander. "I have information to the effect that the Anglo-French troops are already on the way from Saloniki. They may not know of the real seriousness of our position. Communication has been hampered for the last few days. I will send word to them by you."

"Very well, sir," said Colonel Anderson. "We shall be glad to go."

"Now keep your eyes open," said General Save, as they came for the first time among the Serbian troops, the men farthest from the front, men being held in reserve.

Among the regiments the three passed slowly, scanning the face of every officer; and they came upon their man sooner than they could reasonably have hoped.

Chester suddenly touched General Save on the arm.

"Look! There he is!" the lad said in a low voice.

The general glanced in the direction indicated. Perhaps twenty yards to the left, engaged in conversation with an officer who wore colonel's stripes, and a man whom General Save immediately recognized as one of the general staff, stood the person the lads had seen in the woods a few hours earlier. "Are you sure that is he?" demanded the Serbian commander.

Chester nodded his head vigorously.

"Certain, sir," Colonel Anderson agreed.

"Very good. Then come with me."

The general approached the group of officers, who stood respectfully at attention when they perceived his approach.

"Captain Dellse!" said the General.

"Sir," replied the officer, stepping toward the Serbian commander.

The older officer looked squarely into the man's eyes for several moments without saying a word. The traitor tried his best to return the general's steady gaze and for a moment he succeeded. Then his eyes wavered slightly.

General Save extended his right hand.

"Your sword, sir!" he commanded.

The other staggered back and his face turned a ghastly white.

"Wha -- what, sir?" he stammered.

"Your sword," repeated the general calmly, his hand still extended.

With a visible effort the other pulled himself together.

"I do not understand you, sir," he said, with a subdued air of insolence, glancing quickly about at the others who now surrounded him.

General Save lost all patience now. He took a step forward.

"Give me your sword, you traitor!" he commanded angrily. "You are under arrest. You shall be shot in ten minutes."

The face of the accused officer turned livid. There was no pretending to misunderstand now.

Quickly he glanced about him. Chester and Colonel Anderson, in their civilian clothes, stood each with a hand in his right coat pocket, and in the hand of each rested a little automatic.

An ever increasing group of Serbian officers also surrounded him. The man with whom the traitor had been engaged in conversation moved gradually toward the rear of the circle. General Save caught sight of him out of the corner of his eye.

"Colonel Breyold!" he commanded.

The other halted.

"Come here, sir," commanded the general.

Glancing furtively about him, the other obeyed. The Serbian commander turned to another of his officers.

"Relieve Colonel Breyold of his sword," he commanded.

Without waiting to see that his command was carried out, he stepped close to Dellse. The other gave way before him and with a sudden movement produced a revolver.

Before those nearby could interfere, he had raised the weapon and pulled the trigger. There was a sharp report, a flash of fire, and when the smoke had cleared away, Dellse and General Save were locked in each other's embrace, struggling furiously.

With loud cries other Serbian officers jumped forward and separated the combatants. Dellse's weapon was wrested from his grasp and in a moment he was powerless.

"Are you hurt, sir?" asked one of the officers anxiously of the general.

"No," was the reply.

With a gesture of his arm, he indicated the two traitors. "Take them out and shoot them immediately!" he ordered.



Chapter XXI.

Across Macedonia.


"No," said Hal, "I am afraid to take a chance with our old airplane. It hasn't been gone over thoroughly yet. If General Save is anxious for us to go at once, Chester, you and Colonel Anderson go on ahead. I'll look our machine over and follow you."

"Well, whatever you say," said Chester. "The general is anxious that we start at once and perhaps the way you suggest will do as well as another."

"I'm going with the first party," declared Ivan at this juncture. "I'm tired of sitting about doing nothing. I want to be on the move. If something doesn't happen pretty soon, I'm going back to the Albanian Mountains."

"I'll be glad to have you go with me," said Chester. "Hal, you can bring Stubbs and Nikol with you."

Hal nodded.

"All right. Then you had better see the general about a craft of some kind."

Chester hastened away, but was back a few moments later with the announcement that General Save would have a plane ready for them within the hour.

Hal and Chester then examined a map of the country carefully and laid out a course. It was agreed that Hal should follow the same course, for, as Chester said, there was little likelihood of anything going wrong, but coming along the same route the second craft would always have a chance of rendering aid should it be needed. The lads agreed to meet at Saloniki the following day.

It was nearly dark when the machine carrying Chester, Colonel Anderson and Ivan soared in the air and headed south over Macedonia -- once the kingdom of Philip and Alexander the Great. Stubbs, Nikol and Hal watched their friends disappear in the distance with some misgiving, which was given expression by Stubbs.

"I hope they get there safely," he muttered, "but I have my doubts."

"See here, Mr. Stubbs," said Hal. "You've gone through a lot, but you are still here, aren't you?"

"I am," said Stubbs calmly, "but I wish I were some place else."

"Well, give me an hour or two to look over our machine and you will soon be some place else," said Hal.

"And the chances are I'd rather be some place than where I am likely to be if I keep monkeying around in the air," replied the little man.

Hal raised both hands in a gesture of hopelessness.

"There's no use talking to you," he said. "I'll leave you both here while I overhaul the plane."

He took himself off.

Chester, Colonel Anderson and Ivan sailed swiftly through the air. Darkness fell, but it was a bright night and Chester, at the wheel, could see without difficulty. The passengers were quite comfortable in spite of the cold.

"Aren't you getting a bit too low?" asked Colonel Anderson after a couple of hours flying in the darkness.

"Thousand feet," said Chester after a glance at the indicator.

"Doesn't seem like it to me," said the colonel. "Think I can see the ground below."

"You shouldn't at this altitude," said Chester.

"I know it. Guess I was mistaken."

Half an hour later the colonel spoke again. "Have you come down any, Chester?"

"No; why?"

"I'm sure I can see the ground below," returned the colonel.

Chester glanced over the side of the plane.

"By Jove! So can I," he exclaimed. He glanced at the indicator again. It still read a trifle over a thousand feet. "Something wrong some place," he said to himself.

He tilted the elevating lever, but the plane did not answer by a sudden rush upward. Chester gave a long whistle.

"What's the matter?" demanded Colonel Anderson.

"I don't know," returned Chester. "We're going down gradually, I know that, but the indicator still reads a thousand feet and I can't move the plane any higher."

"And you don't know what is wrong?"

"Haven't the slightest idea. I'm no airship expert."

"Then you shouldn't try to run one," declared Ivan.

"Now don't get worried, Ivan," said Chester with a laugh. "We'll get down again all right."

"We'll probably get down," said Ivan, "but the thing that worries me is whether it will be all right or not. I want to die with my feet on the ground and not be dashed against the earth head first."

"I'm sure there is no danger," said Chester. "We're just sinking gently."

He cut off the engine and allowed the craft to volplane to earth more abruptly. It came to rest on the ground as lightly as a bird.

"Well, what will we do now?" demanded Ivan.

"You have as much idea as I have," returned Chester. "I can't fix this thing here in the darkness; in fact, I don't know whether I can fix it at all. We'll either have to walk or stay here until I can have a look at this craft in daylight -- and maybe that won't do any good."

"I vote we walk," said Colonel Anderson. "There must be houses along here some place. Maybe we can commandeer three horses, or an automobile or something."

"Most likely what we'll commandeer will be trouble," grumbled Ivan.

"Now what are you kicking about?" demanded Chester. "You have been hunting trouble ever since I have known you. Maybe you'll be satisfied this time."

"Do you think so?" demanded Ivan eagerly.

"No, I don't," returned Chester. "If I did I'd sit right here. I don't want to run into any trouble now if I can help it. We've got business on hand, remember that. And we've got to hurry. Colonel Anderson, I guess your suggestion is a good one. We'll walk on a ways."

They set out without a word. Striking across what appeared in the darkness a large field, they eventually came to a road. They walked south along this.

Half an hour later, in the darkness, there loomed up a house ahead of them. A faint light glowed in the window.

"Told you there must be a house along here some place," said Colonel Anderson.

Chester produced his watch and succeeded in reading the face after some trouble.

"Lacks five minutes to midnight," he said. "Rather a late hour to be making a call."

"Necessity knows no law," responded Colonel Anderson. "We won't bother them much, if they can furnish us with some means of transportation."

"Hope they will be friendly," said Chester.

"No reason why they shouldn't be. I suppose we are still in Serbia."

"Well, I don't know whether we are or not. That's what worries me," said Chester.

"Why, where do you think we are?"

"I don't know. Might be Serbia, might be Greece, might be Bulgaria, or Turkey or any old place. If the elevating apparatus on our plane was out of whack, the steering apparatus may have been, too. Also I have mislaid my compass. I won't know north from south until morning."

"Hm-m-m," muttered the colonel. "Well, shall we try this house?"

"May as well, I guess," said Chester.

He led the way to the front door and rapped sharply with his knuckles.

There was a sound of some one stirring within, but no face appeared at the door in response to the lad's knock. He rapped sharply again. This time there was not a sound from within.

Chester walked a little ways from the house and glanced at the window through which a light had been visible a few moments before. It was perfectly dark now. Apparently the light had been extinguished the moment he had rapped on the door. All was dark within.

Chester moved toward the house again, thinking to rap on the door once more. As he did so, there came the sound of a shot and Chester felt something whistle by his ear.

"Wow!" he cried, and dashed toward the door where Colonel Anderson and Ivan stood.

"Hit?" cried Colonel Anderson, as the lad dashed up.

"No," replied Chester. "But that bullet didn't miss me much. What'll we do now?"

"I don't really know. We don't know where we are. Why not spend the night here?"

"For one reason," said Chester grimly, "because they won't let us in."

"Oh, we can fix that. Break in the door."

"And get shot for our pains."

"No, I don't think so. My impression is that there is no more than a single occupant of the house. That's the reason he was frightened when we knocked. We'll just go in where it's warm and pay no further attention to him."

"Well, whatever you say," said Chester. "Stand back there, till I blow the lock off that door." He drew his revolver.

"Hold on," said Ivan. "I'll open it"

He stepped back a pace, then rushed forward. His huge shoulder came into contact with the hard wood and there was a crash as the door gave way beneath his weight.

Ivan went in unhesitatingly and the others followed him.

Inside Chester struck a match.

"Look out!" cried Colonel Anderson. "Want to get us all shot?"

"We've got to see where we are going," said Chester.

The glare of a match showed them a room to the right of the hall. Chester led the way in, still holding the match above his head. On the stand in the center of the room was a big lamp. Chester lighted it.

"Evidently," he said, "this is the same light we saw when we came up."

The three now pulled themselves close to a fire that glowed softly in an open fireplace and made themselves comfortable.

"We might as well get a little sleep," said Chester. "Anderson, you take first watch. Call me in two hours. I'm going to sleep here."

He closed his eyes, then opened them suddenly again. He had heard a slight noise.

Stepping quickly across to a table at the far end of the room, he stooped down and, thrusting his revolver under the table, called:

"Come out!"

There was a faint rustling and a sound as of some one crying. Then a figure, rumpled and fearful, came from beneath the table; and Chester cried:

"A girl!"



Chapter XXII.

Attacked.


Chester's exclamation was wrung from him in English. At the sound of his words the girl looked at him quickly and clasping her hands imploringly, cried out:

"Don't kill me!"

Her words were also in English and she spoke without the slightest accent. Chester and Colonel Anderson looked at her dumfounded.

"Are you English?" demanded Chester, taking a step toward her.

The girl staggered back.

"Keep away, please," she said.

"Are you English?" repeated Chester.

The girl recovered herself with an effort and forced herself to answer the lad's question calmly.

"No," she said, "I am an American."

"An American!" exclaimed Chester. "You are an American?"

"Yes," cried the girl, "and you will harm me at your peril. The United States -- "

"Uncle Sam is a long ways off," said Chester quietly. "But I guess he can take care of you. I, too am an American."

"You!" exclaimed the girl eagerly, taking a step forward. Then, after a quick glance at his clothes, she shrank back.

Chester smiled.

"Don't judge me by these garments," he said. "I assure you I am an American, and my friend here," he indicated Colonel Anderson, "is a British officer. My other friend," pointing to Ivan, "is a Russian. So you see, you are among friends."

"Are you telling me the truth?" asked the girl fearfully, eying Chester searchingly.

"It is a habit I have," replied Chester quietly. "Yes, I am an American and if you have a mind to question me about anything American you will find that I am telling you the truth."

"What is your name?" asked the girl.

"Chester Crawford."

"Chester Crawford!"

Again the girl looked at him searchingly.

At last she asked: "And do you know another young American named Hal Paine?"

"Hal!" exclaimed Chester, startled at hearing his friend's name from this girl whom he had, to his knowledge, never seen before. "Of course. He is my chum. But he has never told me he knew a girl answering your description."

"Oh, I don't know him," replied the girl. "But I have heard of you both from a friend -- a girl friend; and if you can tell me her name, I will be sure that you are Chester Crawford."

"How can I tell you?" asked Chester. "I know several girls. Was it Mary -- "

"This girl," was the reply, "you met in Belgium. If you are truly Chester Crawford you will know who I mean."

"Do you mean Miss Johnson -- Edna Johnson?" inquired Chester.

A happy smile lighted up the girl's face.

"I do! I do!" she exclaimed. "It was Edna Johnson. She wrote me a letter, telling me how she met two young American boys in Belgium and giving me their names. I have heard from her often and each time she has mentioned your names. She wonders what has become of you."

"Well," said Chester with a smile. "I'm here and Hal is some place between here and Belgrade, I expect. Now will you tell me who you are?"

"I am Helen Ellison of St. Louis," replied the girl, extending her hand.

Chester took the hand and turned to the others.

"Allow me to present my friends to you," he said quietly. "Colonel Anderson, of His British Majesty's service."

Colonel Anderson bowed.

"And Ivan Vergoff," -- this in French. "Ivan, Mademoiselle Ellison."

The big Cossack also bowed and acknowledged the introduction.

The girl smiled at both of them, and Chester was glad to learn that she understood French.

"And now," he said, "if you will tell me exactly where we are, I shall be greatly obliged."

The girl looked at him in surprise.

"You don't know where you are?" she asked.

Chester shook his head.

"You are now," said Helen, "just across the Serbian border from Bulgaria. This house is the home of a friend of mine, Miss Thatcher, a Red Cross nurse. I met her in Belgrade where she was wounded. When it became evident that the Austrians were about to occupy the city, we came to the home of her friend here, a Serbian woman. That was before there was any talk of Bulgaria joining Germany. But now that war has been declared -- "

"War declared!" exclaimed Chester.

"Why, I think so. Maybe there has been no declaration of war, but anyhow the Serbians and Bulgarians have been fighting across the frontier. That's why I was so afraid when you knocked at the door to-night."

"And it was you who shot at me?" asked Chester.

"Yes," replied the girl. "And, oh, I am so sorry. If -- "

"Never mind," said Chester soothingly. "You didn't hit me."

"I know I didn't, but I -- "

"There, there, now," said Chester. "And where is your friend now?"

"She went away this morning and she hasn't come back yet."

"Do you know where she went?"

"Yes; to the home of a peasant about six miles from here. His wife is sick and Miss Thatcher has been attending them since she has been well enough to do so."

"And you were left here all along?" said Chester.

"Yes, but I wasn't afraid until this afternoon, when half a dozen Bulgarians crossed the frontier and tried to get in the house."

"The did?" exclaimed Chester angrily. "I wish we had been here."

"So do I," said Helen. "They knocked on the door, but I wouldn't let them in. Then they threatened to break the door down, but an officer came up at that moment and ordered them away. They went sulkily and one of them called back that they would return. That's why I was afraid when you knocked a little while ago."

"And no wonder," replied Chester. "It must have been a terrible day for you."

"It has indeed," said the girl weakly.

Chester sprang toward her quickly and took her gently by the arms, just as it seemed she would fall over in a faint. He seated her in a chair, and poured her a glass of water from a pitcher on a nearby table.

After drinking the water the girl appeared refreshed.

"So foolish of me to get weak like that," she said, smiling.

"It's no wonder," returned Chester. "It's just the reaction. You'll be all right in a minute or two."

The lad was a good prophet; and five minutes later Helen was talking and laughing vivaciously. All four were having a good time, when Chester's ears caught a faint sound from without.

The lad paused as he was about to say something in reply to one of Helen's questions and listened intently.

"What's the matter?" asked Helen.

"Oh, nothing," said Chester, and continued his remarks.

A few moments later, however, he arose, and asking to be excused for a moment, stepped toward the door which Ivan had broken to permit their entrance; just beyond he caught sight of a dark shadow.

"As I thought," he muttered. "They have come back."

He returned to the door of the parlor and summoned the big Cossack.

"Oh, Ivan," he called. "Come out here a minute."

The Cossack came up to him and Chester led him toward the door.

"What can you see out there?" he asked.

Ivan poked his head out and looked around.

"Ho!" he exclaimed suddenly and leaped out.

A moment later Chester heard the sound of a brief struggle and then Ivan reappeared dragging a man after him.

"I've got him," said the giant, laughing loudly.

The laughter attracted the attention of Helen and Colonel Anderson, who came from the parlor to learn the cause of it.

Helen gave a cry of fear as her eyes fell upon Ivan's prisoner.

"Who is he?" she exclaimed.

"Oh, just some fellow who was spooking around outside," replied Chester.

But Helen was not to be fooled thus easily.

"It is one of the Bulgarians who were here this afternoon," she cried, and addressed the man in his own tongue. Then she turned to the others. "He says the others are coming," she cried. "He came on ahead of them."

"Oh, is that so?" said Chester quietly. "Well, they'll have a different reception this time."

He told the others what the girl had learned.

Colonel Anderson received the news quietly.

"We'll be ready for them," he said.

But Ivan was not so calm when he heard what Helen had told Chester.

"So there is going to be a fight at last, eh?" he cried in a loud voice. "What are a dozen or so of these Bulgarians? I know them of old. Cowards and traitors all. I have had an experience with more than one of them. We are good for a dozen or two of them, if we can keep them in front of us. Oh, yes, the Bulgarians are great fighters -- from behind."

"Is there any way we can fix up that door?" asked Chester.

Colonel Anderson shook his head.

"I am afraid not. Ivan has shattered it beyond repair."

"Then it shall be my post to guard," cried Ivan. "No Bulgarian shall come through there."

"There are not many other places they can come through," said Helen. "Only two windows and a second door, in the rear of the house. I shall guard one of the windows myself."

"You are not afraid?" asked Chester.

"Not now, that I have friends with me."

"All right. Colonel Anderson, I'll take this other window here, near Miss Ellison. You shall guard the back door."

"The first thing to do is tie this fellow up," said Anderson, indicating the Bulgarian.

Ivan stepped forward, and taking a piece of rope that Helen gave him, tied the man up tightly.

"Now," said Chester, "to your posts. We don't want to be caught unguarded."

All took the places assigned them and examined their weapons. An hour passed. Then Chester, peering through the window, exclaimed:

"Here they come!"



Chapter XXIII.

The Fight In The House.


"I'm ready for them!" shouted Ivan, from his position behind the broken door.

He stood well back in the darkness, out of sight from beyond the house.

All was quiet and dark within, for with the appearance of the first of the enemy Chester had extinguished the light. The figures of the approaching Bulgarians were plainly visible to Chester and Helen through the windows. Ivan and Colonel Anderson, of course, could not see them, although they would have been visible to the former had he a mind to take a chance and expose himself to their view.

As the men approached, Chester counted them. Then he announced:

"Thirteen, I make them."

"My count, too," agreed Helen from her window.

There was not a tremor in her voice now and she seemed totally unlike the frightened girl Chester had first seen. She held her revolver steadily in her right hand, a pile of ammunition heaped up in the window sill before her.

The men came on briskly, absolutely unaware of the rude welcome that awaited them.

"Let them get close enough so we can't miss, then I'll hold a parley with them," said Chester.

When the men were less than fifty yards from the house, Chester raised his voice and called out sternly in Russian:

"Halt there!"

The Bulgarians halted in their tracks and gazed about in surprise. To the best of their knowledge there could be no one in the house but the girl, and this sudden hail in a male voice made them pause.

"What do you want here?" demanded Chester from his shelter.

There was a hurried consultation among the enemy; then one man called:

"We want to get in."

"You can't get in," returned Chester calmly.

There was a roar of laughter from without.

"Did you hear that?" said one. "He says we can't get in." The man called to Chester: "And who is going to stop us?"

"You'll find there are enough of us here for that purpose," replied the lad evenly. "I warn you we'll shoot the next step forward you take."

Again those without held a consultation and Chester could barely make out the trend of the conversation.

"Perhaps they are too many for us," said one.

"Nonsense," was the reply of another. "He's simply trying to frighten us away. We'll rush the two windows and the doors at the same time. Some of us will get in."

"All right. Whatever you say -- "

"Come on then."

The men split up suddenly into four separate bodies and rushed forward.

"Let 'em have it," said Chester quietly.

His revolver spoke at the same moment as did that of Helen and two men stumbled as they ran. One recovered himself instantly and came on, but the other pitched forward to the ground.

Colonel Anderson, at the rear door, remained at his post. There was nothing he could do until the enemy attempted to force the door.

Ivan, however, stepped quickly from his place of concealment and standing erect in the doorway fired point blank at the four men who came dashing toward him. One threw up his hands with a cry and a second muttered a fierce imprecation. Ivan emptied his revolver and then dashed back to safety even as a fusillade was fired at him. The Cossack was untouched. He smiled grimly to himself.

"Not so bad," he muttered.

He reloaded in haste and again stepped into the open. The men before his post, the three who remained upon their feet, were directly in front of the door and all fired simultaneously as Ivan showed himself. The big Cossack felt a stinging sensation in his left arm, but he did not pause to investigate the wound.

Again he raised his weapon quickly and fired its contents toward his foes. But Ivan's aim was poor -- or he had fired without aiming -- for not a bullet went home. Again Ivan dodged back just in time.

The men who had advanced toward the two windows had been driven off by Helen and Chester. Two of their number lay on the ground and two of the others were nursing wounded arms. Out of revolver-shot they stopped and discussed the situation.

In the rear, the men who had attacked there were even now knocking at the door with their revolver butts. Chester heard Colonel Anderson's voice:

"Get away from there, or I shall fire through the door."

There came a loud report and Chester believed for a moment the colonel had been as good as his word. But he was soon undeceived.

"They've blown the lock off the door," cried the colonel. "Guess they'll try to rush me now."

"You guard both these windows for a moment," said Chester. "I'll lend Anderson a hand."

He hurried back and arrived just in time to see the door swing inward. Colonel Anderson, across the room from the door, stood in the shadow, waiting for the first of the enemy to show himself.

The door swung back violently and the men appeared in the opening in a body. Chester and Colonel Anderson fired almost together. Came hoarse cries from the attackers and a moment later the doorway was cleared. Immediately Chester and the colonel hurled their weight against it, closing it again.

"Safe for a minute," said Chester.

He hastened back to where he had left Helen and arrived just in time to see the girl fire her revolver at a figure that dashed toward the house. The man did not falter. Apparently the girl's aim had been bad. The man dashed to the very side of the house and took his stand directly under the window.

Chester poked his head out to see if he could pick the man off and as he did so his cap leaped from his head. The lad heard something whiz by. He withdrew his head quickly.

"Just missed me," he said quietly.

Now three forms came dashing toward the house, running in a zig-zag course.

"See if you can get one of them," cried Chester to the girl.

He took deliberate aim himself and fired. One man dropped.

Helen also fired -- twice, but the other two men came on and joined the first arrival under the edge of the window.

"Great Scott! This won't do," said Chester. "We can't have those fellows under there. We'll have to get them out some way."

At that moment Colonel Anderson's voice rang out:

"Here they come again."

Chester dashed back. Again the door swung inward and two faces appeared, revolvers leveled before them. They fired even as they came in sight and Colonel Anderson tumbled over with a sharp cry.

"They got me," he said in a faint voice.

"And I got one of them!" shouted Chester as one of the Bulgarians hit the floor with a thud.

The other withdrew his head before Chester could fire again.

Chester raised his voice and called to Helen:

"How are you making it?"

"All right," the girl called back. "Haven't seen any one since you left."

"Can you hold both windows?" demanded Chester.

"I think so. Why?"

"Anderson has been hit. I'll have to stand guard here. Pass the word to Ivan, will you? Tell him of the men under the window. He may be able to help you out."

The girl did as Chester ordered.

Helen, standing close to the window, allowed her revolver to rest on the sill. In the darkness, a hand appeared from below and grasped the weapon by the barrel and wrenched it from her grasp before she could pull the trigger.

Helen screamed.

"What's the matter?" cried Chester anxiously.

"I've lost my gun," said the girl. "And here they come in the window!"

"I'm coming!" cried Chester, and started forward.

But another figure beat him. It was the giant form of Ivan.

"You stand here," he said sternly. "Guard both doors and the windows as you value your lives. I'll attend to the others."

He moved toward the shattered door without another word.

"Where are you going?" demanded Chester anxiously.

Ivan disappeared without making reply.

At that moment one of the men who had succeeded in forcing the rear door came dashing through the house. He held his revolver ready, but he didn't see Chester quickly enough. Chester raised his own weapon and took a snapshot. The man threw up both arms and staggered back. Immediately Chester leaped forward and possessed himself of the other's revolver, which he passed to Helen.

A second form appeared in the doorway and fired at Chester. But the lad had perceived his opponent just in time to leap back and the bullet went wild. Bringing his own revolver forward in deliberate aim, Chester dropped the other with a single shot.

"Look!" cried Helen from the window at this moment.

Chester did so and saw the remainder of the Bulgarians coming toward the house at a dead run. He put his revolver out the window and fired twice. Helen did the same.

But both had fired too quickly and all the bullets went wide. The men pulled up under the window, out of the range of fire from within, safely enough, and Chester and Helen could hear them talking.

"We'll wait here," said one. "Somebody'll show his head pretty quick and when he does, we'll get him."

Chester motioned to Helen to move back from the window.

"What are you going to do?" she asked in some anxiety.

"Have you any hot water?" asked Chester suddenly.

"Why, yes," cried the girl and clapped her hands, "There is a kettle on the stove."

"You remain here while I get it," said Chester briefly.

He dashed into the kitchen and was back in a moment with the large kettle of hot water in both hands. He motioned the girl away from the window.

The lad lifted the kettle to the sill with an effort, and then gauging the position of the enemy by the sound of the voices without, he tilted it over.

Came furious cries of pain from without as the boiling water found its mark. Then there came a different sort of cry. Chester looked out quickly.

From the front door dashed Ivan and bore down upon the foe.



Chapter XXIV.

Ivan Shows His Metal.


Chester had poured the boiling water upon the foe at the psychological moment indeed -- for Ivan had been ready to dash forward at that exact minute and Chester had diverted the attention of the Bulgarians long enough for Ivan to reach them without being discovered.

Had the men not been otherwise engaged when he dashed from his place of concealment, they would doubtless have shot him down before he reached them. But the kettle of hot water had prevented them from bringing their revolvers to bear until too late.

Ivan descended upon them with a wild cry, and at sight of him the Bulgarians gave back. Eight of them there were, but they recoiled as a single man from the great Cossack.

A single shot Ivan fired from his two revolvers and then they were empty. Quickly he reversed both weapons, and holding both by the barrels, he was among the enemy, striking right and left as fast as the eye could see.

Down went a man on the left with a cracked skull. A man on the right caught a glancing blow on the shoulder and also toppled over. Now the remaining six scattered and sought to get a position where they could shoot Ivan down without fear of injuring one of their own number. But Ivan prevented this by keeping close.

He at length seized one man by the neck -- dropping the revolver he held in his left hand to do so -- and held him before him as a shield.

Then he charged the others.

Ivan's eyes shone with a terrible fire as he darted forward. His hat was off and his long hair streamed in the wind. Holding his human shield as he did with his strong left hand, he raised his revolver aloft in his right, gripping it tightly by the barrel.

The nearest man of the enemy failed to skip aside quickly enough and the revolver crashed down on his head with a thud. That was the last of him. A second, thinking to take advantage of this action, slipped upon the giant from behind and leveled his revolver at Ivan's head. But once more Ivan was too quick for him, and, whirling suddenly, hurled his revolver at the man.

The Cossack's aim was true, and struck squarely in the face with the sharp revolver, the man dropped to the ground. Now, besides the man he still held aloft, there were but three of the enemy left. With a loud cry, they turned and ran.

But Ivan had no mind to be balked of his prey. He still held a weapon, and he made good use of it. The weapon was the man he had been using for a shield. Raising him high above his head with his right arm, he hurled him forward, as a man putting the shot.

The human catapult sailed through the air and struck two of the enemy as it fell, carrying them to the ground, knocking the breath from the bodies of all three.

Ivan leaped forward quickly. Stooping, he picked up two men, one in each hand, and brought their heads together with an audible crash. Then he hurled one down upon the third man with great force, and stooping, picked up a revolver.

Quickly he dropped to one knee, and leveling the revolver, took careful aim at the remaining man, who was now some distance away and running swiftly.

"Crack!"

A report, a flash of flame in the darkness.

An imprecation from Ivan, a second report and flash of flame, and the man fell sprawling.

Ivan rose calmly. He surveyed the field of action with a critical eye. Then, without a word, he turned on his heel and stalked back to the house. As he came to where Chester and Helen stood, he said quietly:

"Any more of them in here?"

"None," returned Chester. "You finished the lot."

"Good," said the Cossack. "I thought they had me once."

He uttered no further word, but made his way to the parlor, where he sat down as calmly as though nothing had happened.

"You go in there, too," said Chester to Helen. "I'll have a look at Anderson."

But the girl refused to obey this command and accompanied the lad to where the gallant Colonel lay, moaning feebly.

Chester dropped down and raised Colonel Anderson's head to his knee.

"How do you feel, old man?" he asked.

"Rather weak and dizzy," was the Colonel's mumbled response.

"Where did the bullet hit you?"

"Top of the head some place," and Colonel Anderson raised a feeble hand and passed it over his head.

"Quiet now," said Chester. "I'll have you in the other room in a jiffy and we'll have a look at the wound. Will you make a light in the parlor, Miss Ellison?"

The girl hastened away to do as Chester requested and the lad assisted Colonel Anderson to his feet.

"Put your arm around my neck," the lad commanded. "Lean all your weight on me and I'll drag you into the other room. You're too big for me to carry."

Colonel Anderson followed instructions and Chester dragged him to the parlor, where he laid him on a couch. Then he bent over and examined the wound.

"Doesn't amount to much," he said finally, rising. "Will you get me some water and a cloth. Miss Ellison? Also, if by any chance you can find it, a piece of adhesive plaster."

"I can get them all," said the girl. "Miss Thatcher's kit is still here."

She hurried away and was back in a few minutes with the necessary things. She lent Chester a hand and bathed the wound on the Colonel's head, while Chester unrolled the adhesive plaster. Then they bound up the wound.

Colonel Anderson then insisted on sitting up. He passed a hand ruefully across his bandaged head and smiled faintly.

"Hurts a little, but not much," he said in answer to Chester's question. "But now, if you'll tell me -- "

He paused suddenly and raised a warning hand.

"What's the matter now?" demanded Chester anxiously.

"Thought I heard voices without."

With a bound Ivan left his chair and darted toward the door. He disappeared in the darkness.

"Ivan's fighting blood is up," said Chester. "I guess I'd better go after him. You guard the wounded man here, Miss Ellison."

He hurried after Ivan.

Outside the door he came upon a strange sight -- a sight that caused him to cry out in merriment and thankfulness.

In his first gaze he saw four figures and the first he recognized as that of Hal, the next that of Nikol. These two stood quietly gazing at two other figures who were struggling nearby. Chester glanced at the other figures. They were Ivan and Anthony Stubbs and they appeared to be locked in a death grapple.

"Help! Help!" came Stubbs' voice.

Chester moved forward to interfere, for he reasoned that perhaps Ivan, in his lust for battle, had been unable to distinguish between friend and foe. But Hal stayed him with uplifted hand and Chester saw that his chum was laughing quietly. He realized then that Ivan had recognized his opponent.

He lined up with Hal and Nikol and watched the struggle.

Ivan had one huge arm around the little man and seemed to be making strenuous efforts to throw him. Stubbs struggled valiantly, the while sending out wails for help. Chester saw that Ivan was simply playing.

"Stick to him, Mr. Stubbs," cried Chester. "You'll have him down in a minute."

Stubbs twisted and squirmed like an eel. Once he slipped free of Ivan's clutch and started to run. Ivan reached out quickly and grasped him by the left shoulder and drew him back.

Stubbs let out a yell of fear, and as he turned face to face with the Cossack, he struck out and upward with his clenched fist. The blow landed squarely on Ivan's nose and brought a stream of blood.

Ivan let out a roar of rage. Apparently he had not bargained for this. Then he lifted Stubbs high, in the air and tossed him away in the darkness. The little man's yells were loud and long as he flew through the air. He struck the hard earth with a grunt perhaps twenty feet away.

Slowly he got to his feet and came toward the others, who were now talking to Ivan. In front of them, he stopped.

"Say!" he exclaimed. "What are you fellows trying to do, anyhow? Get me killed off so you won't have to bother with me? Didn't you see that big heathen tossing me around? What?"

Hal turned and eyed the little man suddenly.

"Why, there he is now," he said in a voice of surprise. "We were just talking about you, Mr. Stubbs. Chester was asking about you. I told him you were here a moment ago. Where did you go so suddenly?"

Stubbs glared at them.

"You mean to tell me you didn't see some big giant grab me a minute ago?" he demanded. "You didn't see me fighting for my life?"

"Fighting?" exclaimed Hal. "You fighting, Mr. Stubbs. I didn't think you would attack a man."

"I didn't attack a man," shouted the thoroughly aroused Stubbs. "I didn't attack a man. A man attacked me. No, it wasn't a man, either. It was a giant."

"Is that so, Mr. Stubbs?" asked Chester in well-feigned surprise. "And where were the rest of us all that time?"

"Where -- where were you?" echoed Stubbs. "You were right here, that's where you were. You mean to tell me you didn't hear me call for help?"

"You don't say," said Hal. "Why didn't you call aloud, Mr. Stubbs?"

Stubbs sputtered angrily.

"By George! I did call out loud," he cried.

"And what has happened to the man who attacked you, Mr. Stubbs -- the giant you speak of?" inquired Hal civilly.

"Well, he, I -- I don't know. He looked suspiciously like Ivan there to me, though why he should jump me, I don't know. Yes, sir, I could have sworn it was Ivan, but I must have been mistaken."

Stubbs glanced around on all sides.

"By George!" he exclaimed at last. "I know I had a fight, but I can't seem to make any one believe it."

"Still sleepy, Mr. Stubbs?" asked Hal.

"Sleepy?" repeated the little man. "Sleepy? What do you mean?"

"Why, that fighting dream just now," said Hal. For a moment Stubbs stared at the lad angrily; then turned on his heel and stalked into the house.

"Come," said Chester, with a laugh, "I'll take you into the house, Hal, and introduce you to a real nice little girl. She's heard of you. She told me so. Come on."



Chapter XXV.

Between Two Fires.


At the door to the parlor, Chester stopped stock still. The others halted behind him.

"Now what do you think of that?" he demanded.

Inside, Stubbs was standing before Helen Ellison.

"Yes," he was saying, "I am Anthony Stubbs, war correspondent of the New York Gazette. I am here on important business. But I have other worries besides my work. I am burdened with the care of two young American boys. I have to look after them and keep them out of trouble. Hal Paine and Chester Crawford. Perhaps you know them?"

The little man paused expectantly.

"I have met Chester Crawford," was the reply. "He was here only a moment ago. I do not know Hal Paine."

"Well, if you know one of them you are just one better off than I am," was Stubbs' rejoinder. "I know them both, too well. Were it not that I am continually giving up my time to getting them out of scrapes, I would be able to give more attention to my own work. You should be glad that you know but one of them."

"But I thought -- " began the girl.

Stubbs interrupted her with a wave of his hand.

"Oh, I know what you thought," he said. "I thought so myself once. So have lots of others. But if you knew them as well as I do you'd change your mind."

"Well, what do you think of it?" asked Chester of Hal, in a whisper.

"I think it's about time we went in," returned Hal.

Chester advanced into the room and the others followed. Stubbs turned guiltily.

"Oh, there you are," he said. "I was just telling this young lady here what great friends we all are. Yes, sir. I just remarked that if she were in any kind of danger, to mention it to you and you boys would see that no harm came to her."

"Are you sure that's what you were talking about, Mr. Stubbs?" asked Chester.

"Why, of course. What did you think?"

"Well, I thought perhaps you might have told Miss Ellison of all the trouble we have caused you."

Stubbs started.

"I -- I -- " he stammered.

"Oh, we heard you, Mr. Stubbs," said Hal.

"Well," said Stubbs with ruffled dignity. "Eavesdroppers never hear any good of themselves." But the little man soon recovered his poise. "I was just joking," he said. "I knew you boys were listening. Ha! Ha!" He eyed Chester. "The young lady here says she has met you," he said. "You young rascal, so this is why you wanted to come on ahead, is it?"

Chester blushed.

"See here, Mr. Stubbs," he began, "I -- "

"Ha! Ha!" laughed Stubbs. He approached Chester and gave him a dig in the ribs with his thumb. "So," he exclaimed, and added, "well, I was young myself once."

He had successfully turned the tables on Chester and he was now very much pleased with himself.

Chester decided that the best policy was to ignore the little man's remarks, so he turned the conversation by introducing Hal and Nikol to Helen. Then, when all were on speaking terms, he turned to Hal.

"Tell me how you happened to find us?" he asked.

"It's simple enough," was the reply. "As we were sailing along, I heard shots below. I came down to investigate. The first thing I knew, after coming in sight of this house, I saw a great hulk of a man come rushing out. I drew my revolver and was about to fire when I recognized Ivan. At first I wasn't sure whether Ivan knew us, but when he grabbed Stubbs there and began to play with him, I knew he did. So Nikol and I stood back and watched. Then you came out. That's all I have to tell."

"And so you admit it wasn't a dream," exclaimed Stubbs angrily. "A fine lot of friends you are. How do you know what that untamed heathen might have done to me?"

"Heathen, am I?" exclaimed Ivan, getting to his feet.

"No, no! I didn't mean that," said Stubbs, backing away. "I apologize."

Ivan resumed his seat and Stubbs continued:

"I just want to tell you I don't think much of such treatment. As I have told you before, you rush to each other's aid fast enough, but when I get in a tight place I am left to fight it out by myself."

"And you always come out on top, Mr. Stubbs," declared Chester. "We would deprive you of none of the glory."

"Yes, but some of these times I won't come out on top and then what good will glory do me, huh?"

"Think how proud Mrs. Stubbs -- "

"I can tell you right now that Mrs. Stubbs is not looking for glory," shouted Stubbs. "What Mrs. Stubbs wants is me and if I fool around with you much longer I'm mighty likely to disappoint her."

Stubbs stalked across the room and sat down in a corner.

"Tell me," said Hal to Chester, "what was all the shooting about?"

"Oh, it didn't amount to much," returned Chester. "Thirteen Bulgarians attacked us. That's all. Anderson, Miss Ellison and I disposed of a couple and Ivan here attended to the rest. They are all dead now, I guess."

"And where is Anderson?" demanded Hal.

"Over there on the sofa," said Chester, pointing. "He's sleeping and I didn't like to disturb him. He's got a hole in his head."

"Bad?" asked Hal anxiously.

"No; mere flesh wound. He'll be all right directly."

"And do you mean to tell me," demanded Hal, "that Ivan here did all this work?"

"Well, he did the greater part of it. It reminded me of the old days, when we watched Alexis in action. Any one who had ever seen them both fight would know they were brothers. Ivan is a powerful man and a great fighter."

Ivan had hung his head modestly as Chester talked. Now he looked up and said:

"It was nothing."

"And yet how unlike Alexis," muttered Hal. "Can you imagine what Alexis would have said after a fight like that?"

"Rather," said Chester dryly. "He'd have sworn he had defeated a regiment."

"Well," said Hal. "It seems to me we have delayed here long enough. You will remember your orders to hurry. My plane will carry us all, if Miss Ellison cares to go."

"Certainly she cares to go," returned Chester. "We can't leave her here alone. I'll wake Anderson now."

He did so. The Colonel announced that he was feeling perfectly fit and ready to go at any time.

"Well, you people get ready and I'll go and have a look at the plane," said Hal.

He left the house.

It had grown light by this time. Dawn had broken half an hour before and there was every indication that the day would be bright and cheerful.

Helen was upstairs getting her things together, while the others sat about in the parlor. Suddenly Hal dashed into the house. There was an expression of alarm on his face. The others jumped to their feet excitedly.

"Now what's the matter?" exclaimed Chester.

"Oh, nothing much," said Hal, "only that about fifty thousand Bulgarians have nabbed my aeroplane."

"What?" exclaimed the others.

"Exactly," said Hal, "and that's not the worst of it."

"My goodness!" exclaimed Stubbs. "What can be worse than that?"

"Well," replied Hal, sinking into a chair. "On the other side of us I made out about a million Serbians advancing."

"Great Scott!" exclaimed Chester. "You mean we are in between them?"

"Precisely."

"Oh, my," groaned Stubbs. "This will be the last of us for sure."

"Quiet, Stubbs," said Hal sharply.

Now Ivan had a remark to make.

"There don't happen to be a million Serbians," he said calmly.

"Well, I wasn't talking literally," said Hal. "I don't know how many there are, but they look like a million."

"And what are we going to do?" moaned Stubbs.

"It looks to me as though we should have to stop right here," said Hal quietly.

"And be shot to pieces?" This from Stubbs.

"You might go outside and try running a bit," returned Chester. "I have no doubt you would be killed a bit quicker."

"I'll stay here," said Stubbs.

At this moment Helen came into the room. She was heavily attired and carried a small satchel.

"Well, I'm ready," she said, smiling. "Did you think it would take me all day to dress?"

"You might just as well go back and get unready," said Stubbs in a faint voice.

Helen gazed at the serious faces about her queerly.

"Why, what on earth is the matter?" she asked anxiously.

"Matter?" echoed Stubbs. "Everything is the matter. The Serbians and Bulgarians are coming to shoot us full of holes."

Helen turned to Hal for an explanation.

"It's true, Miss Ellison, though not as Mr. Stubbs expresses it," said Hal quietly. "We are between two fires. The Bulgarians are less than half a mile from us and they have seized my airplane. The Serbians are advancing. There will undoubtedly be a battle and we will be somewhere about the middle of it."

"But can't we leave now and hurry toward the Serbians?" asked Helen.

"I had thought of that," said Hal; "but the Bulgarians are too close. If they saw us fleeing, they would probably shoot us down."

"Then cannot we seek the protection of the Bulgarians?"

This brought a growl from Ivan.

"Better keep as far from the Bulgarians as possible," he said in a harsh voice. "I know something of the Bulgarians."

Hal nodded.

"Besides, we have other business," he added. "We do not want to fall into the hands of the Bulgarians if we can possibly help it. We have a mission to perform if it is humanly possible."

"Boom!" it was the sound of a big gun.

"The battle is on," said Hal. "Will any of you come to the roof with me? We should be able to get a good view."

"Boom! Boom! Boom! Boom! Boom!"

The battle was on in full blast.



Chapter XXVI.

In Grave Peril.


Helen led the way to the roof, the others following closely. As Hal had predicted, it was possible from this height to obtain a fair view of the opposing armies.

To the north, as far as the eye could see, the army of King Ferdinand of Bulgaria spread out, a mass of moving energy. Faint puffs of smoke dotted the Bulgar line as far as the eye could see.

"Cannon!" said Hal briefly.

To the south, the Serbian line moved forward. It, too, spread out on either side as far as the eye could reach and puffs of smoke rose steadily, shutting out the view of the moving men.

"More cannon," said Chester.

"We seem to be safe enough for the moment," said Hal. "The shells are passing over us. But if one side or the other should advance as far as this house, we would be in imminent danger of being struck by shells from the other side."

"Well, one side is bound to advance sooner or later," declared Chester; "but I guess there is nothing for us to do but wait and watch the progress of the battle."

"You fellows can watch all you want to," said Stubbs. "I'm going down stairs where I won't be able to see a shell coming."

"It won't make much difference whether you are up here or down there if a shell hits this house, Mr. Stubbs," said Chester.

"Maybe not; but I won't see it and that will help some."

Stubbs betook himself below.

"Don't know what is coming over Stubbs," said Chester. "He didn't use to be as bad as that."

"He was when we first met him," Hal replied. "But he seemed to be getting over it. He's worse than ever now."

From their position, those upon the roof of the house could witness the effect of some of the great shells that were hurled into the opposing lines. One, from the Serbians, struck squarely upon the Bulgarian first line troops, doing terrible execution. Men were mowed down in great numbers.

A few moments later the Bulgarians also found the range and the havoc was frightful on each side.

"They can't stand that very long," said Hal. "One side or the other will have to make a move."

The lad was right; and as it transpired the first move was to be made by the Serbians.

So suddenly that it appeared the work of magic, a great body of horsemen, stretching out for perhaps half a mile, issued from the Serbian line in a charge. On they came, their sabers flashing in the early morning sun, straight for the distant Bulgarian line.

Chester gave an exclamation of dismay.

"They'll pass within a short distance of us," he ejaculated. "Then the Bulgarians will turn their big guns on us." He turned to Helen. "You would better go downstairs, Miss Ellison," he said quietly.

"But I want to see the battle," the girl protested.

"Chester is right," Hal agreed. "This is no place for you. Bullets are likely to be flying about here before long now."

"But the rest of you are not coming down?"

"That's different," said Chester.

"I don't see how. A bullet is no more liable to hit me than it is to hit you."

"Well, of course if you insist, I won't push you down," said Hal, somewhat nettled.

Helen Ellison tossed her head.

"Of course if you are going to be mean about it, I'll go down and sit with Mr. Stubbs," she said.

Without another word she disappeared below.

Hal looked at Chester and smiled.

"Women and girls," he said, "are very peculiar. As soon as you agree with them they change their minds."

"Well, she's down, anyhow," said Chester. "That's some relief."

"And here come the Serbians," said Hal.

A handsome body of men, these Serbian cavalrymen, as they charged straight across the open field into the very jaws of death. Men fell on all sides, but those who were left did not pause. The command had gone forth that the Bulgarian guns must be silenced and the Serbians went about the work as coolly as though they had been on dress parade.

But it appeared a few moments later that the battle was not to be between horsemen and artillery, but rather between cavalry and cavalry.

From the Bulgarian lines now issued a large body of horsemen; and they came toward the Serbians at a swift gallop, their officers riding in front with swords flashing and urging their men on with words of encouragement.

The Serbian cavalry, at a command, halted and braced to receive the shock.

"Great Scott! What did they stop for!" exclaimed Hal. "They are giving the other fellows, all the advantage when they come together."

"Looks like bad generalship to me," Chester agreed.

Now, at a command from their officer, the Serbians resumed their charge; but the damage had been done and when the long lines of opposing horsemen came together the very impetus of the Bulgarian charge carried them through. The Serbians reeled, staggered and their line broke.

The Bulgarian horse plowed in among them, cutting, slashing and stabbing. Individually, the Serbians fought as bravely as their foe, but in spite of the desperate work the Bulgarian cavalry retained its cohesion and pushed steadily on.

The fighting was terrible to behold. Revolvers were brought into play and their sharp crack, crack could be heard above the sound of the trampling horses and yelling men. It became apparent to the onlookers that the Serbians were getting the worst of the encounter.

Casting his eye toward the main Serbian line, Hal gave a short cheer. A long, dense line of infantry was moving out to the support of the cavalry. Slowly they came at first, then faster and still faster as the men broke into a run. An imposing sight, indeed, and one to stir the blood. The Serbian cavalry, at a command, fell back upon the infantry, which separated into two sections to permit of the cavalry passing through the center. Then the infantry closed in again.

But the Bulgarian cavalry, with victory apparently within its grasp, had no intention of giving up now. With utter recklessness they charged the Serbian infantry, dying bravely before the rifles and upon the bayonets of their enemy when they chanced to escape the rifle fire.

The Serbian line held like a stone wall.

Then the Bulgarian cavalry drew off. A cheer, which arose from the Serbian line, was quickly checked as the giant batteries of the Bulgarians opened upon the unprotected Serbian line. The Serbians wavered, broke and fled.

Then once more the Bulgarian cavalry wheeled and charged. Right into the dense masses of Serbians rode the troopers, cutting and slashing to right and left. The execution among the panic-stricken Serbians was terrible to behold.

"They can't stand it long," Hal shouted, barely making himself heard above the roar of battle.

"The day is lost already," Chester shouted back.

There seemed no doubt of that now.

What was left of the Serbian infantry staggered back to the main army shattered and beaten. The big guns took up the battle again, but not with the same vigor and confidence as before. The Serbian fire seemed even to tell the spectators on the housetop that the Serbians had lost hope.

Half an hour later a general retreat began.

"Bad generalship, that's all," declared Hal.

"Without doubt," agreed Colonel Anderson. "A charge is a charge and once begun must be finished. That was where the Bulgarians gained the whip hand."

"The next step, I suppose, is an advance by the Bulgarians," said Chester.

"Very likely," Hal agreed, "and that means that we shall be caught in the Bulgarian lines."

"It means worse than that," said Colonel Anderson. "We are all in civilian attire and if our identities are discovered, it means that we'll be stood up and shot."

"By Jove!" said Hal. "I hadn't thought of that."

"Oh, we've been in predicaments just as serious," said Chester, "and we have always come through somehow. I guess we shall do so again."

"We'll get into one just once too often, I'm afraid," said Hal, "and this is likely to be it."

"You're getting as bad as Stubbs, Hal," said Chester. "Just keep a stiff upper lip and we'll come through this thing some way."

"I'm no quitter," said Hal. "But the best we can do now is let events shape themselves."

And now the Bulgarian advance began.

Apparently the Bulgarian commander had no thought of attempting to overtake the Serbians and annihilate them. Apparently he figured that ground gained was ground gained whether with or without a fight. The army moved forward slowly.

A party of officers, following in the wake of the vanguard, rode suddenly toward the house in which the friends had taken refuge.

"And here comes the trouble, as Stubbs would say," declared Hal. "Let's go below and get ready to receive them."

He suited the action to the word and the others followed him silently. Below, Hal acquainted Helen with what had transpired and announced that the Bulgarians were approaching.

"And what of the bodies without?" asked the girl quietly.

"Whew!" Hal gave a long and expressive whistle. "I hadn't thought of that. Wait a moment, though. We'll have to say they were here when the Serbians advanced and were killed."

"But the Serbians were not so close to the house."

"I know that, but I cannot think of any better excuse."

"Besides," said Stubbs, "if the Bulgarians were killed here by the Serbians, the chances are the Bulgarian commander will want to know how it happens we weren't killed also."

"Stubbs," said Hal, "I told you you were always a kill-joy. You can pick more flaws in things than any one I can think of. We'll tell the Bulgarians that story and take a chance on its passing muster."

"Then we may as well say our prayers now," said Stubbs mournfully.

"But what will we tell them we are?" asked Chester.

"Americans," replied Hal. "Caught here by the retreat. We were just making our way out of the country. I'll do the talking."

"All right," said Chester, and added: "Sh-h-h, here they come now!"



Chapter XXVII.

Prisoners.


Came a knock at the door.

"You answer it, Miss Ellison, please," said Hal, adding: "If you are questioned, tell the same story you told Chester."

The girl nodded and moved to the door without a sign of nervousness. Directly she could be heard in conversation with one of the officers. Then followed heavy footsteps approaching.

"You say they are in here? I'll have a look at them myself," said a voice.

A moment later the scowling face of a Bulgarian colonel appeared in the doorway. Helen stood just behind him and behind her were several other Bulgarian officers.

Hal rose, as did the others, as the Bulgarian swept into the room.

"Who are you?" demanded the officer in a harsh voice.

"Hal Paine, an American," replied the lad, and indicated the others after this fashion: "Chester Crawford, also an American; Harry Anderson, an American; Nikol, an Albanian, the servant there of Anthony Stubbs, American war correspondent; Ivan Vergoff, also an Albanian."

"Hm-m-m," muttered the Bulgarian. "You have quite a fluent tongue, young man. And what are you doing here?"

"Three of us," said Hal, indicating Chester, Colonel Anderson and himself, "were looking about Montenegro when the war broke out. We have been there since, lending what aid we could to the wounded. There we encountered Ivan Vergoff, who, for some reason, became attached to us. There also we encountered Anthony Stubbs, war correspondent, and his man, Nikol."

"Very plausible, very plausible," said the Bulgarian. "But how do I know you speak the truth?"

Hal shrugged his shoulders.

"We can't very well offer proof of our identities," he said. "But were the American consul here, I could very soon convince him."

The officer frowned at this remark. The mention of an American consul or minister or ambassador always brought frowns to the faces of military officers in the war zone. It boded trouble if American subjects were not well treated.

"And how do you happen to be here?" demanded the Bulgarian.

"Montenegro was becoming too warm," said Hal. "We thought we would get into Bulgaria or Greece, neutral countries. We did not know Bulgaria had declared war."

The Bulgarian's face seemed to relax a trifle. Apparently Hal had made a favorable impression.

"Well," he said, "the best I can do is turn you over to my superior. Still, if things are as you say, I have no doubt that you will be allowed to proceed into Greece."

"Thank you, Colonel," said Hal.

The officer glanced around the room; and suddenly his eyes fell upon a man lying in the corner of the room. It was the Bulgarian whom Ivan had tied up the night before.

"What's that?" demanded the officer.

He commanded another of his officers to investigate. Hal's heart fell.

The other officer stepped quickly across the room and jerked the man to his feet. Then he untied him and drew him before the Colonel. The latter, after one glance at the Bulgarian uniform, ordered his other men to guard all exits, and he addressed the man.

"What are you doing here, sir?" he asked sharply.

"I came here with some of my comrades last night," said the man. "I, a little in advance of the others, was overpowered and tied up. All I know of the others is that they arrived later and there was a fight. I have heard these people say my comrades were killed."

"Search the house and make a careful examination without!" ordered the Bulgarian officer.

Half a dozen of his men leaped to obey. The officer said nothing until his men reported fifteen minutes later.

"The man speaks the truth," said one of the officers, indicating the Bulgarian.

The colonel whirled upon Hal.

"So," he exclaimed, "you have been lying to me. Perhaps you are not Americans, eh? Perhaps you are attached to the Anglo-French expedition at Saloniki?"

"I -- " began Hal, but the officer silenced him with a gesture.

Then he turned to one of his officers.

"Take a squad of ten men and escort these prisoners to General Blozle!" he commanded shortly. "Search them for weapons first."

Hal and Chester realized the futility of resistance. They held their arms high, as did the others, and were relieved of their weapons without a word. Then, surrounded by a guard, they were marched away.

An hour later they stood before the Bulgarian commander, where the officer who had captured them related his story. General Blozle eyed them keenly.

"Have you anything to say?" he asked when the colonel had presented the case against them.

Chester stepped forward.

"Just this, general," he said quietly. "Miss Ellison here is in no way concerned in anything we may have done. We had never seen her until last night, as she told the colonel. Also, I would like to speak a word for Mr. Stubbs here. He is, as my friend has said, an American war correspondent. That's all, sir."

The lad resumed his place.

"Bah!" exclaimed the general. "You as much as admit you are a spy. If you are a spy, so are the others. You are a lot of spies. You English hounds! If it were not for the English, Bulgaria would now have what was rightfully hers. You shall all be shot at sunrise! Take them away!"

The prisoners were marched out with scant ceremony. They were taken to a large tent, with ample room for all of them. There they were securely bound and a guard stationed without.

"Well," said Stubbs quietly, with nothing of the fear of other days in his manner, "I guess we have come to the finish line at last."

"It looks that way, Mr. Stubbs," said Chester sadly. "I am sorry that we have implicated you in this."

"Oh, that's all right," replied the little man. "I'm not blaming you. But I would have liked to go back to New York once more."

Chester turned to Helen.

"And you, Miss Ellison," he said. "I hardly know what to say. If it had not been for me, you would not have been in this serious predicament."

Helen smiled at him.

"Say no more about it," she said quietly. "You saved me once. I am not the girl to whine now."

"Now that you people have all decided you are going to die, I would like to say a few words."

It was the voice of Nikol.

The others looked at him in surprise.

"What's the matter with you?" demanded Stubbs. "Want to berate us, I suppose, for getting you into this fix."

Nikol eyed Stubbs somewhat scornfully.

"I," said Nikol, "wish to say that while there is life there is hope."

"Good for you, old man," cried Hal. "You have expressed my thoughts exactly."

"Suppose you tell us how, securely tied as we are, we are going to get out of here?" Stubbs addressed Nikol.

"Very simple," said Nikol. "First I want to say this. I am no strategist. I can unloosen us all, if some one else will show us the way out."

"You do your part, Nikol, and I'll try and do mine," said Hal quietly.

The dwarf eyed him approvingly.

"You are the one person in the crowd who seems to have sense," he said. "As I say, I can break our bonds at any time. I can break the ropes that bind me and I have no doubt that Ivan there can do the same."

Ivan nodded his head energetically.

"I had thought of it," he smiled. "Yes; I can do it."

"Then why haven't you done it a long while ago?" demanded Stubbs. "Anything is better than remaining here like this."

"I haven't done it before for fear of discovery," said Nikol.

"My idea exactly," agreed Ivan.

"It would be better," Nikol continued, "to wait until we are sure we shall not be disturbed again during the night. Then Ivan and I shall free ourselves and release the others. I believe it would be unwise now."

"Good reasoning, Nikol," said Hal. "We shall wait, as you suggest."

Nikol became silent again. Ivan said nothing either.

"But it's awfully tiresome being trussed up like this," Stubbs protested.

"Better a little tiresomeness now than a bullet in the morning, Mr. Stubbs," returned Chester.

"Right you are, Chester, I'll kick no more," said Stubbs.

He, too, became silent.

Hal, Chester and Colonel Anderson talked in low whispers.

"After we are freed of our bonds, then what?" questioned the Colonel.

Chester shrugged his shoulders as much as his bonds would permit.

"Ask Hal," he replied. "I don't seem to be able to think of anything."

"Well," said Hal, "our guards, knowing that we are apparently securely bound, won't keep as strict guard as they should, I hope. Once freed, perhaps we can tap one of them over the head and appropriate his uniform. After that another uniform and so on until there are garments for all. We'll climb into them. Then we'll crawl under the tent, and once outside, we'll strike out boldly."

"And after that?" questioned Chester.

This time it was Hal who shrugged his shoulders.

"Who knows?" he said quietly. "We'll have to leave something to chance."

"And Miss Ellison?"

"A uniform for her also," said Hal decisively. "It's the only way."

"But -- "

"Oh, I know it is a desperate chance," exclaimed Hal. "But certainly it is better than sitting down and awaiting the arrival of the firing squad."

"You're right, Hal," said Chester. "But it's a ticklish business and one that will require nerve."

"It's not a question of nerve, when you know what's in store in the morning," said Hal. "But as this is my plan, I'll do the work, or what part of it I may."

"You're the doctor," Chester agreed.

"Now," said Hal, "we'll try and get a little sleep. We can do nothing until after dark, and the better our physical conditions, the better our chances for escape."



Chapter XXVIII.

Through The Night.


Hal, Chester, Colonel Anderson, Nikol and Ivan slept. The first three, veterans of many campaigns and hardships, had schooled themselves to sleep under almost any conditions. The same might be said of Nikol and Ivan because of days spent in the mountain fastness, where danger lurked at all times.

Stubbs, however, although he bore up bravely under the death sentence, was unable to sleep, try as he would. Nor could Helen gain a much needed rest, though she was not conscious that she was at all afraid. So these two talked during the long hours of the day as the others slept peacefully and deeply.

With the coming of darkness a man entered bearing a tray with bread and water. The others awakened now and all did full justice to the frugal meal. Their hands were untied while they ate, but the meal over, they were bound again.

Then all waited for what seemed hours, though in reality it could not have been more than three. Then Hal addressed Nikol.

"Still think you can break your bonds?"

"I can," replied Nikol quietly.

"And you, Ivan?"

"Yes, although it won't make much difference. Nikol could release the rest of us."

"I thought the second tying-up might have made it impossible," said Hal.

"I'm ready any time you give the word," said Nikol.

"Then do it now," said Hal.

The others gazed curiously as Nikol made his little form still smaller. He drew in his chest as much as possible and then expanded suddenly, at the same time thrusting out with his strong arms. There was a report as of a revolver being discharged, though much fainter, and Nikol was free.

"Ha!" said Ivan. "He did it. Now watch me."

The mighty muscles of the giant strained once and the strong rope snapped. Ivan did not seem to have exerted himself.

"Now for the rest of us," said Hal.

Quickly Ivan and Nikol released the others.

"Now what?" asked Ivan.

"Now comes my work," said Hal quietly.

He moved silently to the edge of the tent and lay down flat, feeling the edges with his fingers.

"This will come up all right," he muttered to himself. "I can get out here."

He went back to the center of the tent again and enjoined the others to silence.

"Don't make a sound on your lives," he commanded sternly. "Chester, you remain right where I leave the tent and if I bring a man back with me you drag him under and see that he doesn't make a sound."

Chester nodded his agreement and took his place at Hal's side.

Now the lad lifted the bottom of the canvas slightly and peered out. He smiled a trifle to himself. It was as he hoped. The guard or guards, as the case might be, was not as vigilant as the security of the prisoners should have required. Hal wriggled into the open.

The huge camp slept. Here and there a sentinel stalked and it was upon these guardians of the night that Hal must prey.

He moved toward the front of the prison tent, seeking the guard there. And directly he came upon him, stretched at full length upon the ground, his heavy military coat pulled closely about him, smoking a cigarette. Hal moved toward him cautiously.

"I hate to do this," he muttered, "but -- "

With a light leap he was upon the man and his right fist shot out hard and true. It caught the Bulgarian just above the left ear and the man never made a sound.

Quickly Hal dragged the body to where he knew Chester would be waiting. Chester dragged it under the tent and Hal went under after it.

"This uniform is for me. I'll go after some more," he said.

Quickly he climbed into the Bulgarian uniform and disappeared again. But this time, garbed in a Bulgarian uniform, he went more confidently. His hand rested upon his revolver.

A short distance away he came upon an unsuspecting sentinel. A sharp blow with his revolver butt placed the other hors de combat. Supporting the unconscious figure with his arm, Hal moved back to the prison tent. This figure also was pushed beneath the canvas and the uniform donned by Chester.

"Now we can make a little better time," said Hal, "there are two of us."

Uniforms were still needed for Colonel Anderson, Ivan, Nikol, Stubbs and Helen. Hal and Chester disappeared into the night.

Five minutes later Hal returned, this time with a uniform and no man. He had found him in a deserted spot, and after knocking him down and tying him up, had stripped him.

"Put this on, Anderson, and get out after one," he ordered.

He was gone again a moment later. Soon also Chester returned successful and he and Anderson departed almost together. There were now needed uniforms for Nikol, Stubbs and Helen, for Chester had brought one for Ivan. And these uniforms must necessarily be small uniforms, for they were for small figures. Therefore, the hunt was longer and it was more than an hour later until all three had returned to the tent.

"Well, here we are, all of us first class Bulgarians, now," said Hal. "Now, we'll leave the tent one at a time, except that I shall take Miss Ellison with me first. Now do exactly what I tell you, all of you. Leaving the tent, walk two hundred paces to the left, then turn to the right and walk a hundred and fifty more. Next fifty paces to the left again. We shall wait for you there. I have covered the distance and it's the best place to join forces I can imagine. It is in the shelter of a great rock that overhangs a large tent -- probably the quarters of the commanding officer. Do you all understand?"

He had each repeat the directions several times, and then, taking Helen by the arm, he helped her under the tent.

Outside, with caps drawn down, for the weather was cold, they hurried on. And at the appointed place Hal stopped. There was nothing to do now but wait for the others.

Stubbs was the next to arrive and he came shaking a trifle. The little man was trying to bear up, but he was having a hard time. The next arrival was Nikol and then came Ivan. Chester was next to arrive, following Colonel Anderson by a few seconds.

"Now we're all here," said Hal. "We may as well move. I have no idea just where we are, so we'll have to select a direction and stick to it."

"Wait a moment, please," said Helen. "Isn't that the house in which we were captured?"

She pointed in the darkness. The others peered intently in the direction indicated. A dark shadow loomed up some distance ahead.

"I believe it is," said Hal. "Why?"

"Then, if you want to get into Greece, the quickest way is to go due south."

"But the question is, which is south?" said Hal.

"Oh, I can tell you that. You just follow the road that leads by the house."

"So be it," said Hal. "March."

With Chester and Helen he led the way.

They were forced to go very slowly for they were still in the Bulgarian lines, and all knew they would be for a considerable distance. How far the Bulgarians had extended their lines following the retreat of the Serbians they had of course no means of knowing, but Hal felt sure it would be a good ways.

Tents dotted their line of march for an hour as they walked along keeping parallel with the road, but some distance from the highway.

"This road will eventually lead across the Greek border," the girl whispered as they walked along.

"Here's hoping we get across the border before the Bulgarians get after us," said Chester.

"Second that motion," declared Hal.

They walked on in silence.

It had been more than an hour now since they had left their late prison and Hal was beginning to hope their absence would not be noticed before morning. He had just said as much to Chester.

"I am afraid that is too much to hope for," was the latter's reply.

And, as it turned out, it was.

The party had walked possibly five miles, when, from behind, they heard the sudden booming of a great gun.

"Faster," said Hal, and broke into a trot. The others followed suit.

"Suppose they have discovered our flight, or the gun was some other signal?" said Chester.

"I don't know," said Hal. "It's as likely to be one as the other. The farther away we get the better."

More guns now shattered the stillness of the night, growing closer and closer.

"They are after us, all right," declared Hal.

Without pausing, he glanced quickly around. Then suddenly he swerved sharply to the left.

"Why this change in course?" panted Chester.

"See that woods?" demanded Hal, pointing.

"Yes."

"Well, we may find safety there. It's a long chance."

They dashed into the shelter of the little woods a moment later.

Hal stopped and turned to Helen.

"Climb?" he asked.

"Why, yes, I guess so."

"Up in this tree with you then."

He lent her a hand as she grasped the lowest branch and soon clambered higher up toward the top.

"You too, Stubbs," he commanded.

The little man did not hesitate, but also was soon among the branches.

"Colonel Anderson, you and Nikol get up there also. I want some protection for Miss Ellison in case of trouble."

The others obeyed orders without question.

"All right," from each, and they moved toward him.

"Ivan, you come with me. You too, Chester."

Hal turned for a moment, to deliver a parting injunction to those in the trees:

"Don't any of you so much as move until I tell you to."

"And where are we bound?" asked Chester, as the three moved off.

"Apparently," said Hal, "we are Bulgarian officers. The bluff may work. I want to tell all inquiring parties that we have just explored these woods. Catch the idea?"

Chester and Ivan nodded.



Chapter XXIX.

Mr. Stubbs Proves Himself.


"We'll stay in among the trees and won't show ourselves unless we have to," Hal explained.

From the direction in which the fugitives had so recently come, there now came the noise of a rapidly approaching body of horsemen. They halted a short distance from where Hal, Chester and Ivan stood and dismounted.

"They may be hiding in here," said a voice. "We'll have a look."

The men, a dozen of them, came forward.

Making a slight detour, the three friends managed to get behind them. Then, instead of continuing straight ahead, Hal turned sharply in his tracks and followed in the wake of the Bulgarian searching party.

The Bulgarians proceeded slowly, exploring every nook and corner of the woods, and firing their rifles into the densest of the trees. Hal, Chester and Ivan came up with them at length and mingled among them without being discovered.

"Off to the left farther," instructed the officer in command.

"No use," said Hal, in a gruff voice. "I've just come from there. There is no one there. The fugitives must have gone farther."

"Are you sure?" asked the officer, looking at the lad searchingly.

"Positive. I fired my revolver into every tree in which I thought there was a possible chance for them to hide."

"There is no use wasting more time, then," said the officer. "This way, men."

He led the way back toward the road. Hal, Chester and Ivan, still among the Bulgarian troopers, were forced to go along with them or run the risk of being detected. They all walked slowly and gradually were left behind.

The Bulgarians mounted and rode off down the road.

"Well, we are safe for a few minutes," said Chester, drawing a breath of relief. "What now, Hal?"

"Well," was the reply. "We can't fool about in these woods long. We are bound to be found sooner or later if we do. Also, there is little chance that we could walk to the Greek frontier without being discovered. In some way we must find a conveyance."

"Yes, but how?" questioned Chester.

"That's the question. But certainly some of these Bulgarian officers must have motor cars. Surely they have some means of transportation besides horses. I have an idea that if we will follow them, in their search, we may come across an automobile."

"That's not a half bad idea," declared Chester. "We'll do it. Shall we start now?"

"Hold on," said Hal. "Either you or I must remain here. We can't both go. One of us has to direct the actions of the others."

"True," said Chester. "Will you go or stay?"

"Whatever you say," said Hal.

"Then," said Chester, "we shall match to see who goes."

He produced a coin and Hal did likewise.

"If I match you, I go," said Hal. "If not, you go."

"Agreed!"

The two coins went spinning in the air and each lad caught his own as it descended and covered it with his hand.

"Tails," said Chester.

"Tails," said Hal. "I go."

"All right," said Chester. "Then I'll be moving back toward the others. Good luck, old man, and hurry back."

The two lads clasped hands and Chester turned on his heel and strode away.

"You shall go with me, Ivan," said Hal.

The big Cossack showed his pleasure.

"I was afraid I was going to be left behind," he said. "I thought you might need me."

"I hope I won't," said Hal, "but you never can tell, you know. Let's be moving."

Again he led the way to the road and the two set out briskly.

After half an hour's walk they came upon a party of searchers. An officer hailed them as they approached.

"Seen anything of the fugitives?" he demanded.

Hal shook his head negatively.

"Did you?" he asked.

"Not a sign. It's a mystery what can have happened to them. Colonel Roth is a short distance ahead. I heard him say he believed they were still in the main camp."

"That so?" replied Hal. "How is the colonel traveling? Automobile?"

"Of course. He's too dainty for any other kind of travel, you know."

"Well, we'll move on ahead a bit," said Hal.

They continued their journey.

Fifteen minutes later they came upon a large touring car in the road.

"Here is the thing we want," said Hal quietly. "Now if it were just turned around, I would take a chance and grab it. But by the time I turned in this narrow road, I'd have the whole Bulgarian army on me. We'll have to do a little figuring."

They continued on their way until they came up with Colonel Roth's searching party. As they approached, an idea suddenly came to Hal. He sought out the man he knew must be Colonel Roth by his haughty air and his stripes.

"Colonel," he said, saluting. "I know it would be a feather in your cap if you could land these fugitives, and I have come to show you where they are."

"What's that?" exclaimed the dapper little man.

"I said I've come to show you where they are," said Hal quietly. "All I ask for turning them over to you is a thousand German marks."

"H-m-m-m," muttered the colonel, eyeing the lad keenly. "Even if you can do what you say, the price is rather high. I'll give you five hundred."

Hal seemed to consider.

"All right," he said at length. "It's a bargain. Turn your car about and I'll take you to their hiding place at once."

"Very well."

The colonel stepped into his automobile, and, after a series of attempts, finally succeeded in turning it. Then to the others:

"Climb in," he said briefly.

Ivan climbed into the rear seat, while Hal took his place beside the Bulgarian.

"Straight ahead until I tell you to stop," the lad instructed.

The Bulgarian officer asked no questions.

A few minutes later the machine drew up in response to Hal's command. All dismounted.

"They are all back here a little ways," said Hal.

The Bulgarian officer followed Hal toward where the lad knew the others were in hiding. Under the tree where he had left Helen, Hal paused. Then he raised his voice a trifle and called aloud, at the same time drawing his revolver and presenting it squarely at the Bulgarian's head:

"Chester! Oh, Chester! You can all come down now."

In response to this hail, Chester, Helen, Mr. Stubbs and Nikol soon stood before them.

When Hal drew his revolver, the Bulgarian officer staggered back.

"A traitor, eh?" he exclaimed.

"Why, no," said Hal, and he removed his heavy cap.

The Bulgarian gave a long whistle and ejaculated: "One of the fugitives himself."

"So you know me?" said Hal. "Well, then you should know me well enough to do as I say."

"What is it you want?" demanded the Bulgarian.

"Nothing very difficult," declared Hal. "First we want to borrow your automobile for a few hours."

"So?" exclaimed the Bulgarian. "Well, you can't have it."

"We'll see," said Hal quietly. "Here, Ivan! You guard this fellow, while I have a look at the car."

He examined the machine carefully.

"All right for a quick dash, I guess," he said finally, rising from his inspection. "All aboard!"

Every one obeyed, and soon all were seated in the car save Hal and Chester, who were to occupy the front seat. Hal also motioned the Bulgarian into the front seat.

"He may come in handy after awhile," he declared.

Everything in readiness at last, Hal and Chester climbed in and Hal took his place at the wheel.

"I'll do the chauffeuring," he said, with a smile. "I may have to do some talking later and I want to be running this animal, so I can know what to do without having to talk. Keep your eye on our friend, there, Chester."

"I'll hang on to him, all right," replied Chester grimly. "He'll not get away from me. Have no fear of that."

"All right," called Hal. "Everybody ready?"

He glanced around quickly.

"All ready," came in Colonel Anderson's voice.

The others nodded their assent and an instant later the machine darted southward at a rapid gait.

Two miles down the road, Hal was forced to stop by the presence in the road of a single man armed with a rifle, which he aimed straight at the car.

"What do you want?" demanded Hal, anxiously.

"You'll have to get out," was the man's reply. "I have orders to let no one pass."

Helen looked at Hal hopelessly and the lad was moved to action.

Gently he stirred the Colonel with his toe as he commanded under his breath:

"Speak for us or I'll put a bullet through you."

The officer did as commanded.

"Why are you barring our way?" he demanded in a harsh voice.

"Orders, sir," was the reply.

"Do you know who I am?"

"No, sir, and it will make no difference."

This conversation was put to an end in a sudden and unexpected manner.

Anthony Stubbs rose in his place.

"Will you permit us to proceed?" he demanded.

The man in the road shook his head.

"All right," said Stubbs.

He climbed to the front seat, and before any one could realize what he was up to, sprang head-first at the Bulgarian.



Chapter XXX.

"Greater Love Hath No Man."


Stubbs' action was so entirely unexpected that for a moment the other occupants of the automobile were stunned. Then Hal and Chester leaped to their feet, as did Nikol, Ivan and Colonel Anderson.

"Little man's gone off his head," muttered Ivan, as he leaped from the car to go to Stubbs' assistance.

Stubbs, in his headlong leap, struck exactly where he had intended -- right upon the Bulgarian's shoulders, and the force of the impact bore the man to the ground. Again, the action was so unexpected that the man did not have time to discharge his rifle.

As the soldier went to the ground beneath his weight, Stubbs' hands gripped him by the throat and he squeezed as hard as his weak muscles would permit.

But the Bulgarian had recovered himself now and hurled Stubbs to one side. He pulled himself to his feet, and with an angry growl, half raised his rifle.

It was at that moment that Ivan, quicker than the others, seized the rifle in his two hands. He gave a quick twist and jerked the weapon from the hands of his opponent. The latter staggered back and his hand dropped to his belt. But before he could draw a revolver, Ivan had raised his newly won rifle and brought it down on the Bulgarian's head. The man dropped inert without a sound.

Then Ivan picked Stubbs up bodily, deposited him in the tonneau of the car and climbed in himself.

"We'd better get away from here," he said.

Quickly Hal resumed his seat and threw off the clutch. The automobile dashed forward again.

Ivan turned to Stubbs.

"Why all this bloodthirstiness, Mr. Stubbs?" he demanded in surprise.

"I'm getting tired of all this nonsense," replied Stubbs. "I want to get out of this country. I want to get back home where there is no war -- where men are not killing each other off by the thousands. I'm a peaceable man and I'm going back to a peaceable country if I have to fight to get there."

Nikol the dwarf now extended a hand to Stubbs.

"You are a brave man, sir," he exclaimed. "Not many are there who would have attacked a man who held a rifle pointed at his breast. You are a brave man, sir."

Unthinkingly, Stubbs clasped the hand and a moment later gave a howl of pain.

"Hey! Leggo my hand!" he cried. "Ouch!"

Nikol released Stubbs' hand with a murmured apology, while Stubbs felt the injured right member tenderly with his left and turned an aggrieved eye on Nikol, but he said nothing.

Suddenly the car slowed down. Those in the rear seat glanced ahead and the reason for the abrupt slackening of speed became apparent.

Coming toward them at a rapid trot was a squadron of Bulgarian cavalry, blocking the road.

Hal turned to the Bulgarian officer between him and Chester and said quietly:

"Now it's up to you. Remember, I've got my gun ready and at the first false move I'll put a bullet through you."

The captain in command of the cavalry squadron gave a sharp command and his men drew rein while the officer came forward. He glanced at the colonel in the automobile and saluted.

"Oh, it's you, sir," he said. "Have you seen anything of the fugitives?"

The Bulgarian felt the pressure of Hal's revolver in his back.

"No," he said.

The captain saluted and would have passed on, but Hal instructed his prisoner to ask:

"How far are we from the Greek frontier?"

"Less than a mile," was the answer. "There is but one more body of our troops between here and a strong force of Greeks, which is patrolling the border."

The two Bulgarians saluted each other and the troop separated to make a path for the automobile.

"Another close shave for all of us," said Chester, when they had passed by. "You, too," he said to the Bulgarian. "You'd have been a goner if you had sought to give the alarm."

A few minutes later Hal made out another body of troops blocking the road. He reduced the speed of the car and spoke to the others.

"The last barrier to freedom," he said. "Be ready to duck down in the car. I am going to take no more chances with our prisoner here. He is likely to take this last chance to betray us. The troops are drawn up on both sides of the road. I am going to make a dash for it."

There was no reply, but Hal had expected none.

The car approached the troops slowly and seemed about to stop.

The Bulgarians moved to one side, thinking to surround the machine when it had come to a halt.

Less than fifty feet from the nearest soldiers, and a scant two hundred yards from where Hal could make out a large body of Greek troops, the car suddenly leaped ahead and Hal threw the gear into high.

All save Hal ducked instinctively.

The Bulgarians, taken completely by surprise, stood stock still for a moment and then the cry of in officer rang out:

"Fire!"

Instantly fifty rifles were leveled at the automobile, now fast eating up the short distance to the Greek frontier, and a score of bullets struck the car in the rear.

Bullets flew all about Hal's head and he felt a stinging sensation in his left shoulder. There came a second volley and then the car flashed among the body of Greek troops.

Quickly Hal brought the car to a stop. Heads bobbed up from the back of the car and it was Anthony Stubbs who breathed the relief that all felt.

"Safe at last!" he cried.

Now all alighted from the car, the Bulgarian officer, Hal's prisoner, with them.

Greek troops approached.

Hal spoke hurriedly to the Bulgarian.

"Quick now!" he cried. "If you make a dash you can get back over the border before these fellows can stop you."

The Bulgarian wasted no time in talk. He took to his heels and made record time for his own country, which he reached in safety, in spite of a volley fired by the Greek troops.

A Greek officer now came hurriedly up to Hal.

"What is the meaning of this?" he demanded harshly. "Do you not know that this is a neutral country?"

"And we thank Heaven for that," said Stubbs fervently. "We have had a hard enough time getting here."

"I shall have to turn you over to my superior," said the officer. "He will dispose of your cases. In the meantime, you may consider yourselves under arrest."

Neither Hal nor Chester paid much attention to what the Greek officer was saying. They were too busily engaged watching the antics of their erstwhile prisoner, who, now safe on his own side of the line, was shaking his fist in their direction and making other fierce gestures.

Now Hal turned to the Greek officer.

"Will you accompany us back close to the line," he said, "that we may hear what yonder little fellow is talking about? He seems to be greatly put out about something."

"First tell me what you are doing here?" was the command.

Hal explained as rapidly as possible and then repeated his request that they be allowed to go back toward the border a few moments.

At last the officer gave his permission.

Chester, Hal, Colonel Anderson, Ivan and Nikol, each grinning, moved back toward the border. Stubbs hung back, and seeing this, Hal called:

"Come along, Mr. Stubbs. Here is one time you may look at an enemy with impunity."

Stubbs followed.

The Bulgarian officer was still angrily waving hit arms about when they neared him.

"Look at him rave, will you?" said Hal, with a laugh.

"Ha! Ha!" laughed Ivan.

"He should think himself lucky that we allowed him to go back," declared Chester.

The friends were less than fifty feet from the Bulgarian now, but they ventured no closer for fear they might inadvertently cross the line. They stood in this order: Hal, Chester, Nikol, Stubbs, Ivan and Colonel Anderson.

"Poor little fellow," said Stubbs at this juncture. "Poor little fellow. He looks so awfully mad!"

The Bulgarian officer, who had been growing angrier with each taunt from across the Greek line, now became suddenly infuriated. Forgetting all prudence, forgetting all laws of neutrality, forgetting everything except the smiling face of Anthony Stubbs, American war correspondent, he suddenly drew his revolver and fired pointblank at the little man.

Stubbs' face blanched at the movement and the others were too surprised to move -- all except one; and this one, quick as a flash, leaped forward with the agility of a cat and thrust his body protectingly before Anthony Stubbs.

When the smoke of the revolver had cleared away Stubbs stood erect, unharmed -- but at his feet lay the twitching body of Nikol, the dwarf.

There was a sudden hush, prolonged for several minutes; then Stubbs dropped to his knee with an inarticulate cry and threw his arms around the neck of Nikol.

Quickly the others gathered about and Hal shouted:

"A surgeon, quick!"

But Nikol, raising his head to Stubbs' knee, stopped him with a gesture.

"It's no use," he said quietly. "It got me here," and he raised a hand slowly and touched a spot just above the heart. "A surgeon can do no good. Besides, I would not have a stranger near me when I die. To me you are all strangers and yet for days I have not looked upon you as such. I am glad to have known you all and I know the day will come when I shall see you all again. Now, if I could see the young lady for just a moment before -- before -- "

Hal hastened back to the automobile where Helen Ellison still sat, wondering at the cause of the trouble, and repeated the dwarf's request.

"Of course I'll go," said the girl, and there was a catch in her voice, for this was the first time death had come so close to her.

She ran forward and knelt over the little dwarf and took his hand. He smiled at her.

"I just wanted to tell you good-bye," he said. "I have never seen a young lady like you before."

For a space of several seconds he looked at her. Then he dropped her hand and said:

"Now if the rest of you will just shake hands with me once -- "

Silently the others grasped Nikol's hand, one after another, and at the last came Stubbs.

To the latter's hand the dwarf clung tenaciously.

"You, sir, are a brave man," said Nikol. "I am glad I was able to save you. You may be of some use in the world."

The pressure upon Stubbs' hand tightened and tightened until the little man winced with the pain of it; but he made no outcry -- only smiled as he exclaimed in a broken voice:

"Nonsense! Nonsense!"

"Well, good-bye, all," said Nikol faintly, after a moment's pause. "Good -- "

The pressure on Stubbs' hand relaxed and the little dwarf of the Albanian hills fell back, dead.

Stubbs rose and brushed the tears from his eyes. Then, after one look at the still form on the ground, he turned and walked away. The others said nothing, for they knew his grief was great.

And now, while the others -- all good friends and true -- are gathered about the body of little Nikol, the dwarf, we shall leave them once more, knowing that, after days and weeks of strenuous adventures and grave perils, they are, for the moment at least, in a land of peace.

<eob>

Tom Swift And His Electric Locomotive

Or

Two Miles A Minute On The Rails

By

Victor Appleton


Chapter I

A Tempting Offer


"An electric locomotive that can make two miles a minute over a properly ballasted roadbed might not be an impossibility," said Mr. Barton Swift ruminatively. "It is one of those things that are coming," and he flashed his son, Tom Swift, a knowing smile. It had been a topic of conversation between them before the visitor from the West had been seated before the library fire and had sampled one of the elder Swift's good cigars.

"It is not only a future possibility," said the latter gentleman, shrugging his shoulders. "As far as the Hendrickton and Pas Alos Railroad Company goes, a two mile a minute gait -- not alone on a level track but through the Pas Alos Range -- is an immediate necessity. It's got to be done now, or our stock will be selling on the curb for about two cents a share."

"You do not mean just that, do you, Mr. Bartholomew?" asked Tom Swift earnestly, and staring at the big-little man before the fire.

Mr. Richard Bartholomew was just that -- a "big-little man." In the railroad world, both in construction and management, he had made an enviable name for himself.

He had actually built up the Hendrickton and Pas Alos from a narrow-gauge, "jerkwater" road into a part of a great cross-continent system that tapped a wonderfully rich territory on both sides of the Pas Alos Range.

For some years the H. & P. A. had a monopoly of that territory. Now, as Mr. Bartholomew intimated, it was threatened with such rivalry from another railroad and other capitalists, that the H. & P. A. was being looked upon in the financial market as a shaky investment.

But Tom Swift repeated:

"You do not mean just that, do you, Mr. Bartholomew?"

Mr. Bartholomew, who was a little man physically, rolled around in his chair to face the young fellow more directly. His own eyes sparkled in the firelight. His olive face was flushed.

"That is much nearer the truth, young man," he said, somewhat harshly because of his suppressed emotion, "than I want people at large to suspect. As I have told your father, I came here to put all my cards on the table; but I expect the Swift Construction Company to take anything I may say as said in confidence."

"We quite understand that, Mr. Bartholomew," said the elder Swift, softly. "You can speak freely. Whether we do business or not, these walls are soundproof, and Tom and I can forget, or remember, as we wish. Of course if we take up any work for you, we must confide to a certain extent in our close associates and trusted mechanics."

"Humph!" grunted the visitor, turning restlessly again in his chair. Then he said: "I agree as the necessity of that last statement; but I can only hope that these walls are soundproof."

"What's that?" demanded Tom, rather sharply. He was a bright looking young fellow with an alert air and a rather humorous smile. His father was a semi-invalid; but Tom possessed all the mental vigor and muscular energy that a young man should have. He had not neglected his Athletic development while he made the best use of his mental powers.

"Believe me," said the visitor, quite as harshly as before, "I begin to doubt the solidity of all walls. I know that I have been watched, and spied upon, and that eavesdroppers have played hob with our affairs.

"Of late, there has been little planned in the directors' room of the H. & P. A. that has not seeped out and aided the enemy in foreseeing our moves."

"The enemy?" repeated Mr. Swift, with mild surprise.

"That's it exactly! The enemy!" replied Mr. Bartholomew shortly. "The H. & P. A. has got the fight of its life on its hands. We had a hard enough time fighting nature and the elements when we laid the first iron for the road a score of years ago. Now I am facing a fight that must grow fiercer and fiercer as time goes on until either the H. & P. A. smashes the opposition, or the enemy smashes it."

"What enemy is this you speak of?" asked Tom, much interested.

"The proposed Hendrickton & Western. A new road, backed by new capital, and to be officered and built by new men in the construction and railroad game.

"Montagne Lewis -- you've heard of him, I presume -- is at the head of the crowd that have bought the little old Hendrickton & Western, lock, stock and barrel.

"They have franchises for extending the road. In the old days the legislatures granted blanket franchises that allowed any group of moneyed men to engage in any kind of business as side issues to railroading. Montagne Lewis and his crowd have got a 'plenty-big' franchise.

"They have begun laying iron. It parallels, to a certain extent, our own line. Their surveyors were smarter than the men who laid out the H. & P. A. I admit it. Besides, the country out there is developed more than it was a score of years ago when I took hold.

"All this enters into the fight between Montagne Lewis and me. But there is something deeper," said the little man, with almost a snarl, as he thrashed about again in his chair. "I beat Montagne Lewis at one big game years ago. He is a man who never forgets -- and who never hesitates to play dirty politics if he has to, to bring about his own ends.

"I know that I have been watched. I know that I was followed on this trip East. He has private detectives on my track continually. And worse. All the gunmen of the old and wilder West are not dead. There's a fellow named Andy O'Malley -- well, never mind him. The game at present is to keep anybody in Lewis's employ from getting wise to why I came to see you."

"What you say is interesting," Mr. Swift here broke in quietly. "But I have already been puzzled by what you first said. Just why have you come to us -- to Tom and me -- in reference to your railroad difficulties?"

"And this suggestion you have made," added Tom, "about a possible electric locomotive of a faster type than has, ever yet been put on the rails?"

"That is it, exactly," replied Bartholomew, sitting suddenly upright in his chair. "We want faster electric motor power than has ever yet been invented. We have got to have it, or the H. & P. A. might as well be scrapped and the whole territory out there handed over to Montagne Lewis and his H. & W. That is the sum total of the matter, gentlemen. If the Swift Construction Company cannot help us, my railroad is going to be junk in about three years from this beautiful evening."

His emphasis could not fail to impress both the elder and the younger Swift. They looked at each other, and the interest displayed upon the father's countenance was reflected upon the features of the son.

If there was anything Tom Swift liked it was a good fight. The clash of diverse interests was the breath of life to the young fellow. And for some years now, always connected in some way with the development of his inventive genius, he had been entangled in battles both of wits and physical powers. Here was the suggestion of something that would entail a struggle of both brain and brawn.

"Sounds good," muttered Tom, gazing at the railroad magnate with considerable admiration.

"Let us hear all about it," Mr. Swift said to Bartholomew. "Whether we can help you or not, we're interested."

"All right," replied the visitor again. "Whether I was followed East, and here to Shopton, or not doesn't much matter. I will put my proposition up to you, and then I'll ask, if you don't want to go into it, that you keep the business absolutely secret. I have got to put something over on Montagne Lewis and his crowd, or throw up the sponge. That's that!"

"Go ahead, Mr. Bartholomew," observed Tom's father, encouragingly.

"To begin with, four hundred miles of our road is already electrified. We have big power stations and supply heat and light and power to several of the small cities tapped by the H. & P. A. It is a paying proposition as it stands. But it is only paying because we carry the freight traffic -- all the freight traffic -- of that region.

"If the H. & W. breaks in on our monopoly of that, we shall soon be so cut down that our invested capital will not earn two per cent. -- No, by glory! not one-and-a-half per cent. -- and our stock will be dished. But I have worked out a scheme, Gentlemen, by which we can counter-balance any dig Lewis can give us in the ribs.

"If we can extend our electrified line into and through the Pas Alos Range our freight traffic can be handled so cheaply and so effectively that nothing the Hendrickton & Western can do for years to come will hurt us. Get that?"

"I get your statement, Mr. Bartholomew," said Mr. Swift. "But it is merely a statement as yet."

"Sure. Now I will give you the particulars. We are using the Jandel locomotives on our electrified stretch of road. You know that patent?"

"I know something about it, Mr. Bartholomew," said the younger inventor. "I have felt some interest in the electric locomotive, though I have done nothing practical in the matter. But I know the Jandel patent."

"It is about the best there is -- and the most recent; but it does not fill the bill. Not for the H. & P. A., anyway," said Mr. Bartholomew, shortly.

"What does it lack?" asked Mr. Swift.

"Speed. It's got the power for heavy hauls. It could handle the freight through the Pas Alos Range. But it would slow up our traffic so that the shippers would at once turn to the Hendrickton & Western. You understand that their rails do not begin to engage the grades that our engineers thought necessary when the old H. & P. A. was built."

"I get that," said Tom briskly. "You have come here, then, to interest us in the development of a faster but quite as powerful type of electric locomotive as the Jandel."

"Stated to the line!" exclaimed Mr. Bartholomew, smiting the arm of his chair with his clenched fist. "That is it, young man. You get me exactly. And now I will go on to put my proposition to you."

"Do so, Mr. Bartholomew," murmured the old inventor, quite as much interested as his son.

"I want you to make a study of electric motive power as applied to track locomotives, with the idea of utilizing our power plants and others like them, and even with the possibility in mind of the continued use of the Jandel locomotives on our more level stretches of road.

"But I want your investigation to result in the building of locomotives that will make a speed of two miles a minute, or as near that as possible, on level rails, and be powerful enough to snake our heavy freight trains through the hills and over the steep grades so rapidly that even two engines, a pusher and a hauler, cannot beat the electric power."

"Some job, that, I'll say," murmured Tom Swift.

"Exactly. Some job. And it is the only thing that will save the H. & P. A.," said Mr. Bartholomew decidedly. "I put it up to you Swifts. I have heard of some of your marvelous inventions. Here is something that is already invented. But it needs development."

"I see," said Mr. Swift, and nodded.

"It interests me," admitted Tom. "As I say, I have given some thought to the electric locomotive."

"This is the age of speed," said Mr. Bartholomew earnestly. "Rapidity in handling freight and kindred things will be the salvation, and the only salvation, of many railroads. Tapping a rich territory is not enough. The road that can offer the quickest and cheapest service is the road that is going to keep out of a receivership. Believe me, I know!"

"You should," said Mr. Swift mildly. "Your experience should have taught you a great deal about the railroad business."

"It has. But that knowledge is worth just nothing at all without swift power and cheap traffic. Those are the problems today. Now, I am going to take a chance. If it doesn't work, my road is dished in any case. So I feel that the desperate chance is the only chance."

"What is that?" asked Tom Swift, sitting forward in his chair. "I, for one, feel so much interested that I will do anything in reason to find the answer to your traffic problem."

"That's the boy!" ejaculated Richard Bartholomew. "I will give it to you in a few words. If you will experiment with the electric locomotive idea, to develop speed and power over and above the Jandel patent, and will give me the first call on the use of any patents you may contrive, I will put up twenty-five thousand dollars in cash which shall be yours whether I can make use of a thing you invent or not."

"Any time limit in this agreement, Mr. Bartholomew?" asked Tom, making a few notes on a scratch pad before him on the library table.

"What do you say to three months?"

"Make it six, if you can," Tom said with continued briskness. "It interests me. I'll do my best. And I want you to get your money's worth."

"All right. Make it six," said Mr. Bartholomew. "But the quicker you dig something up, the better for me. Now, that is the first part of my proposition."

"All right, sir. And the second?"

"If you succeed in showing me that you can build and operate an electric locomotive that will speed two miles a minute on a level track and will get a heavy drag over the mountain grades, as I said, as surely as two engines of the coal-burning or oil-burning type, I will pay you a hundred thousand dollars bonus, besides buying all the engines you can build of this new type for the first two years. I've got to have first call; but the hundred thousand will be yours free and clear, and the price of the locomotives you build can be adjusted by any court of agreement that you may suggest."

Tom Swift's face glowed. He realized that this offer was not only generous, but that it made it worth his while dropping everything else he had in hand and devoting his entire time and thought for even six months to the proposition of developing the electric locomotive.

He looked at his father and nodded. Mr. Swift said, calmly:

"We take you on that offer, Mr. Bartholomew. Tom has the facts on paper, and we will hand it to Mr. Newton, our financial manager, in the morning. If you will remain in town for twenty-four hours, the contract can be signed."

"Suits me," declared. Richard Bartholomew, rising quickly from his chair. "I confess I hoped you would take me up quite as promptly as you have. I want to get back West again.

"We will see you in the office of the company at two o'clock tomorrow," said Tom Swift confidently.

"Better than good! And now, if that trailer that I am pretty sure Montagne Lewis sent after me does not get wise to the subject of our talk, it may be a slick job we have done and will do. I admit I am rather afraid of the enemy. You Swifts must keep your plans in utter darkness."

After a little talk on more ordinary affairs, Mr. Bartholomew took his departure. It was getting late in the evening, and Tom Swift had an engagement. While old Rad, their colored servant, was helping him on with his coat preparatory to Tom's leaving the house, his father called from the library:

"Got those notes in a safe place, Tom?"

"Safest in the world, Dad," his son replied. But he did not go into details. Tom considered the "safest place in the world" just then was his own wallet, which was tucked into an inside pocket of his vest "I'm going to see Mary Nestor, Father," said Tom, as he went to the front door and opened it.

He halted a moment with the knob of the door in his hand. The porch was deep in shadows, but he thought he had seen something move there.

"That you, Koku?" asked Tom in an ordinary voice. Sometimes his gigantic servant wandered about the house at night. He was a strange person, and he had a good many thoughts in his savage brain that even his young master did not understand.

There was no reply to Tom's question, so he walked down the steps and out at the gate. It was not a long distance to the Nestor house, and the air was brisk and keen, in spite of the fact that threatening clouds masked the stars.

Two blocks from the house he came to a high wall which separated the street from the grounds of an old dwelling. Tom suddenly noticed that the usual street lights on this block had been extinguished -- blown out by the wind, perhaps.

Involuntarily he quickened his steps. He reached the archway in the wall. Here was the gate dividing the private grounds from the street. As he strode into the shadow of this place a voice suddenly halted Tom Swift.

"Hands up! Put 'em up and don't be slow about it!" A bulky figure loomed in the dark. Tom saw the highwayman's club poised threateningly over his head.



Chapter II

Trouble Starts


The fact that he was stopped by a footpad smote Tom Swift's mind as not a particularly surprising adventure. He had heard that several of that gentry had been plying their trade about the outskirts of the town. To a degree he was prepared for this sudden event.

Then there flashed into Tom's mind the thought of what Mr. Richard Bartholomew had said regarding the spy he believed had followed him from the West. Could it be possible that some hired thug sent by Montagne Lewis and his crooked crowd of financiers considered that Tom Swift had obtained information from the president of the H. & P. A. that might do his employers signal service?

Tom Swift had fallen in with many adventures -- and some quite thrilling ones -- since, as a youth, he was first introduced to the reader in the initial volume of this series, entitled "Tom Swift and His Motor Cycle." His first experiences as an inventor, coached by his father, who had spent his life in the experimental laboratory and workshop, was made possible by his purchase from Mr. Wakefield Damon, now one of his closest friends, of a broken-down motor cycle.

Through a series of inventions, some of them of a marvelous kind, Tom Swift, aided by his father, had forged ahead, building motor boats, airships, submarines, monoplanes, motion picture cameras, searchlights, cannons, photo-telephones, war tanks. Of late, as related in "Tom Swift Among the Fire Fighters," he had engaged in the invention of an explosive bomb carrying flame-quenching chemicals that would, in time, revolutionize fire-fighting in tall buildings.

The matter that Mr. Richard Bartholomew, the railroad magnate, had brought to Tom's and his father's attention had deeply interested the young inventor. Thought of the electric locomotive, the development of which the railroad president stated was the only salvation of the finances of the H. & P. A., had so held Tom's attention as he walked along the street that being stopped in this sudden way was even more startling than such an incident might ordinarily have been.

Tom was a muscular young fellow; but a club held over one's head by a burly thug would have shaken the courage of anybody. Dark as it was under the archway the young fellow saw that the bulk of the man was much greater than his own.

"That's right, sonny," said the stranger, in a sneering tone. "You got just the right idea. When I say 'Stick 'em up' I mean it. Never take a chance. Ah -- ah!"

The fellow ripped open Tom's overcoat, almost tearing the buttons off. Another masterful jerk and his victim's jacket was likewise parted widely. He did not lower the club for an instant. He thrust his left hand into the V-shaped parting of the young fellow's vest.

It was then that Tom was convinced of what the fellow was after. He remembered the notes he had made regarding the contract that was to be signed on the morrow between the Swift Construction Company and President Richard Bartholomew of the H. & P. A. Railroad. He remembered, too, the figure he thought he had seen in the dark porch of the house as he so recently left it.

Mr. Bartholomew had considered it very possible that he was being spied upon. This was one of the spies -- a Westerner, as his speech betrayed. But Tom was suddenly less fearful than he had been when first attacked.

It did not seem possible to him that Mr. Bartholomew's enemies would allow their henchman to go too far to obtain information of the railroad president's intentions. This fellow was merely attempting to frighten him.

A sense of relief came to Tom Swift's assistance. He opened his lips to speak and could the thug have seen his face more clearly in the dark he would have been aware of the fact that the young inventor smiled.

The fellow's groping hand entered between Tom's vest and his shirt. The coarse fingers seized upon Tom's wallet. Nobody likes to be robbed, no matter whether the loss is great or small. There was not much money in the wallet, nor anything that could be turned into money by a thief.

These facts enabled Tom, perhaps, to bear his loss with some fortitude. The highwayman drew forth the wallet and thrust it into his own coat pocket. He made no attempt to take anything else from the young inventor.

"Now, beat it!" commanded the fellow. "Don't look back and don't run or holler. Just keep moving -- in the way you were headed before. Vamoose."

More than ever was Tom assured that the man was from the West. His speech savored of Mexican phrases and slang terms used mainly by Western citizens. And his abrupt and masterly manner and speech aided in this supposition. Tom Swift stayed not to utter a word. It was true he was not so frightened as he had at first been. But he was quite sure that this man was no person to contend with under present conditions.

He strode away along the sidewalk toward the far corner of the wall that surrounded this estate. Shopton had not many of such important dwellings as this behind the wall. Its residential section was made up for the most part of mechanics' homes and such plain but substantial houses as his father's.

Prospering as the Swifts had during the last few years, neither Tom nor his father had thought their plain old house too poor or humble for a continued residence. Tom was glad to make money, but the inventions he had made it by were vastly more important to his mind than what he might obtain by any lavish expenditure of his growing fortune.

This matter of the electric locomotive that had been brought to his attention by the Western railroad magnate had instantly interested the young inventor. The possibility of there being a clash of interests in the matter, and the point Mr. Bartholomew made of his enemies seeking to thwart his hope of keeping the H. & P. A. upon a solid financial footing, were phases of the affair that likewise concerned the young fellow's thought.

Now he was sure that Mr. Bartholomew was right. The enemies of the H. & P. A. were determined to know all that the railroad president was planning to do. They would naturally suspect that his trip East to visit the Swift Construction Company was no idle jaunt.

Tom had turned so many fortunate and important problems of invention into certainties that the name of the Swift Construction Company was broadly known, not alone throughout the United States but in several foreign countries. Montagne Lewis, whom Tom knew to be both a powerful and an unscrupulous financier, might be sure that Mr. Bartholomew's visit to Shopton and to the young inventor and his father was of such importance that he would do well through his henchmen to learn the particulars of the interview.

Tom remembered Mr. Bartholomew's mention of a name like Andy O'Malley. This was probably the man who had done all that he could, and that promptly, to set about the discovery of Mr. Bartholomew's reason for visiting the Swifts.

Without doubt the man had slunk about the Swift house and had peered into one of the library windows while the interview was proceeding. He had observed Tom making notes on the scratch pad and judged correctly that those notes dealt with the subject under discussion between the visitor from the West and the Swifts.

He had likewise seen Tom thrust the paper into his wallet and the wallet into his inside vest pocket. Instead of dogging Mr. Bartholomew's footsteps after that gentleman left the Swift house, the man had waited for the appearance of Tom. When he was sure that the young fellow was preparing to walk out, and the direction he was to stroll, the thug had run ahead and ensconced himself in the archway on this dark block.

All these things were plain enough. The notes Tom had taken regarding the offer Mr. Bartholomew had made for the development of the electric locomotive might, under some circumstances, be very important. At least, the highwayman evidently thought them such. But Tom had another thought about that.

One thing the young inventor was convinced about, as he strode briskly away from the scene of the hold-up: There was going to be trouble. It had already begun.



Chapter III

Tom Swift's Friends


Tom was still walking swiftly when he arrived in sight of Mary Nestor's home. He was so filled with excitement both because of the hold-up and the new scheme that Mr. Richard Bartholomew had brought to him from the West, that he could keep neither to himself. He just had to tell Mary!

Mary Nestor was a very pretty girl, and Tom thought she was just about right in every particular. Although he had been about a good deal for a young fellow and had seen girls everywhere, none of them came up to Mary. None of them held Tom's interest for a minute but this girl whom he had been around with for years and whom he had always confided in.

As for the girl herself, she considered Tom Swift the very nicest young man she had ever seen. He was her beau-ideal of what a young man should be. And she entered enthusiastically into the plans for everything that Tom Swift was interested in.

Mary was excited by the story Tom told her in the Nestor sitting room. The idea of the electric locomotive she saw, of course, was something that might add to Tom's laurels as an inventor. But the other phase of the evening's adventure -- "Tom, dear!" she murmured with no little disturbance of mind. "That man who stopped you! He is a thief, and a dangerous man! I hate to think of your going home alone."

"He's got what he was after," chuckled Tom. "Is it likely he will bother me again?"

"And you do not seem much worried about it," she cried, in wonder.

"Not much, I confess, Mary," said Tom, and grinned.

"But if, as you suppose, that man was working for Mr. Bartholomew's enemies -- "

"I am convinced that he was, for he did not rob me of my watch and chain or loose money. And he could have done so easily. I don't mind about the old wallet. There was only five dollars in it."

"But those notes you said you took of Mr. Bartholomew's offer?"

"Oh, yes," chuckled Tom again. "Those notes. Well, I may as well explain to you, Mary, and not try to puzzle you any longer. But that highwayman is sure going to be puzzled a long, long time."

"What do you mean, Tom?"

"Those notes were jotted down in my own brand of shorthand. Such stenographic notes would scarcely be readable by anybody else. Ho, ho! When that bold, bad hold-up gent turns the notes over to Montagne Lewis, or whoever his principal is, there will be a sweet time."

"Oh, Tom! isn't that fun?" cried Mary, likewise much amused.

"I can remember everything we said there in the library," Tom continued. "I'll see Ned tonight on my way home from here, and he will draw a contract the first thing in the morning."

"You are a smart fellow, Tom!" said Mary, her laughter trilling sweetly.

"Many thanks, Ma'am! Hope I prove your compliment true. This two-mile-a-minute stunt -- "

"It seems wonderful," breathed Mary.

"It sure will be wonderful if we can build a locomotive that will do such fancy lacework as that," observed Tom eagerly. "It will be a great stunt!"

"A wonderful invention, Tom."

"More wonderful than Mr. Bartholomew knows," agreed the young fellow. "An electric locomotive with both great speed and great hauling power is what more than one inventor has been aiming at for two or three decades. Ever since Edison and Westinghouse began their experiments, in truth."

"Is the locomotive they are using out there a very marvelous machine?" asked the girl, with added interest.

"No more marvelous than the big electric motors that drag the trains into New York City, for instance, through the tunnels. Steam engines cannot be used in those tunnels for obvious, as well as legal, reasons. They are all wonderful machines, using third-rail power.

"But that Jandel patent that Mr. Bartholomew is using out there on the H. & P. A. is probably the highest type of such motors. It is up to us to beat that. Fortunately I got a pass into the Jandel shops a few months ago and I studied at first hand the machine Mr. Bartholomew is using."

"Isn't that great!" cried Mary.

"Well, it helps some. I at least know in a general way the 'how' of the construction of the Jandel locomotive. It is simple enough. Too simple by far, I should say, to get both speed and power. We'll see," and he nodded his head thoughtfully.

Tom did not stay long with the girl, for it was already late in the evening when he had arrived at her house. As he got up to depart Mary's anxiety for his safety revived.

"I wish you would take care now, Tom. Those men may hound you."

"What for?" chuckled the young inventor. "They have the notes they wanted."

"But that very thing -- the fact that you fooled them -- will make them more angry. Take care."

"I have a means of looking out for myself, after all," said Tom quietly, seeing that he must relieve her mind. "I let that fellow get away with my wallet; but I won't let him hurt me. Don't fear."

She had opened the door. The lamplight fell across porch and steps, and in a broad white band even to the gate and sidewalk. There was a motor-car slowing down right before the open gate.

"Who's this?" queried Tom, puzzled.

A sharp voice suddenly was raised in an exclamatory explosion.

"Bless my breakshoes! is that Tom Swift? Just the chap I was looking for. Bless my mileage-book! this saves me time and money."

"Why, it's Mr. Wakefield Damon," Mary cried, with something like relief in her tones. "You can ride home in his car, Tom."

"All right, Mary. Don't be afraid for me," replied Tom Swift, and ran down the walk to the waiting car.

"Bless my vest buttons! Tom Swift, my heart swells when I see you -- "

"And is like to burst off the said vest buttons?" chuckled the young fellow, stepping in beside his eccentric friend who blessed everything inanimate in his florid speech.

"I am delighted to catch you -- although, of course," and Tom knew the gentleman's eyes twinkled, "I could have no idea that you were over here at Mary's, Tom."

"Of course not," rejoined the young inventor calmly. "Seeing that I only come to see her just as often as I get a chance."

"Bless my memory tablets! is that the fact?" chuckled Mr. Damon. "Anyway, I wanted to see you so particularly that I drove over in my car tonight -- "

"Wait a minute," said Tom, hastily. "Is this important?"

"I think so, Tom."

"Let me get something else off of my mind first, then, Mr. Damon," Tom Swift said quickly. "Drive around by Ned's house, will you, please? Ned Newton's. After I speak a minute with him I will be at your service.

"Surely, Tom; surely," agreed the gentleman.

The automobile had been running slowly. Mr. Damon knew the streets of Shopton very well, and he headed around the next corner. As the car turned, a figure bounded out of the shadow near the house line. Two long strides, and the man was on the running board of the car upon the side where Tom Swift sat. Again an ugly club was raised above the young fellow's head.

"You're the smart guy!" croaked the coarse voice Tom had heard before. "Think you can bamboozle me, do you? Up with 'em!"

"Bless my spark-plug!" gasped Mr. Wakefield Damon.

Either from nervousness or intention, he jerked the steering wheel so that the car made a sudden leap away from the curb. The figure of the stranger swayed.

Instantly Tom Swift struck the man's arm up higher and from under his own coat appeared something that bulked like a pistol in his right hand. He had intimated to Mary Nestor that he carried something with which to defend himself from highwaymen if he chose to. This invention, his ammonia gun, now came into play.

"Bless my failing eyesight!" exclaimed Mr. Damon, as he shot the motor-car ahead again in a straight line.

The man who had accosted Tom so fiercely fell off the running board and rolled into the gutter, screaming and choking from the fumes from Tom's gun.

"Drive on!" commanded the young inventor. "If he keeps bellowing like that the police will pick him up. I guess he will let us alone here-after."

"Bless my short hairs and long ones!" chuckled Mr. Damon. "You are the coolest young fellow, Tom, that I ever saw. That man must have been a highwayman. And it is of some of those gentry that I drove over to Shopton this evening to talk to you about."



Chapter IV

Much to Think About


Although it was now nearing ten o'clock on this eventful evening, Tom knew that he would find Ned Newton at home. When Mr. Damon's car stopped before the house there was a light in Ned's room and the front door opened almost as soon as Tom rang. Mr. Damon left the car and entered with the young inventor at his invitation.

"What's up?" was Ned's greeting, looking at the two curiously as he ushered them in. "I see this isn't entirely a social call," and he laughed as he shook the older man's hand.

"Bless my particular star!" exclaimed the latter excitedly. "Of all the thrilling adventures that anybody ever got into, it is this Tom Swift who cooks them up! Why, Newton! do you know that we have been held up by a highwayman within two blocks of this very house?"

"And that of course was Tom's fault?" suggested Ned, still smiling.

"It wouldn't have happened if he had not been with me," said Mr. Damon.

"I am curious," said Ned, as they seated themselves. "Who was the footpad? What drew his attention to you two? Tell me about it."

"Bless my suspender buckles!" exclaimed Mr. Damon. "You tell him, Tom. I don't understand it myself, yet."

"I think I can explain. But whatever I tell you both, you must hold in secret. Father and I have been entrusted with some private information tonight and I am going to take you, Ned, and Mr. Damon, into the business in a confidential way."

"Let's have it," begged Newton. "Anything to do with the works?"

"It is," answered Tom gravely. "We are going to take up a proposition that promises big things for the Swift Construction Company."

"A big thing financially?"

"I'll say so. And it looks as though we were mixing into a conspiracy that may breed trouble in more ways than one."

Tom went on to sketch briefly the situation of the Hendrickton & Pas Alos Railroad as brought to the attention of the Swifts by the railroad's president. First of all his two listeners were deeply interested in the proposition Mr. Richard Bartholomew had made the inventors. Ned Newton jotted down briefly the agreement to be incorporated in the contract to be drawn and signed, by the Swift Construction Company and the president of the H. & P. A. road.

"This looks like a big thing for the company, Tom," the young manager said with enthusiasm, while Mr. Damon listened to it all with mouth and eyes open.

"Bless my watch-charm!" murmured the latter. "An electric locomotive that can travel two miles a minute? Whew!"

"Sounds like a big order, Tom," added Ned, seriously.

"It is a big order. I am not at all sure it can be done," agreed Tom, thoughtfully. "But under the terms Mr. Bartholomew offers it is worth trying, don't you think?"

"That twenty-five thousand dollars is as good as yours anyway," declared his chum with finality. "I'll see there is no loophole in the contract and the money must be placed in escrow so that there can be no possibility of our losing that. The promise of a hundred thousand dollars must be made binding as well."

"I know you will look out for those details, Ned," Tom said with a wave of his hand.

"That is what I am here for," agreed the financial manager. "Now, what else? I fancy the building of such a locomotive looks feasible to you and your father or you would not go into it."

"But two miles a minute!" murmured Mr. Damon again. "Bless my prize pumpkins!"

"The idea of speed enters into it, yes," said Tom thoughtfully. "In fact electric motor power has always been based on speed, and on cheapness of moving all kinds of traffic.

"Look here!" he exclaimed earnestly, "what do you suppose the first people to dabble in electrically driven vehicles were aiming at? The motor-car? The motor boat? Trolley cars? All those single motor sort of things? Not much they weren't!"

"Bless my glove buttons!" exclaimed Mr. Damon, dragging off his gauntlets as he spoke. "I don't get you at all, Tom! What do you mean?"

"I mean to say that the first experiments in the use of electricity as a motive power were along the electrification of the steam locomotive. Everybody realized that if a motor could be built powerful enough and speedy enough to drag a heavy freight or passenger train over the ordinary railroad right of way, the cost of railroad operation would be enormously decreased.

"Coal costs money -- heaps of money now. Oil costs even more. But even with a third-rail patent, a locomotive successfully built to do the work of the great Moguls and mountain climbers of the last two decades, and electrically driven, will make a great difference on the credit side of any railroad's books."

"Right-o!" exclaimed Ned. "I can see that."

"That was the object of the first experiments in electric motive power," repeated Tom. "And it continues to be the big problem in electricity. The Jandel locomotive is undoubtedly the last word so far as the construction of an electric locomotive is concerned. But it falls down in speed and power. I thought so myself when I saw that locomotive and looked over the results of its work. And this Mr. Bartholomew has assured father and me this evening that it is a fact.

"It has a record of a mile a minute on a level or easy grade; but it can't show goods when climbing a real hill. It slows up both freight and passenger traffic on the Hendrickton & Pas Alos road. That range of hills is too much for it.

"So the Swift Construction Company is going to step in," concluded the young inventor eagerly. "I believe we can do it. I've the nucleus of an idea in my head. I never had a problem put up to me, Ned and Mr. Damon, that interested me more. So why shouldn't I go at it? Besides, I have dad to advise me."

"That's right," agreed Ned. "Why shouldn't you? And with such a contract as you have been offered -- "

"Bless my bootsoles!" ejaculated Mr. Damon, getting up and tramping about the room in his excitement. "I thought the trolley cars that run between Shopton and Waterfield were about the fastest things on rails."

"Not much. The trolley car is a narrow and prescribed manner of using electricity for motive power. The motor runs but one car -- or one and a trailer, at most," said Tom. "As I have pointed out, the problem is to build a machine that will transmit power enough to draw the enormous weight of a loaded freight train, and that over steep grades.

"A motor for each car is a costly matter. That is why trolley car companies, no matter how many passengers their cars carry, are so often on the verge of financial disaster. The margin of profit is too narrow.

"But if you can get a locomotive built that will drag a hundred cars! Ah! how does that sound?" demanded Tom. "See the difference?"

"Bless my volts and amperes!" exclaimed Mr. Damon. "I should say I do! Why, Tom, you make the problem as plain as plain can be."

"In theory," supplemented Ned Newton, although he meant to suggest no doubt of his chum's ability to solve almost any problem.

"You've hit it," said Tom promptly. "I only have a theory so far regarding such a locomotive. But to the inventor the theory always must come first. You understand that, Ned?"

"I not only appreciate that fact," said his chum warmly; "but I believe that you are the fellow to show something definite along the line of an improved electric locomotive. But, whether you can reach the high mark set by the president of that railroad -- "

"Two miles a minute!" breathed Mr. Damon in agreement. "Bless my wind-gauge! It doesn't seem possible!"

Tom Swift shrugged his shoulders. "It is the impossible that inventors have to overcome. If we experimenters believed in the impossible little would be done in this world, to advance mechanical science at least. Every invention was impossible until the chap who put it through built his first working model."

"That's understood, old boy," said Ned, already busily scratching off the form of the contract he proposed to show the company's legal advisers early in the morning.

When he had read over the notes he had made Tom O.K.'d them. "That is about as I had the items set down myself on the sheet that fellow stole from me."

"Wait!" exclaimed Ned, as Tom arose from his chair. "Do you know what strikes me after your telling me about your second hold-up?"

"What's that?" asked his chum.

"Are you sure that was the same fellow who stole your wallet?"

"Quite sure."

"Then his second attack on you proves that he got wise to the fact that your notes were in shorthand. He had a chance to study them while you visited with Mary Nestor."

"Like enough."

"I wonder if it doesn't prove that the fellow has somebody in cahoots with him right here in Shopton?" ruminated Ned.

"Bless my spare tire!" ejaculated Mr. Damon, who had already started for the door but now turned back.

"That's an idea, Ned," agreed Tom Swift. "It would seem that he had consulted with some superior," said the young manager of the Swift Construction Company. "This hold-up man may be from the West; but perhaps he did not follow Bartholomew alone."

"I'd like to know who the other fellow is," said Tom thoughtfully. "I would know the man who attacked me, both by his bulk and his voice.

"Me, too," put in Mr. Damon. "Bless my indicator! I'd know the scoundrel if I met him again."

"The thing to do," said Ned Newton confidently, "is to identify the man who robbed you tonight as soon as possible and then, if he hangs around Shopton, to mark well anybody he associates with."

"Perhaps they will not bother me any more," said Tom, rather carelessly.

"And perhaps they will," grumbled Mr. Damon. "Bless my self-starter! they may try something mean again this very night. Come on, Tom. I want to run you home. And on the way, I tell you, I've got something to put up to you myself. It may not promise a small fortune like this electric locomotive business; but bless my barbed wire fence! my trouble has more than a little to do with footpads, too."

He led the way out of the house and to the motor car again. In a minute he had started his engine, and Tom, jumping in beside him, was borne away toward his own home.



Chapter V

Barbed Wire Entanglements


"This gets us to your particular trouble, Mr. Damon," Tom Swift said, while the motor car was rolling along. "You intimated that you had something to consult me about."

"Bless my windshield! I should say I had," exclaimed the eccentric gentleman, swinging around a corner at rather a fast clip.

"And has it to do with highwaymen?" asked Tom, much amused.

"Some of the same gentry, Tom," declared Mr. Damon. "I haven't any peace of my life, I really haven't!"

"Who is troubling you, sir?"

"Why, what nonsense that is, to ask that!" ejaculated the gentleman. "If I knew who they were I wouldn't ask odds of anybody. I'd go after them. As it is, I've left my servant with a gun loaded with rock-salt watching for them now."

"Burglars?" exclaimed Tom, with real interest.

"Chicken-house burglars! That's the kind of burglars they are," growled Mr. Damon. "Two or three times they have tried to get my prize buff Orpingtons. Last night they got me out of bed twice fooling around the chicken house and yard. Other neighbors have lost their hens already. I don't mean to lose mine. Want you to help me, Tom."

"Is that all that is worrying you, Mr. Damon?" laughed the young fellow.

"Bless my radiator! isn't that enough?"

"I know you set your clock by those buff Orpingtons," agreed Tom.

"That's right. That ten-months cockerel, Blue Ribbon Junior, never fails to crow at three-thirty-three to the minute. Bless my combs and spurs; a wonderful bird!"

"But let's see how I can help you regarding the chicken thieves," Tom said, as they sighted the lights of the Swift house beyond the long stockade fence that surrounded the Construction Company's premises.

"You know I have a barbed wire entanglement around the whole yard and hen-house. I don't take any more chances than I can help. Those prize buff Orpingtons are a great temptation to chicken lovers -- both blond and brunette," and in spite of his anxiety, Mr. Damon could chuckle at his own joke. "Even your old Eradicate's friend fell for chickens, you know."

"And Rad promptly cured him of the disease," laughed Tom.

"And I'm trying to cure these others. I've charged my shotgun with rock-salt -- as he did. My servant has orders to shoot anybody who tampers with my chicken house tonight.

"But bless my shirt!" exclaimed Mr. Damon, "I'll never be able to sleep comfortably until I know that no thief can get at my buff Orpingtons. I want you to fix it so I can sleep in peace, Tom."

He slowed to a stop in front of the Swift's door. Tom stared at his eccentric friend questioningly.

"Bless my gaiters!" ejaculated Mr. Damon, "don't you see what I want? And your head already full of this electrified locomotive you are going to build?"

"Hush!" murmured Tom, with his hand upon his companion's arm. "But what do you want me to do?"

"I want you to fix it so that I can turn a current of electricity into that barbed wire chicken fence at night that will shock any thief that touches the wires. Not kill 'em -- though they ought to be killed!" declared the eccentric man. "But shock 'em aplenty. Can't you do it for me, Tom Swift?"

"Of course it can be done," said the young fellow. "You use electricity in your house. There is a feed cable in the street. We will have to change your lighting switch for another. Fix it with the Electric Supply Company. It will cost you more -- "

"Bless my pocketbook! I don't care how much it costs. It will be ample satisfaction to see just one low-down chicken thief squirming on those wires."

Tom laughed again. He meant to help his friend; but he did not propose to rig the wires so that anybody, even a chicken thief, would be seriously injured by the electric current passing through the strands.

"I'll come down to Waterfield tomorrow in the electric runabout and fix things up for you. Get a permit from the Electric Supply Company early in the morning. Tell them I will rig the thing myself. They can send their inspector afterward."

"That's fine, Tom! What -- Ugh! what's this? Another footpad?"

Out of the darkness beside the fence a bulky figure started. For a moment Tom thought it was the same man who had attacked him twice. Then the very size of this new assailant proved that suspicion to be unfounded.

"Koku!" exclaimed Tom. "What's the matter with you, Koku?"

The huge and only half-tamed giant gained the side of the car in seemingly a single stride. In the dark they could not see his face, but his voice distinctly showed excitement.

"Master come good. 'Cause there be enemy. Koku find -- Koku kill!"

"Bless my magnifying glass!" ejaculated Mr. Damon. "That fellow is the most bloodthirsty individual that I ever saw."

"All in his bringing up," chuckled Tom who knew, as the saying is, that Koku's bark was a deal worse than his bite. "Killing and maiming his enemies used to be Koku's principal job. But he has his orders now. He doesn't kill anybody without consulting me first."

"Bless my buttons!" murmured Mr. Damon. "That is certainly a good thing too. What's the matter with him now?"

That is exactly what Tom himself wanted to know. He had dropped a hand upon the arm of the giant as he stood beside the car.

"Who is the enemy, Koku?" he asked.

"Not know, Master. See him footmarks. Follow him footmarks. Not find. When do find -- kill!"

"That is, after first obtaining my permission," said Tom dryly.

"It is so," agreed the imperturbable Koku. "See! Show Master footmarks. Him look in at window. See! Koku have got the wonder lamp."

He flashed the electric torch in his hand. He left the car and strode into the yard. Tom followed him, and Mr. Damon's curiosity brought him along.

The giant pointed the ray of the flashlight at the ground below the porch. Several footprints -- the marks of boots at least number twelve in size -- were imbedded in the soil. Koku went around the house to the other side, following repeated marks of the same boots.

"How came you to find them, Koku?" asked Tom softly.

"Me look. All around stockade," and he waved a generous gesture with his free hand including the fence about the works. "Enemy may come. Anytime he come. Now he come."

"Bless my slippery shoes!" exclaimed Mr. Damon, who had hard work to keep up both physically and mentally with the giant. "What does he mean?"

"Koku has always had it in his head," explained Tom, "that we built that fence about the works to keep out enemies. And, to tell the truth, we did! But all that is over -- "

"Is it?" asked Mr. Damon pointedly. "Enemy here," added Koku, flashing the lamplight upon the footprints on the ground.

"Those bootmarks," added Mr. Damon, "are doubtless those of that fellow who jumped upon the running board of the car."

"Humph! And who robbed me of my wallet," added Tom musingly. "Well, it might be. And, if so, Koku is right. The enemy has come."

"Me kill!" exclaimed the giant, stretching himself to his full height.

"We'll consider the killing later," said Tom, who well knew his influence with this big fellow. "You are forbidden to kill anybody, or chase anybody away from here, until I have a talk with them. Enemy or not -- understand?"

"Me understand," said Koku in his deep voice. "Master say -- me do."

"Just the same," Tom said, aside to Mr. Damon, "there has been somebody around here. I guess Mr. Bartholomew was right. He is being spied upon. And now that we Swifts are going to try to do something for him, we are likely to be spied upon too."

"Bless my statue of Nathan Hale!" murmured the eccentric gentleman. "I believe you. And you've been already attacked twice by some thug! You are positively in danger, Tom."

"I don't know about that. Save that the fellow who robbed me was sore because I fooled him. Naturally he might like to get square about those shorthand notes. He knows no more now about Mr. Bartholomew's business with us than he did before he held me up."

"That is a fact," agreed Mr. Damon.

"And that brings me to another warning, Mr. Damon," added Tom earnestly, as his friend climbed into the motor car again. "Keep all that has happened, and all that I told you and Ned about the H. & P. A. railroad, to yourself."

"Surely! Surely!"

"If Mr. Bartholomew's rivals continue to keep their spies hanging around the works here, we'll handle them properly. Trust Koku for that," and Tom chuckled.

"And don't forget my barbed wire entanglements," put in Mr. Damon, starting his engine. "I want to fix those chicken thieves.''

"All right. I'll be over tomorrow," promised Tom Swift.

Then he stood a minute on the curb and looked after the disappearing lights of Mr. Damon's car. The latter's problem dovetailed, after all, into this discovery of possible marauders lurking about the Swift premises. Koku had made no mistake in bringing his attention to the matter of the footprints. Tom had seen somebody dodging into the darkness outside the house when he had come out on his way to visit Mary Nestor.

"And sure as taxes," muttered Tom, as he finally turned toward the front door again, "the fellow who twice attacked me this evening wore the boots the prints of which Koku found.

"Those fellows, whoever they are, whether Montagne Lewis and his associates, or not, have bitten off several mouthfuls that they may be unable to chew. Anyhow, before they get through they may learn something about the Swifts that they never knew before."



Chapter VI

The Contract Signed


Tom Swift went to bed that night without the least fear that the man who had twice attacked him in the streets of Shopton would be able to trouble him unless he went abroad again. Koku was on guard.

The giant whom Tom had brought home from one of his distant wanderings was wholly devoted to his master. Koku never had, and he never would, become entirely civilized.

He was naturally a born tracker of men. For generations his people had lived amid the alarms of threat and attack. He could not be made to understand how so many "tribes," as he called them, of civilized men could live in anything like harmony.

That somebody should prowl about the Swift house at night with a desire to rob his young master or injure him, did not surprise Koku in the least. He accepted the fact of the marauder's presence as quite the expected thing.

But the man who had robbed Tom and later tried to repay him for playing what appeared to be a practical joke on the robber, did not trouble the Swift premises with his presence before morning. Koku, thrusting Eradicate Sampson aside and striding to his bedroom to report this fact, was what awoke Tom at eight o'clock.

"Hey! What you want, tromping in here for, man?" demanded old Rad angrily. "An' totin' that spear, too. Where you t'ink yo' is? In de jungle again? Go 'way, chile!"

Both Rad and Koku were rapidly outliving the sudden friendship of Rad's sick days, when it was thought he might be blind for life, and were dropping back into their old ways of bickering and rivalry for Tom's attention.

"I report to the Master," declared the giant, in his deep voice.

"You tell me, I tell him," Rad said pompously. "No need yo' 'sturbing Massa Tom at dis hour."

"Koku go in!" declared the giant sternly.

"Jes' stay out dere on de stair an' res' yo'self," said Rad.

Koku lost his temper with old Rad. There was a feud between them, although deep in their hearts they really were fond of each other. But the two were jealous of each other's services to young Tom Swift.

Suddenly Tom heard the old negro utter a frightened squeal. The door which had been only ajar, burst inward and banged against the door-stop with a mighty smash.

Rad went through the big bedroom like a chocolate-colored streak, entered Tom's bathroom, and the next moment there was the sound of crashing glass as Eradicate Sampson went through the lower sash of the window, headfirst, out upon the roof of the porch!

"What do you mean by this?" shouted Tom, sitting up in bed.

Koku paused in the doorway, bulking almost to the top of the door. His right arm was drawn back, displaying his mighty biceps, and he poised a ten foot spear with a copper head that he had seized from a nest of such implements which was a decoration of the lower hall.

Had the giant ever flung that spear at poor Rad's back, half the length of the staff might have passed through his body. Little wonder that the colored man, having roused the giant's rage to such a pitch, had given small consideration to the order of his going, but had gone at once!

"You want to scare Rad out of half a year's growth?" Tom pursued sternly, slipping out of bed and reaching for his robe and slippers. "And he's broken that window to smithereens."

"Koku come make report, Master," said the giant.

"You go put that spear back where you found it and come up properly," commanded the young fellow, with difficulty hiding his amusement. "Go on now!"

He shuffled into the bathroom while the giant disappeared. He peered out of the broken window. It was a wonder Rad had not carried the sash with him! The broken glass was scattered all about the roof of the porch and the old colored man lay groaning there.

"What did you do this for, Eradicate?" demanded Tom. "You act worse than a ten-year-old boy."

"I's done killed, Massa Tom!" groaned Rad with confidence. "I's blood from haid to foot!"

There was a scratch on his bald crown from which a few drops of blood flowed. But with all his terror, Eradicate had put both arms over his head when he made his dive through the window, and he really was very little injured.

"Come in here," repeated Tom. "Fix something over this broken window so that I can take my bath. And then go and put something on that scratch. Don't you know better yet, than to cross Koku when he is excited?"

"Dat crazy ol' cannibal!" spat out Rad viciously. "I'll fix him yet. I'll pizen his rations, dat's what I'll do."

"You wouldn't be so bad as that, Rad!"

"Well, mebbe not," said the colored man, crawling in through the bathroom window. "It would take too much pizen, anyway, to kill that giant. Take as much as dey has to give an el'phant to kill it. Anyways, I's bound to fix him proper some time, yet."

These quarrels between Eradicate and Koku were intermittent. They almost always arose, too, because of the desire of the two servants to wait upon Tom or his father. They were very jealous of each other, and their clashes afforded Tom and his friends a good deal of amusement.

While the young inventor was in his bath the giant strode back into the bedroom, out of which Rad had scurried by another door, and proceeded to report the result of his night watch about the premises.

He had not much to tell. In fact, after Tom had gone into the house Koku had seen nobody lurking about at all. The fact remained that, earlier in the evening, somebody had made a close surveillance of the Swift house, but the mysterious marauder had not come back.

"All right, Koku. Keep your eyes open. I expect that enemy may return sometime. Too bad," he added to himself, "that I didn't get a better look at him."

"Koku know him next time," declared the giant.

"Why! you didn't even see him this time," cried Tom.

"See him boots. See marks him boots make. Know him boots. Waugh!"

"'Waugh!' yourself," returned Tom, shaking his head. "You are altogether too sure, Koku. You couldn't tell a man from his bootprints in the mud."

"Koku know," said the giant, just as confidently. "Wait. Him catch -- see -- show Master."

"Don't you go to grabbing every stranger who comes around the house or the works for a spy, and make me trouble. Remember now."

Koku nodded gravely and went away. When he met Rad suddenly in the hall with Mr. Swift's breakfast tray, the giant said "boo!" and almost cost the old colored man the loss of the tray.

"Dat big el'phant ought to be livin' in a barn," declared Rad. "Look at dat spear he come near runnin' me t'rough wid! If he had, yo' could ha' driv a tipcart full o' rubbish in after it. Lawsy me!"

But an hour later when Tom and his father started for the offices of the Swift Construction Company down the street, Rad and Koku were sitting before an enormous breakfast in the back kitchen and chatting together as companionably as ever.

The old inventor and his son arrived at the offices of the Swift Construction Company not long ahead of Mr. Richard Bartholomew. Tom had merely found time to read over the contract that had been jointly prepared by Ned Newton and the firm's legal advisers, before the railroad man came.

"No getting out of the provisions of that paper, Tom," Ned had whispered, when he saw Mr. Bartholomew coming into the outer office. "Is this your man?"

"Yes."

"A sharp looking little fellow," commented Ned. "But even if he were bent on tricking us, this contract would hold him. He is solvent and so is his road -- as yet. If it has a bad name in the market that is more because of slander by the Montagne Lewis crowd than from any real cause. I've found that out this morning."

"Faithful Nero!" chuckled Tom. "Aren't going to let the Swifts get done, are you?"

"Not if I can help it," declared Ned Newton emphatically.

A clerk brought Mr. Bartholomew into the private office and he was introduced to Newton. If he considered the financial manager of the Swift Construction Company very young for his responsible position, after he had read the contract he felt considerable respect for Ned Newton.

"You've got me here, young man, hard and fast," Mr. Bartholomew said. "If I was inclined to want to wriggle out, I see no chance of it. But I don't. You have set forth here exactly my meaning and intent. I want your best efforts in this matter, Mr. Swift, and if you give them to me I'll foot the bill as agreed."

"You've got me interested, I confess," said Tom. "By the way, were your friends following you when you came here this morning?"

"My friends?" repeated Mr. Bartholomew, for a moment puzzled.

"The spy that you mentioned," said Tom, smiling.

"That Andy O'Malley?" exclaimed Bartholomew. "Haven't spotted him today."

"He spotted me last night," said Tom grimly, and proceeded to relate what had happened.

"You fooled 'em that time, young man!" exclaimed the railroad president, with satisfaction. "I am convinced that Montagne Lewis is behind it. Look out for these fellows when you get to work, Mr. Swift. They will stop at nothing. I tell you that the fight is on between the Hendrickton & Pas Alos and the Hendrickton & Western. I have either got to break them or they will break me."

"You seem very sure that there is a conspiracy against you, Mr. Bartholomew," said the senior Swift reflectively.

"I am sure," was the reply. "And I am likewise sure that this scheme of electrification of my road through the Pas Alos Range is the only salvation for my railroad."

"I should call it a big contract," Ned Newton said, thoughtfully.

"You have said it! But it is not a visionary scheme I have in mind. You must know -- you Swifts -- how successful such an electrification through the Rockies has been made by the Chicago, Milwaukee & St. Paul Railway."

"I've looked that up," confessed Tom, with enthusiasm. "That was a great piece of work."

"It is. It is. But I hope for even a greater outcome of your experiments, Mr. Swift. Of course, I do not expect to compete with that great road. They had millions to spend, and they spent them. Those Baldwin-Westinghouse locomotives the Chicago, Milwaukee & St. Paul built in nineteen hundred and nineteen are wonderful machines. They have got forty-two freight locomotives, fifteen passenger locomotives and four switchers of that new type.

"The Jandel patent that my road uses is, in some degree, the equal of those Baldwin-Westinghouse locomotives. At least, our machines equal the C., M. & St. P. on our level road. They can reach a mile-a-minute gait. But when it comes to speed and pull on steep grades -- Ah! that is where they fail."

"You will have to get power in the hills for your stations," suggested Tom, thoughtfully.

"I know that. I know where the power is coming from. I gathered those waterfalls in years ago. Lewis and his crowd can't shut me off from them. But I have got to have a speedier and more powerful type of electric locomotive than has ever yet been built to protect the Hendrickton & Pas Alos Railroad from any rivalry.

"I am looking to you Swifts to give me that. I am risking this twenty-five thousand dollars upon your succeeding. And I am offering you the hundred thousand dollars bonus for the right to purchase the first successful locomotives that can be built covered by your patents. Is it plain?"

"It is eminently satisfactory," said Mr. Swift, quietly.

"I will do my very best," agreed Tom, warmly. "There isn't a thing the matter with the agreement," declared Ned Newton, with confidence. "Gentlemen, sign on the dotted line."

Five minutes later the twin contracts were in force. One went into the safe of the Swift Construction Company. The other, Mr. Richard Bartholomew bore away with him.



Chapter VII

The Man with Big Feet


The consultation in the private office of the Swift Construction Company after the departure of Mr. Richard Bartholomew between the two Swifts and Ned Newton had more to do with a vision of the future than with mere present finances.

"I expect you know just about how you are going to work on this new invention, Tom?" suggested the financial manager, and Tom's chum.

"Haven't the first idea," rejoined the young inventor, promptly.

"What do you mean?" ejaculated Ned. "You talked just now as though you knew all about electric locomotives."

"I know a good deal about those that have been built, both under the Jandel patent and those built for the Chicago, Milwaukee & St. Paul in the great Philadelphia shops.

"But when you ask me if I know how I am going to improve on those patents so as to make my locomotive twice as speedy and quite as powerful as those other locomotives -- well, I've got to tell you flat that I have not as yet got the first idea."

"Humph!" grumbled Ned. "You say it coolly enough."

"No use getting all heated up about it," returned his friend. "I have got to consider the situation first. I must look over the field of electrical invention as applied to motive power. I must study things out."

"I don't just see myself," Ned Newton remarked thoughtfully, "why there should be such a great need for the electrification of locomotives, anyway. Those great mountain-hogs that draw most of the mountain railroad trains are very powerful, aren't they? And they are speedy."

"Locomotives that use coal or oil have been developed about as far as they can be," said Mr. Swift, quietly. "A successful electric locomotive has many advantages over the old-time engine."

"What are those advantages?" asked the business manager, quickly. "I confess, I do not understand the matter, Mr. Swift."

"For instance," proceeded the old gentleman, "there is the coal question alone. Coal is rising in price. It is bulky. Using electricity as motive power for railroads will do away with fuel trains, tenders, coal handling, water, and all that. Of course, Mr. Bartholomew will generate his electricity from water power -- the cheapest power on earth."

"Humph! I've got my answer right now," said Ned Newton. "If there is no other good reason, this is sufficient."

"There are plenty of others," drawled Tom, smiling. "Good ones. For instance, heat or cold has nothing to do with the even running of an electric locomotive. It can bore right through a snowbank -- a thing a steam engine can't do. It runs at an even speed. Really, grade should have nothing to do with its speed. There is a fault somewhere in the construction of the Jandel machine or the H. & P. A. would have little trouble with those locomotives on its grades.

"Then, all you have to do to start an electrified locomotive is to turn a handswitch. No stoking or water-boiling. Does away with the fireboy. One man runs it!"

"Why!" cried Ned, "I never stopped to think of all these things."

"No ashes to dump," went on Tom. "No flues to clean, no boilers to inspect, and none to wear out. And they say that on the Chicago, Milwaukee & St. Paul, at least, their freight locomotives handle twice the load of a steam locomotive at a greatly reduced cost."

"Sounds fine. Don't wonder Mr. Bartholomew is eager to electrify his entire tine."

"On the side of passenger traffic," continued Tom Swift, "the electric locomotive is smokeless, noiseless, dirtless, and doesn't jerk the coaches in either stopping or starting. And in addition, the electric locomotive is much easier on track and roadbed than the old 'iron horse' driven by steam generated either from coal or oil."

"It is a great field for your talents, Tom!" cried Ned, warmly.

"It is a big job," admitted Tom, and he said this with modesty. "I don't know what I may be able to do -- if anything. I would not feel right in taking Mr. Bartholomew's twenty-five thousand dollars for nothing."

"Quite right, my boy," said Mr. Swift, approvingly.

"Never mind that," said the financial manager, rather grimly. "It was his own offer and his risk. That twenty-five thousand comes to our account."

Tom laughed. "All business, Ned, aren't you? But there is more than business for the Swift Construction Company in this. Our reputation for fair dealing as well as for inventive powers is linked up with this contract.

"I want to show the Jandel people -- to say nothing of the bigger firms -- that the Swifts are to be reckoned with when it comes to electric invention. Other roads will be electrifying their lines as fast as it is proved that the electric-driven locomotive has the bulge on the steam-driven.

"In the case of the Hendrickton & Pas Alos there are very steep grades to overcome. Supposedly an electric motor-drive should achieve the same speed on a hill as on the level. But there is the weight of the train to be counted on.

"The H. & P. A. has a two per cent. grade in more than one place. Mr. Bartholomew confessed as much to me last night. The electric-driven locomotive of the powerful freight type, which the Jandel people built for Mr. Bartholomew, can make about sixteen miles an hour on those grades, although they can hit it up to thirty miles an hour on level track.

"His passenger locomotives turn off a mile a minute and more, on the level road; but they can not climb those steep grades at a much livelier pace than the freight engines. That is why he is talking about two-mile-a-minute locomotives. He must get a mighty speedy locomotive, for both freight and passenger service, to keep ahead of Montagne Lewis's rival road, the Hendrickton & Western."

"You don't suppose it can be done, do you?" demanded Ned. "The two-mile-a-minute locomotive, I mean, Tom."

"That is the target I am to aim for," returned his friend, soberly. "At any rate, I hope to improve on the type of locomotive Mr. Bartholomew is now using, so that the hundred thousand dollars bonus will come our way as well as this first twenty-five thousand."

"That wouldn't pay for one engine, would it?" cried Ned.

"Nor is it expected to. The bonus has nothing to do with payment for any model, or patent, or anything of the kind. To tell you the truth, Ned, I understand those big locomotives used by the Chicago, Milwaukee & St. Paul cost them about one hundred and twelve thousand dollars each."

"Whew! Some price, I'll tell the world!" murmured the youthful financial manager of the Swift Construction Company.

When the conference was over, and Tom had been through the workshop to overlook several little jobs that were in process of completion by his trusted mechanics, it was lunch time. He left word that he would not be back that day, for this new task he was to attack was not to be approached with any haphazard thought.

Tom knew quite as well as his father knew that the idea of improving the Jandel patent on electric locomotives was no small thing. The Jandel people had claimed that their patent was the very last word in electric motor-power. And Tom was quite willing to acknowledge that in some ways this claim was true.

But in invention, especially in the field of electric invention, what is the last word today may be ancient history tomorrow.

It was because this field is so broad and the possibility of improvement in every branch of electrical science so exciting, that Tom had accepted Mr. Bartholomew's challenge with such eagerness.

Tom went back to the house for lunch, and as he joined his father in the dining room he remarked to Eradicate:

"I want the electric runabout brought around after lunch. I am going to Waterfield. Tell Koku, will you, Rad?"

"Tell that crazy fellow?" demanded the old colored man heatedly. "Why should I tell him, Massa Tom? Ain't I able to bring dat runabout out o' de garbarge? Shore I is!"

"You can't do everything, Rad," said Tom, soberly. "That is humanly impossible."

"But dat Koku can't do nothin' right. Dat's inhumanly possible, Massa Tom."

"Give him a chance, Rad. I have to take Koku with me this afternoon. You must give your attention to the house and to father."

"Huh! Umm!" grunted Eradicate.

Rad was jealous of anybody who waited on Tom besides himself. Yet he was proud of responsibility, too. He teetered between the pride of being in charge at home and accompanying his young master, and finally replied:

"Well, in course, you ain't going to be gone long, Massa Tom. And yo' father does like to get his nap undisturbed. And he'll want his pot o' tea afterwards. So I'll let dat irresponsible Koku go wid yo'. But yo' got to watch him, Massa Tom. Dat giant don't know what he's about half de time."

As Koku was not within hearing to challenge that statement, things went all right. When Tom came out of the house after eating, he found his very fast car waiting for him, with the giant standing beside it at the curb.

"Get in at the back, Koku," said Tom. "I am going to take you with me."

"Master is much wise," said Koku. "That man with big feet will not hurt Master while Koku is with him."

To tell the truth Tom had quite forgotten the supposed spy that had attacked him the night before. He needed Koku for a purpose other than that of bodyguard. But he made no comment upon the giant's remark.

They stopped at one of the gates of the works, and Tom instructed Koku to bring out and put into the car certain boxes and tools that he wished to take with him. Then he drove on, taking the road to Waterfield.

This way led through farmlands and patches of woods, a rough country in part. A mile out of the limits of Shopton the road edged a deep valley, the sidehill sparsely wooded.

Almost at once, and where there was not a dwelling in sight, they saw a figure tramping in the road ahead, a big man, roughly dressed, and wearing a broad-brimmed hat. Somehow, his appearance made Tom reduce speed and he hesitated to pass the pedestrian.

The man did not hear the runabout at first; or, at least, he did not look over his shoulder. He strode on heavily, but rapidly. Suddenly the young inventor heard the giant behind him emit a hissing breath.

"Master!" whispered the giant.

"What's up now?" demanded Tom, but without glancing around.

"The big feet!" exclaimed Koku.

The giant's own feet were shod with difficulty in civilized footgear, but compared with his other physical dimensions his feet did not seem large. The man ahead wore coarse boots which actually looked too big for him! Koku started up in the back of the car as the latter drew nearer to the stranger.

The man looked back at last and Tom gained a clear view of his features -- roughly carved, dark as an Indian's, and holding a grim expression in repose that of itself was far from breeding confidence. In a moment, too, the expression changed into one of active emotion. The man glared at the young inventor with unmistakable malevolence.

"Master!" hissed Koku again. "The big feet!" The fellow must have seen Koku's face and understood the giant's expression. In a flash he turned and leaped out of the roadway. The sidehill was steep and broken here, but he went down the slope in great strides and with every appearance of wishing to evade the two in the motor-car.

The giant's savage war cry followed the fugitive. Koku leaped from the moving car. Tom yelled:

"Stop it, Koku! You don't know that that is the man."

"The big feet!" repeated the giant. "Master see the red mud dried on Big Feet's boots? That mud from Master's garden."

Again Koku uttered his savage cry, and in strides twice the length of those of the running man, started on the latter's trail.



Chapter VIII

An Enemy in the Dark


The situation offered suggestions of trouble that stung Tom to immediate action. The impetuousness of his giant often resulted in difficulties which the young inventor would have been glad to escape.

Now Koku was following just the wrong path. Tom Swift knew it.

"Koku, you madman!" he shouted after the huge native. "Come back here! Hear me? Back!"

Koku hesitated. He shot a wondering look over his shoulder, but his long legs continued to carry him down the slope after the dark-faced stranger.

"Come back, I say!" shouted Tom again. "Have I got to come after you? Koku! If you don't mind what you're told I'll send you back to your own country and you'll have to eat snakes and lizards, as you used to. Come here!"

Whether it was because of this threat of a change of diet, which Koku now abhorred, or the fact that he had really become somewhat disciplined and that he fairly worshiped Tom, the giant stopped. The man with the big shoes disappeared behind a hedge of low trees.

"Get back up here!" ejaculated Tom sternly. "I'll never take you away from the house with me again if you don't obey me."

"Master!" ejaculated the giant, slowly approaching. "That Big Feet -- "

"I don't care if he made those footprints in the yard last night or not. I don't want him touched. I didn't even want him to know that we guessed he had been sneaking about the house. Understand?"

"Of a courseness," grumbled Koku. "Koku understand everything Master say."

"Well, you don't act as though you did. Next time when I want any help I may have to bring Rad with me."

"Oh, no, Master! Not that old man. He don't know how to help Master. Koku do just what Master say."

"Like fun you do," said Tom, still apparently very angry with the simple-minded giant. "Get back into the car and sit still, if you can, until we get to Mr. Damon's house." Then to himself he added: "I don't blame that fellow, whoever he is, for lighting out. I bet he's running yet!"

He knew that Koku would say nothing regarding the incident. The giant had wonderful powers of silence! He sometimes went days without speaking even to Rad. And that was one of the sources of irritation between the voluble colored man and the giant.

"'Tain't human," Rad often said, "for nobody to say nothin' as much as dat Koku does. Why, lawsy me! if he was tongue-tied an' speechless, an' a deaf an' dumb mute, he couldn't say nothin' more obstreperously dan he does -- no sir! 'Tain't human."

So Tom had not to warn the giant not to chatter about meeting the stranger on the road to Waterfield. If that person with dried red mud on his boots was the spy who had followed Mr. Richard Bartholomew East and was engaged by Montagne Lewis to interfere with any attempt the president of the H. & P. A. might make to pull his railroad out of the financial quagmire into which it was rapidly sinking, Tom would have preferred to have the spy not suspect that he had been identified after his fiasco of the previous evening.

For if this Western looking fellow was Andy O'Malley, whose name had been mentioned by the railroad man, he was the person who had robbed Tom of his wallet and had afterward attempted reprisal upon the young inventor because the robbery had resulted in no gain to the robber.

Of course, the fellow had been unable to read Tom's shorthand notes of the agreement that he had discussed with Mr. Bartholomew. Just what the nature of that agreement was, would be a matter of interest to the spy's employer.

Having failed in this attempt to learn something which was not his business, the spy might make other and more serious attempts to learn the particulars of the agreement between the railroad president and the Swifts. Tom was sorry that the fellow had now been forewarned that his identity as the spy and footpad was known to Tom and his friends.

Koku had made a bad mess of it. But Tom determined to say nothing to his father regarding the discovery he had made. He did not want to worry Mr. Swift. He meant, however, to redouble precautions at the Swift Construction Company against any stranger getting past the stockade gates.

Arrived at Mr. Damon's home in Waterfield, Tom got quickly to work on the little job he had come to do for his old friend. Of course, Tom might have sent two of his mechanics from the works down here to electrify the barbed wire entanglements that Mr. Damon had erected around his chicken run. But the young inventor knew that his eccentric friend would not consider the job done right unless Tom attended to it personally.

"Bless my cracked corn and ground bone mixture!" ejaculated the chicken fancier. "We'll show these night-prowlers what's what, I guess. One of my neighbors was robbed last night. And I would have been if I hadn't set a watch while I drove over to see you, Tom. Bless my spurs and hackles! but these thieves are getting bold."

"We'll fix 'em," said Tom, cheerfully, while Koku brought the tools and wire to the hen run. "After we link up your supply of the current with this wire fence it will be an unhappy chicken burglar who interferes with it."

"That was an unhappy fellow who got your charge of ammonia last evening," whispered Mr. Damon. "Heard anything more of him?"

"I think I have seen him. But Koku spoiled everything by trying to eat him up," and Tom laughingly related what had occurred on the way from Shopton.

"Bless my boots!" said Mr. Damon. "You'd better see the police, Tom."

"What for?"

"Why, they ought to know about such a fellow lurking about Shopton. If he followed that Western railroad president here -- "

"We'll hope that he will follow Mr. Bartholomew away again," chuckled Tom. "Mr. Bartholomew won't stay over today. When that chap finds he has gone he probably will consider that there is no use in his bothering me any further."

Whether Tom believed this statement or not, he was destined to realize his mistake within a very short time. At least, the fact that he was being spied upon and that the enemy meant him anything but good, seemed proved beyond a doubt that very week.

Having done the little job for Mr. Damon, Tom allowed no other outside matter to take up his attention. He shut himself into his private experimental workshop and laboratory at the works each day. He did not even come out for lunch, letting Rad bring him down some sandwiches and a thermos bottle of cool milk.

"The young boss is milling over something new," the men said, and grinned at each other. They were proud of Tom and faithful to his interests.

Time was when there had been traitors in the works; but unfaithful hands had been weeded out. There was not a man who drew a pay envelope from the Swift Construction Company who would not have done his best to save Tom and his father trouble. Such a thing as a strike, or labor troubles of any kind, was not thought of there.

So Tom knew that whatever he did, or whatever plans he drew, in his private room, he was safely guarded. Yet he always took a portfolio home with him at night, for after dinner he frequently continued his work of the day. Naturally during this first week he did not get far in any problem connected with the proposed electric locomotive. There were, however, rough drafts and certain schedules that had to do with the matter jotted down.

It was almost twelve at night. Tom had sat up in his own room after his father had retired, and after the household was still.

Eradicate was in bed and snoring under the roof, Tom knew. Just where Koku was, it would have been hard to tell. Although a fine and penetrating rain was falling, the giant might be roaming about the waste land surrounding the stockade of the works. The elements had no terrors for him.

Tom locked his portfolio and stepped into his bathroom to wash his hands before retiring. Before he snapped on the electric light over the basin he chanced to glance through the newly set windowpane which had replaced the one Rad had shattered in escaping threatened impalement on Koku's spear.

Although the clouds were thick and the rain was falling, there was a certain humid radiance upon the roof of the porch under the bathroom window. At least, the wet roof glistened so that any moving figure on or beyond it was visible.

"What's that?" muttered Tom, and he sank down lower than the sill and crept slowly to the window. He merely raised himself until his eyes were on a level with the sill.

Coming up over the edge of the porch roof was a bulky figure. It was so dimly outlined at first that Tom could scarcely be sure that it was that of a man.

However, it was not possible that any creature but a man would be able to mount the lattice supporting the honeysuckle vines and so creep out upon the porch roof. Once making secure his footing, the enemy in the dark approached directly the bathroom window at which Tom crouched.



Chapter IX

Where was Koku?


Tom reached up swiftly and pushed over the lever that locked the two window sashes. In doing this he set his own patent burglar alarm. If that lever was turned back again, or broken, the buzzers would be set ringing all over the house, and in Koku's room over the garage.

He did not believe that the marauder on the roof of the porch could have seen the flash of his shirt-sleeved arm. But he took no chance of being observed from outside by rising to his feet.

On his hands and knees he crept away from the window, and out of the bathroom. Once there, he stood up, grabbed the portfolio, and without coat or vest and as he was, dashed out of the bedroom. He had been positive that nobody but himself was astir in the big house, and he was right.

He did not punch the light button when he entered the library. He knew where to put his hand upon an electric torch in the table drawer, and he gained possession of this.

Then he went to the safe and twirled the knob and watched the indicator find the four numbers which were the "open sesame" to the burglar and fire-proof door.

He flung the portfolio into the inner compartment, closed both doors, and twirled the combination-knob. Then Tom tiptoed to the foot of the front stairs to listen. He could hear no sound from above.

He did not want his father to be startled, if the enemy did break in; and he knew that old Rad, awakened out of a sound sleep, would be worse than useless at such a time.

After all, the giant, Koku, was his main dependence under these circumstances. Tom crept to the outer door, opened it carefully, and slipped out, letting the spring lock click behind him. For the first time he realized that he was in his shirt and trousers and wore only felt slippers on his feet.

But he was locked out now. He had no key. He must run the risk of the fine rain and the chill of the night air.

He stepped off the end of the porch and ran around the house. It was to the roof of the rear porch that the marauder had climbed. But peer as he might from down in the yard, Tom could see no moving figure up there near the bathroom window. It was pitch dark against the wall of the house.

He turned to glance up at the window of the sleeping room over the garage where Koku was supposed to spend the night. But Tom knew the giant was seldom there during the dark hours. He was as much of a night-prowler as a wildcat or an owl.

There was no light there in any case. But Koku did not use a light much. He could see in the dark, like a wild animal. Tom did not want to call him. If he must have Koku's help, he would have to climb the stairs to his bedside. The giant always aroused as wide awake as at noonday.

But while the young inventor hesitated a sudden, but muffled, snap -- the breaking of metal -- sounded. Tom knew instantly the direction from which the sound came.

Although he could see nothing up there at the bathroom window because of the rain and the deep shadow, he knew that the snapping sound meant the severing of the window lock that he had so recently closed. Some instrument had been forced under the bottom of the lower sash and pressure enough been brought to bear to break the thin steel lever.

On the heels of this sound came another. A muffled buzzing somewhere in the house -- again! again! And then, startlingly clear from the room over the garage, the burglar alarm went off in Koku's chamber.

"It's all off now!" gasped Tom, and he ran to the foot of the honeysuckle ladder up which he knew the enemy had climbed to get to the roof of the porch. "If he comes down I'll have him!" muttered Tom, staring up into the mist and gloom.

"Fo' de lawsy's sake! 'Tain't mawnin', is it?" Rad's sleepy voice was heard to announce. "No, it's da'k as -- " And the voice trailed off into silence.

"Tom! Tom!" the young fellow heard his aroused father shouting.

Tom knew that his father was in no danger. In fact Mr. Swift's voice did not even betray apprehension. It was to the garage Tom looked for an explosion. But none came.

If Koku was up there the prolonged buzzing of the alarm did not awake him. Therefore he could not be there. Tom realized that if the burglar was to be taken the whole affair fell upon his shoulders.

"And I've got my hands full, if it is the fellow with the big feet that we saw on the Waterfield Road the other day," muttered the young inventor.

Nothing stirred on the porch roof. Moment after moment slipped by. Tom began to grow more than amazed. He was worried. What would happen next?

His father had not cried out again. Stepping around to the end of the roofed porch, Tom saw a light in Mr. Swift's room. Rad had evidently gone to sleep again. It would take more than an intermittent buzzer to rouse fully that colored man.

"When old Morpheus has a strangle hold on Rad, Gabriel's trump would scarcely awaken him," Tom muttered.

What had become of the enemy? If it was an ordinary burglar he would have feared the electric alarm instantly. The buzzers were still working. But there was no sign of the man who had set them off at the bathroom window.

Suddenly Tom heard a door slam. It was from the front of the house. Had his father come downstairs to look around and see what the matter was?

The young fellow started around the house on a run. He heard heavy bootsoles spurning the gravel of the path to the front gate. He arrived at the far corner of the house in time to see a man dash through the gateway and run down the street, disappearing finally into the fast-driving rain.

"Fooled me! He went in and right through and down the stairs! Out the front door!" gasped Tom. "Did he get anything? I wonder!"

He sprang up to the front porch and tried the door. It was locked again, of course. Should he ring the bell and get Rad or his father down to the door?

And then, of a sudden, the principal mystery of all this affair bit into Tom Swift's mind. The burglar had made his escape. He could relieve his father's anxiety later. It was his own puzzlement of mind that he first wished to ease.

Where was Koku?

Even had the giant been circling the stockade around the shops he surely must have come up to the home premises by this time. His keen ears could not fail to hear the buzzers. They were still going and would go until the switch was turned.

If the giant was in his room -- Tom turned suddenly and started on a run for the rear premises. He still carried the hand-lamp and it lit his way into the garage door and up the narrow stairway. He shot the round beam of the lamp into Koku's room.

He had been obliged to have an iron bedstead made to order for the giant. It stood against one wall of the room. The buzzer was snarling like a huge bumblebee above the head of the couch. Below it sprawled the giant, eyes tightly closed and mouth slightly ajar. From the lips of Koku were emitted sounds worthy of Rad Sampson in his deepest slumbers!

"Asleep?" gasped Tom, stepping cat-like into the room.

And then he was suddenly aware of a sickish, heavy odor in the chamber. The window had been closed. But it was something more than stale air that Tom smelled.

A folded cloth lay on the floor beside the couch. The young fellow saw at once that it had been originally placed over the giant's face, but had slid off. And lucky for Koku that it had been dislodged!

"Chloroform!" muttered Tom. "He's drugged. It is no wonder he did not hear the burglar alarm."

In any event, the incident made one deep impression on Tom's mind. The spies who he believed were working for the Hendrickton & Western Railroad and its owner, Montagne Lewis, were desperate men. Tom could not believe that the fellow with the big feet was alone in Shopton and was unaided in his attempts to find out what Tom was doing.

This attempt to burglarize the house betrayed the caliber of the enemy. In chloroforming Koku he had taken the risk of murdering the giant. Only the fact that the pad of saturated cloth had fallen off Koku's face had, perhaps, saved the man from suffocation.

Tom did not tell the giant when he aroused what the matter with him was. Koku was ill enough! He was wrenched by interior spasms that seemed almost to tear his huge body to pieces.

"What done got into dat big lump o' bone an' grizzle?" demanded Eradicate. "He looks like, he swallowed a volcano, and it just got to wo'kin' right. My lawsy!"

"He is a sick man, all right," admitted Tom. "Looks like he wouldn't try to stab me to deaf wid no spear no mo'," went on Rad, inclined to approve of Koku's sufferings.

"If he died you'd be mighty sorry, old man," declared Tom, sternly.

"Sho' would. Be a mighty hard job to bury him," was the callous response.

Just the same, the crotchety old colored man began to hop around in lively fashion with hot water, and later with coffee and other stimulants; and he nursed Koku all day as though he were a big baby.

Koku, who had never been ill before in his life, was inclined to lay the trouble to an evil genius of some kind. Perhaps, in spite of his half-civilized state, he was still a devil-worshiper. At any rate, he had a vital respect for the forces of evil.

Naturally he considered this unknown and unexpected misery he suffered the result of malignant influences of some kind. Tom did not want him to suspect that the man with the big feet had any possible part in the mystery. Had Koku suspected this, and had he got his hands on the spy, the latter could never have been successfully used in that sort of work again. In all probability he would have said that he had had enough.

Meanwhile Tom made a point of considering each step he took alone thereafter with particular care. He had a bodyguard -- usually the giant after the latter had recovered -- between the works and the house. He did not bring home any more the schedules or drawings connected with the electric locomotive that he proposed to have built and to test inside the stockade of the Swift Construction Company.

He even put a private detective to work on the matter of finding a man named Andy O'Malley who might be lurking around Shopton. He had a pretty clear description of the fellow, for he had not only seen him once, face to face by daylight, but Tom had written to the president of the H. & P. A. and had got from that gentleman a clear picture in words of the spy whom Mr. Bartholomew believed was working in the interests of Montagne Lewis.

"If O'Malley appears in Shopton, look out. He is a bad character. He is not only a notorious gunman, with several warrants out for him in these parts, but he is a cruel and desperate man in any event. The minute you mark him, have him arrested and telegraph me. We'll get him extradited and put him through for ten years or more right in this county." The private investigator, however, as the weeks went by, could not find any man who filled O'Malley's description.

Meanwhile Tom Swift had got what he called "a lead" and was working day and night upon the invention that he believed might make even the Jandel people respectful, if not a bit envious.

First of all Tom had arranged to have built all around inside the stockade a track of rails heavy enough to stand the wear and tear of the heaviest locomotive built. Meanwhile the various parts of his locomotive were being built in several shops, but would be shipped to the Swift Construction Company and assembled in Tom's try-out shed.

Great secrecy was of course maintained. Aside from the fact that the new invention had something to do with electric motive power, nobody about the shops could say what the new industry portended. Save, of course, the Swifts themselves, Ned Newton, and Mr. Damon, who was the Swifts' closest friend and sometimes had furnished additional capital for Tom's experiments.

There was a thing that Mr. Damon furnished Tom at this time that proved in the end to be of much importance. Before Tom had seized upon this idea of his eccentric friend, and had made proper use of it, something happened that came near to wrecking utterly Tom's invention and completely putting an end to Tom himself as an inventor.



Chapter X

A Strange Conversation


Mr. Wakefield Damon frequently came to the shops, for he was not alone very friendly with the Swifts, but he was greatly interested in Tom's new invention.

"If it goes as good as what you did for my chicken run," he declared, chuckling, "bless my dampers! you'll beat all the electric locomotives in the market."

"That is easy, perhaps," said Tom smiling. "There are not many in the market at the present time. But I don't know what mine will be. This is going to be some job."

"Bless my flues and clinkers!" cried Mr. Damon, "you are not losing hope, Tom Swift? Look what you did for my chicken run. And believe me, that entanglement will give a shock that makes a man stand right up and shake."

"Have you tried it yourself?" asked Tom.

"No. But my servant did. I saw him through the window of my study doing some kind of a shimmy with the shovel. Thought he'd gone crazy. Then I saw what he had done. It was early in the morning and I hadn't turned the current off, and he had put one hand against the wires. When he dropped the shovel as I told him to, bless my plyers and nippers! he was all right."

"The current would not seriously hurt him," said Tom. "I was careful about that."

"It killed two tomcats," said Mr. Damon. "I certainly was glad of that, for those two ash-barrel cats kept the whole neighborhood awake. Bless my claws and whiskers! how those two cats did use to yell. But when one tried to climb the wires and the other sprang on him, it was all over! That is, all over but the burial party."

Mr. Damon was on the ground when the mechanical equipment and a part of the electrical equipment of the new locomotive arrived and was set up in the erection shed. The length of the machine was what first impressed Ned Newton as well as Mr. Damon.

"Bless my yardstick!" exclaimed the eccentric man, "it's as long as a gossip's tongue. What a monster it will be!"

"How long is it, Tom?" asked Ned Newton.

"When completed, and standing on its drivers and bogie truck and trailer truck, from cow-catcher to rear bumper it will be a few inches over ninety feet. And that is slightly longer than the biggest electric locomotive so far built. But length does not so much enter into the value of the machine. I would have it built more compactly if I could."

"What is the horsepower?" asked Mr. Damon.

"I figure on forty-four hundred horsepower. The power must be received from a three thousand-volt direct-current trolley. There are twelve driving-wheels, as you can see. Each pair of drivers will be driven by a twin-motor geared to the axles through a system of flexible spring drive. Remember, I have got to obtain both speed as well as power in this locomotive, for it is being built to pull a passenger train -- a fast cross-continent express -- to compete with the best passenger equipment in the country."

"Bless my combination ticket!" murmured Mr. Damon. "You have picked out some task, and no mistake, Tom Swift."

"He'll do it," cried Ned, with his usual optimism when Tom had once started on any experimental work. "Of course he will. Just as she stands there now, only half put together, I would be willing to bet a farm that she is a better locomotive than the Jandel patent."

"Three cheers!" laughed Tom. "Ned is as enthusiastic as usual. But believe me, friends, we are not going to turn out a better locomotive than the Jandel without both thought and work."

His friends' enthusiasm was heartening, however. No doubt of that. He never let them into his experiment room, any more than he allowed his workmen in there. Aside from his own father, nobody really knew what Tom Swift was doing behind that always-locked door.

The huge structure of the locomotive was set up on the driving wheels and leading and trailing trucks by Tom's chief foreman and a picked crew. Just such another locomotive had never been seen anywhere about Shopton. Naturally the men at work on the monster began to speak of it outside the works.

Not that they betrayed any secrets regarding the locomotive. In fact, as yet none of them knew anything about what Tom intended to do with the big machine. But the story soon circulated that Tom Swift, the young inventor, was about to show all the previous builders of electric locomotives how such machines should be built.

It was even whispered that Tom's objective was a two-mile-a-minute locomotive. And when this was publicly known the information was not long in seeping to the ears of certain men who had been keeping as close a watch as they dared on the Swift Construction Company and the activities of Tom himself.

Ned Newton went to the bank one Friday for money for the payroll of the working and clerical force of the Swift Company. It was an errand he never relegated to any employee.

Ned had once worked himself in the bank, and naturally he knew many of its employees as well as the officials. With his back to the general waiting room, he sat at the vice president's desk discussing some minor matter. Only a railing divided the vice president's enclosure from the long settee on which waiting customers of the bank were seated.

Ned knew that there were two men directly behind him, whispering together; but he paid no attention to them until he heard this phrase:

"It's time to explode in just five hours; then good-night to that invention, whatever it is."

This statement might mean almost anything -- or nothing. Ordinarily Ned Newton might not have paid any consideration to the words. But "invention" was a term that he could not overlook. His mind then was fixed upon Tom's invention almost as closely as the mind of the young inventor himself.

Ned turned around slowly, as though idly, indeed, and tried to see the faces of the two men behind him. One was a small, neatly dressed man of professional appearance. He wore a Vandyke beard and eyeglasses. The other's face Ned could not see; but as they both rose just then and strolled toward the door of the bank he could observe that the fellow was big and burly.

Ned wheeled to his friend, the vice president, and asked:

"Who are those men, Mr. Stanley? Do you know them?"

The pair were just going out through the revolving door. The vice president craned his neck for a look at them.

"Don't know the small man, Ned. But the other is named O'Malley, I believe. Somebody introduced him here and he gets a check cashed occasionally. Not a customer of the bank."

At that moment the name "O'Malley" did not mean anything to Ned Newton. But he bade his friend good-bye and went out after the two men. They had disappeared.

Rad was in the electric runabout, waiting for him. The words spoken by O'Malley (Ned thought it must have been he who spoke of the invention because of his deep voice) continued to disturb Ned's thought.

"Rad," he said, as he got into the runabout, "did you ever hear the name O'Malley?"

"Sure has," declared the colored man. "And it's a bad name and a bad man owns it."

"Do you mean that?" exclaimed the financial manager of the Swift Construction Company, with increasing apprehension. "Who is he?"

"Why, Mr. Newton, don't you 'member dat man?"

"Who is he?" repeated Ned.

"Dat Andy O'Malley is de one what tried to hold up Massa Tom dat time. O'Malley is de man what's been spyin' on Massa Tom -- "

"Great grief!" exclaimed Ned, breaking in with excitement. "I'll drive as fast as I can, Rad. There is something wrong at the works, I do believe!"

"What's wrong, Mr. Ned?" demanded Rad. "We just come from dere, and everyt'ing was all right."

"I just heard something that O'Malley said. I want to get back in a hurry. I believe that scoundrel is attempting to blow up Tom's locomotive. We've got to get to the works just as quick as we can."



Chapter XI

Touch and Go


The mechanical equipment of the new locomotive was now complete and Tom was establishing the electrical equipment as rapidly as possible. He not only acted as overseer of this work, but in overalls and jumper he was doing a good share of the work himself.

The weight of the electrical equipment when it was finally set up was not far from two hundred thousand pounds. Altogether, when the oil, sand, and water tanks were filled, the great machine would weigh two hundred and eighty-five tons -- a monster indeed!

"She is going to take a lot of current to run her," said Tom to his father, who was standing by. "When I come to arrange with the Shopton Electric Company for power, it's a question if they can give me all I need. And I must have plenty of current to make sure that my motors fill the bill."

"As your tests will be made in the daytime, the company should be able to furnish the power you need," rejoined Mr. Swift. "At night, of course, when they must furnish so much light as well as power, it might be difficult for them to give you the proper current."

"Forty-four hundred horsepower is a big demand," went on Tom. "I've got to have at least a three-thousand-volt direct-current to feed my motors. I will soon have to take up the matter with the Electric Company."

The heavy work of setting the electrical parts of the locomotive had been finished the day previous, and the track-derrick was removed. Tom was engaged in adjusting the more delicate parts of the equipment and had merely stepped down from the cab to speak to Mr. Swift.

Now he climbed back into the interior of the great machine which, in a general way, looked like a box car. An electric locomotive has not much of the appearance of a steam engine. The machinery is all boxed in and the entire floor of the locomotive is above even the drivers.

These six pairs of driving wheels were about seventy inches in diameter, while the diameter of the leading and following truck-wheels was but half that number of inches.

Mr. Swift had turned away from the locomotive when Tom put his head out of the door again.

"Do you hear that, father?" he demanded in a puzzled tone.

"Hear what, Tom?" asked the old inventor, looking up.

"That ticking sound? I declare, I'd think it was one of those death-watch beetles had got in here. Sounds like a big watch ticking. I can't make it out."

"Where is it? What is it?" repeated Mr. Swift. "I hear nothing down here on the floor of the shed."

"Well, it gets me," muttered Tom, and disappeared again. In a moment he called out: "Say, you fellows! who left his bundle of overalls in here? Better take 'em out to be manicured. Whose are these?"

Two or three of the mechanics working near looked up from their tasks. Mr. Swift turned back to the door of the cab again.

"What is the matter now, Tom?" he asked, in added curiosity.

"That bundle, Dad."

Tom once more appeared and addressed the workmen: "Whose bundle of dirty overalls is this in here? Come and take 'em away. They shouldn't have been left here."

"Why, Mr. Tom," said the foreman who was near, "I didn't see any soiled overalls in there when I left last evening. Any of you fellows," he asked the group of hands, "know anything about any overalls?"

"The bundle is here all right. Pushed back against the third series motors. Come up here, one of you fellows -- "

Suddenly there was a noise at the end of the shed where the door to the offices lay. Two figures burst through from the glass doors and charged down the lanes between the lathes and cranes. Ned Newton led, Rad Sampson, his face a mouse-gray with fear, followed.

"Massa Tom! Massa Tom!" shouted the colored man. "Look out fo' de bomb! Look out fo' de bomb!"

The foreman sprang toward the high door of the locomotive where Tom stood, staring out. The young inventor, quick as his mind usually functioned, did not understand at all what Eradicate meant.

"There's something wrong in there, Mr. Tom!" shouted the foreman. "Come down, sir, and let me get up there and see what it is."

But Mr. Barton Swift grasped the meaning of what was going on more quickly than anybody else. Tom's father, Tom frequently said, had spent so many years investigating chemical and mechanical mysteries that he saw more clearly and more exactly into and through most problems than other people.

His raised voice now cut through the rumble of machinery and all the other noises of the shop. Even Rad Sampson's delirious cry was dwarfed by Mr. Swift's sharp tone:

"Tom! The ticking of that watch! That means danger!"

The declaration seemed to rip away a curtain from Tom's thoughts. Perhaps Rad's cry about "de bomb" aided the young inventor to understand the peril that threatened.

The faint ticking sound that had begun to annoy him during the past few minutes betrayed the nature of the threatening peril. Tom swung back from the open doorway of the locomotive cab, reached in to the space between the motors, and seized the bundle of overall stuff that he had previously spied.

He knew instantly that the rapid ticking came from that bundle. It could be nothing but a time bomb. He had heard of such things and, indeed, had seen one before, an infernal machine which, set like an alarm clock, would go off at a certain time. That indicated time might be an hour hence, or might be within a few seconds! Ned Newton, almost at the spot, shouted to Tom when the latter reappeared with the bundle in his hands:

"Get down out of that, Tom Swift! Quick! For your life!"

But Tom was cool enough now. He saw his father's white, strained face at one side and the young inventor could even smile at him. Behind the foreman was set a barrel of water in which tools were cooled and tempered.

"Stoop, McAvoy!" Tom shouted, and tossed the bundle from him.

Had the infernal machine exploded in midair Tom would not have been surprised. But McAvoy dodged, Rad clapped his hands over his ears, and, even Ned Newton halted like a bird-dog at point.

The bundle splashed into the barrel of water. It sank to the bottom. There was no explosion. When a few seconds had passed the group of excited men began to relax. The barrel was carried carefully to a neighboring field.

"Fo' de lawsy sake!" gasped Rad, and got a full breath again.

"That was touch and go, sure enough," muttered Ned Newton.

"Those overalls sure went to the wash, Boss," declared the foreman. "What was in 'em? And who put 'em in the cab up there?"

But Tom dropped down the ladder and went to his father. Their hands sought each other and gripped, hard.

"Better not tell Mary about this," whispered Tom. "She's worried enough as it is."

"Right, Tom," agreed the old inventor. "From this time on we cannot be too careful. If there proves to be an infernal machine in that package we may be sure that we are dealing with desperate men. We've got to keep our eyes open."

"Wide open," added Ned.

"I'll say we have," said Tom.



Chapter XII

The Try-Out Day Arrives


It did not need Ned Newton's story of what he had overheard at the bank to prove that an attempt had been made to blow to pieces Tom Swift's electric locomotive before even it had been tested.

An examination of the water-soaked package in the open yard of the shops of the Swift Construction Company, proved that there was enough explosive in the bomb to blow the shed itself to pieces. But the stopping of the clockwork attachment of course made the bomb harmless.

"The main thing to be explained," Tom said, when he and his father and Ned discussed the particulars of the affair, "is not who did it, or what it was done for. Those are comparatively easy questions to answer."

"Yes," agreed Ned. "O'Malley did it, or caused it to be done; and it was an attempt to balk Mr. Bartholomew and the H, & P. A. rather than a direct attack upon the Swift Construction Company."

"I am afraid, however," remarked Mr. Swift, "that Tom has aroused the personal antagonism of this spy from the West. We must not overlook that."

"I don't," replied the young inventor. "O'Malley has it in for me. No doubt of that. But he could not be sure that I would be hurt by the explosion he arranged for."

"True," said his father.

"The attempt was against my invention. And O'Malley was doubtless urged to destroy the locomotive that I am building because my success will aid Mr. Bartholomew and his railroad."

"Quite agreed," said Ned. "But -- "

"But the important question," interrupted Tom, "is this: How did the bomb get into the interior of the electric locomotive? That is the first and most important problem. Its having been done once warns us that it can be done again until our system of guarding the works is changed."

"We have five watchmen on the job at night, and the gates are never opened in the daytime to anybody for any purpose without a pass," declared Ned. "I don't see how that fellow got in here with the time bomb."

"Exactly. It shows that there is a fault in our system somewhere," said Tom grimly. "We cannot surround the place at night with an armed guard. It would cost too much. Even Koku cannot be everywhere. And I have reason to know that he was wandering about the stockade last night as usual."

"The fellow was pretty sharp to slip by," Ned observed.

"The stockade is no mean barrier, especially with the rows of barbed wire at the top," said Mr. Swift.

"Barbed wire! That's it!" exclaimed Tom. It was just here that Mr. Damon's idea for guarding his prize buff Orpingtons came into play in Tom's scheme of things. "Barbed wire doesn't seem to keep out spies," he added slowly. "But believe me, something else will!"

For Tom to think of a thing was to start action without delay. Immediately he called a gang from the shops and set them to work stringing copper wire along the top of the stockade.

He was sure that the man who had set the time bomb in place had got into the enclosure over the fence. If he tried the same trick again he was very apt to have the surprise of his life!

Each night when the shops closed and the watchmen went on duty, a current of electricity was turned into those copper wires entwined with the barbed wire entanglement at the top of the stockade that would certainly double up any marauder who sought to get over the top.

However, no further attempt was made against Tom's peace of mind and against his invention during the immediate weeks that followed. The young inventor was so closely engaged in his work that he scarcely left the house or the confines of the shops. Even Mary Nestor saw very little of him.

But Mary realized fully that at such a time as this Tom must give all his thought and energy to the task in hand. She was proud of Tom's ability and took a deep interest in his inventions.

"I want to see the test when you try the locomotive, Tom," she told him, when she came to the shops the first time to look at the monster locomotive. "What a wonderful thing it is!"

"Its wonder is yet to be proved," rejoined the young inventor. "I believe I've got the right idea; but nothing is sure as yet."

In addition to his mechanical contrivances inside the locomotive, Tom had to arrange for an increased supply of electric power to drive the huge machine around the track that was being built inside the stockade.

A regular station had to be built for receiving the electricity in a 100,000-volt alternating current and delivering it to the locomotive in a 3,000-volt direct current. Therefore, this station had two functions to perform -- reducing the voltage and changing the current from alternating to direct.

The reduction of the voltage was accomplished as follows: The 100,000-volt alternating current was received through an oil switch and was conveyed to a high-tension current distributor made up of three lines of copper tubing, thus forming the source of power for this station.

From the current distributor the current was conducted through other oil switches to the transformers -- entering at 100,000 volts and emerging at 2,300 volts. Then the current was conducted from the transformers through switches to the motor-generator sets and became the power employed to operate them.

The motor generator consisted of one alternating current motor driving two direct current generators. The motor Tom established in his station was of the 60-cycle synchronous type, which means that the current changes sixty times each second.

There were two sets, each generating a 1,500 or 2,000 volt direct current; and the two generators being permanently connected, delivered a combined direct current of 3,000 volts -- as high a direct voltage current, Tom knew, as had ever been adopted for railroad work. The current voltage for ordinary street railway work is 550 volts.

"I could run even this big machine," Tom explained to Ned Newton, "with a much lighter current. But out there on the Hendrickton & Pas Alos line the transforming stations deliver this high voltage to the locomotives. I want to test mine under similar conditions."

"This is going to be an expensive test, Tom," said Ned, grumbling a little. "The cost-sheets are running high."

"We are aiming at a big target," returned the inventor. "You've got to bait with something bigger than sprats to catch a whale, Ned."

"Humph! Suppose you don't catch the whale after all?"

"Don't lose hope," returned Tom, calmly. "I am going after this whale right, believe me! This is one of the biggest contracts -- if not the very biggest -- we ever tackled."

"It looks as if the expense account would run the highest," admitted the financial manager.

"All right. Maybe that is so. But I'll spend the last cent I've got to perfect this patent. I am going to beat the Jandels if it is humanly possible to do so."

"I can only hope you will, Tom. Why, this track and the overhead trolley equipment is going to cost a small fortune. I had no idea when you signed that contract with Mr. Bartholomew that so much money would have to be spent in merely the experimental stage of the thing."

Ned Newton possessed traits of caution that could not be gainsaid. That was one thing that made him such a successful financial manager for the Swift Company. He watched expenditures as closely now as he had when the business was upon a much more limited footing.

The rails laid along the inside of the stockade made a two-mile track, as well ballasted as any regular railroad right of way. In addition the overhead equipment was costly.

To eliminate any possibility of the trolley wire breaking, a strong steel cable, called a catenary, was slung just above the trolley wire. To this catenary the trolley wire was suspended by hangers at short intervals.

These cables were strung from brackets so that a single row of poles could be used, save at the curves, at which cross-span construction was used. The trolley wire itself was of the 4/0 size, and was the largest diameter copper wire ever employed for railroad purposes.

Several weeks had now passed since the great locomotive had been assembled in the erection shed and the cab of the locomotive completed. It really was a monster machine, and any stranger coming into the place and seeing it for the first time must have marveled at the grim power suggested by the mere bulk of the structure.

When the day of the first test arrived Tom allowed only his most intimate friends to be present. Mary Nestor accompanied Mr. Swift into the shops at the time appointed, and she was as excited over the outcome of the test as Tom himself.

Ned Newton and the mechanical force of the shops knocked off work to become spectators at the exhibition. The only other outsider was Mr. Damon.

"Bless my alternating current!" cried the eccentric gentleman. "I would not miss this for the world. If you tried to shut me out, Tom, I'd climb over the stockade to get in."

"You'd better not," Tom told him, dryly. "If you tried that you'd get a worse shock than any chicken thief will get that tries to steal your buff Orpingtons."



Chapter XIII

Hopes and Fears


Tom climbed into the huge cab of the electric locomotive. In fact, the cab was the most of it, for every part of the mechanism save the drivers was covered by the eighty-odd foot structure. From the peak of the pilot to the rear bumper the length was ninety feet and some inches.

As Tom slid the monster out upon the yard track the small crowd cheered. At least, the locomotive had the power to move, and to the unknowing ones, at least, that seemed a great and wonderful thing.

What they saw was apparently a box-car -- like a mail coach, only with more high windows -- ten feet wide, its roof more than fourteen feet from the rails, its locked pantagraph adding two feet more to its height.

Just what was in the cab -- the water and oil tanks, the steam-heating boiler to supply heat and hot water to the train the monster was to draw, the motors and the many other mechanical contrivances -- was hidden from the spectators.

In fact, since completing the electrical equipment of the Hercules 0001, as Tom had named the locomotive, the young inventor had allowed nobody inside the cab, any more than he allowed visitors inside his private workshop. Even Mr. Swift did not know all the results of Tom's experimental work. In a general way the older inventor knew the trend of his son's attempts, but the details and the results of Tom's experiments, the latter told to nobody.

But as the huge locomotive rolled into the yard and followed the more or less circular track inside the yard fence, it was plain to all of the onlookers that the motive-power was there all right! Just what speed could be coaxed from the feed-cable overhead was another question.

Nor did Tom Swift try for much speed on this first test of the Hercules 0001. He went around the two-mile track several times before bringing his machine to a stop near the crowd of onlookers. He came to the open door of the cab.

"One thing is sure, Tom!" shouted Ned. "It do move!"

"Bless my slippery skates!" exclaimed Mr. Damon, "it slides right along, Tom. You've done it, my boy -- you've done it!"

"It looks good from where I stand, my son," said Mr. Barton Swift.

It was Mary who suspected that Tom was not wholly satisfied -- as yet, at least -- with the test of the Hercules 0001. She cried:

"Tom! is it all right?"

"Nothing is ever all right -- that is, not perfect -- in this old world, I guess, Mary," returned the young inventor. "But I am not discouraged. As Ned says, the old contraption 'do move.' How fast she'll move is another thing."

"What time did you make?" asked Mr. Swift.

"Not above fifteen miles an hour."

"Whew!" whistled Ned dolefully. "That is a long way from -- "

Tom made an instant motion and Ned's careless lips were sealed. It was not generally known among the men the speed which Tom hoped to obtain with his new invention.

"It is a wide shoot at the target, that is true," Tom said, soberly. "But remember I cannot test it for speed on this short and almost circular track. Right at the start, however, I see that something about the power-feed must be changed."

"What is that?" asked Mary, curiously.

"I have only had rigged here one trolley wire. There must be two attached alternately to the catenary cable. Such a form of twin conductor trolley will permit the collection of a heavy current through the twin contact of the pantagraph with the two trolley wires, and should assure a sparkless collection of the current at any speed. You noticed that when I took the sharper curves there was an aerial exhibition. I want to do away with the fireworks."

The fact that the Hercules 0001 was a going and apparently powerful draught engine satisfied most of the onlookers that Tom Swift was on the road to final and overwhelming success. The mechanics, indeed, saw no reason why the locomotive could not be run right out of the yard on the freight track and coupled to the first train going West. Of course, the Hercules 0001 could not be delivered to the Hendrickton & Pas Alos under its own power.

When the locomotive was run back into the shed and stood once more on the erection track, Tom confessed to Mary and Ned, while Mr. Damon and Mr. Swift were looking through the huge cab, that he was not at all pleased with the action of the machine.

"I have the best equipment of any electric locomotive on the rails today. I am sure of that," he said. "The Hercules Three-Oughts-One is not as long as those electric locomotives of the C. M. &. St. P. But that's all right. I have built mine more compactly and, properly geared, it should have all the power of either the Baldwin-Westinghouse or the Jandel locomotive."

"Then, Tom dear, what is wrong?" cried Mary.

"Speed. That is what troubles me. Have I got anything like the speed I am aiming for?"

"Two miles a minute!" breathed Ned Newton. "Some speed, boy!"

"And must you have such great speed, Tom?" repeated Mary.

"That is in my contract. Not only that, but to be of much use to the H. & P. A. this locomotive must have such speed -- or mighty near it. Of course, under ordinary conditions, two miles a minute for a locomotive and train of heavy freights would burn up the track -- maybe melt the flanges and throw everything out of gear."

"Why try for it, then?" demanded Mary.

"It is the power suggested by the possession of such speed that we want in the Hercules Three-Oughts-One. That two miles a minute is a fiction of the imagination, cannot be claimed. It is possible. It is humanly possible. It is coming."

"Then you must be the fellow to first accomplish it, Tom Swift," Ned declared.

"Of course, if anybody can do it, you can, Tom," agreed the girl complacently.

"Thanks -- many, many thanks," laughed the young inventor. "I'd be able to harness the sun and stars, and put a surcingle around the moon if I came up to my friends' opinion of my ability.

"Nevertheless, two-miles-a-minute is my objective point, and I do not believe it is visionary. Consider the motor-cycle. Ninety miles an hour has long been possible with that, and some tests have shown a speed of over a hundred and ten. That is not far from my mark.

"Some Mallet locomotives of the oil-burning type have achieved from eighty-five to ninety-five miles an hour with a heavy load behind them. They are very powerful machines. The Mogul mountain climbers are powerful, too, although they are not built for speed.

"The electric Goliaths built for the C. M. & St. P., and the Jandels, are both very speedy under certain conditions. The former has a maximum speed of sixty-five miles and the Jandel slightly faster."

"But that is only half what that Mr. Bartholomew demands of your invention, Tom!" Mary cried.

"That is a fact. I must reach twice sixty miles an hour, anyway, to meet his demand and gain that hundred thousand bonus. But I have the advantage of a knowledge of all that has been done before my time in the matter of electrical locomotive construction."

"The world do move," repeated Ned. "You believe that you have the edge on all the other inventors?"

"Along the line of this development -- yes," said Tom. "I am taking up the work where former experimenters ended theirs. Why shouldn't I find the right combination to bring about a two-miles-a-minute drive?"

"Oh, Tom!" cried Mary, with clasped hands, "I hope you do."

"I hope I do, too," said Tom, grimly. "At least, if trying will bring it, success is going to come my way."



Chapter XIV

Speed


More than four months had passed since the contract had been signed, when Tom made his first yard-test of the Hercules 0001. For a month nothing had been seen or heard of Andy O'Malley, whose identity as the spy, set by Montagne Lewis to cripple Tom's attempt to help the Hendrickton & Pas Alos Railroad, had been determined beyond any doubt.

The private inquiry agent that Tom had engaged to find O'Malley had been unsuccessful in his work. The spy had disappeared from Shopton and the vicinity. Nevertheless, the inventor did not for a moment overlook the possibility that the enemy might again strike.

Every night the electric current was turned into the wires that capped the stockade of the Swift Construction Company enclosure. Koku beat a path around the enclosure at night, getting such short sleep as he seemed to need in the forenoon.

"Dat crazy cannibal," grumbled Rad, "got it in his haid dat he's gwine to he'p Massa Tom by walkin' out o' nights like he was dis here Western, de great sprinter, Ma lawsy me! Koku ain't got brains enough to fill up a hic'ry nut shell. Dat he ain't."

Nothing anybody else could do for Tom ever satisfied Rad. The colored man fully believed that he was the only person really necessary for Tom's success and peace of mind. In fact, Rad thought that even Ned Newton's duties as financial manager of the firm were scarcely of as much importance.

When he heard that Tom was going West, after a time, with the electric locomotive, to try it out on the tracks of the H. & P. A., Rad was quite sure that if he did not go along, the test would not come out right.

"O' course yo'll need me, Massa Tom," he said, confidently. "Couldn't git along widout me nohow. Yo' knows, sir, I allus has to go 'long wid yo' to fix things."

"Don't you think father will need you here, Rad?" Tom asked the faithful old fellow. "You're getting old -- "

"Me gittin' old?" cried, the colored man. "Huh! Yo' don't know 'bout dis here chile. I don't purpose ever to git old. I been gray-haided since befo' yo' was born; but I ain't old yit!"

Mr. Damon chanced to be present at this conversation, and he was highly amused, yet somewhat impressed, too, by the colored man's statement.

"Bless my own antiquity!" he exclaimed. "I agree with Rad, Tom. It's us old fellows who know what to do when an emergency of any kind arises. Experience teaches more than inspiration."

"Oh," said Tom, laughing, "I do not deny the value of old friends at any stage of the game."

"Bless my roving nature! I am glad to hear you say that. For I tell you right now, Tom, I want to be out there when you make your final test of the locomotive."

"Do you mean that you will go West when I take out the Hercules Three-Oughts-One?" cried Tom.

"It's just what I want to do. Bless my traveling bag, Tom! I mean to be present at your final triumph."

"What will happen to your buff Orpingtons while you are gone?" asked the young inventor, gravely.

"I have got my servant trained to look after those chickens," declared Mr. Damon. "And this invention of yours is really more important than even my buff Orpingtons."

"Just the same," remarked Tom to his eccentric friend, when Rad had left the room. "I've got to fix it so that Eradicate stays at home with father. He doesn't really know how old and broken he is -- poor fellow."

"His heart is green, Tom. That's what is the matter with Rad."

"He is a loyal old fellow. But I shall take Koku with me, not Rad," and the young inventor spoke decidedly. "And that is going to trouble poor Rad a lot."

The prospect of going West, however, was not the main subject of Tom's thoughts at this time. As the weeks passed and the end of the six months of experiment came nearer, the inventor was more and more troubled by the principal difficulty which had from the first confronted him. Speed.

That was the mark he had set himself. A maximum speed of two miles a minute on a level track for the Hercules 0001. With the speed already attained by both steam and electric locomotives in the more recent past, this was by no means an impossible attainment, as Tom quite well knew.

But he became convinced that the conditions under which he labored made it impossible for him to be positive of just how great a speed on a straight, level track his invention would attain.

There was no electrified stretch of railroad near Shopton on which the Hercules 0001 might be tested. The track inside the Swift Company's enclosure did not offer the conditions the inventor needed. He felt balked.

"I believe I have hit the right idea in my improvements on the Jandel patents," he told Ned Newton when they were discussing the matter. "But believing is one thing. Knowing is another!"

"Theoretically it works out all right, I suppose?" questioned Ned.

"Quite. I can prove on paper that I've got the speed. But that isn't enough. You can see that."

"Impossible to be sure on the trackage already built here, Tom?"

"I haven't dared give her all she'll take," grumbled Tom. "If I did, I fear she'd jump the rails and I'd have a wreck on my hands."

"And maybe kill yourself!" exclaimed Ned. "You want to have a care."

"Oh, that's all right! I've taken risks before. I don't want to risk the safety of the locomotive, which is more important. That machine has cost us a lot of money."

"I'll say so!" agreed Ned. "You'll have to wait till you can get the locomotive out there on the H. & P. A. tracks before you get a fair speed-test."

"And suppose instead of a triumph it is a fiasco?" Tom said, doubtfully. "I tell you straight, Ned: I never was so uncertain about the outcome of one of my inventions since I began dabbling with motive-power."

"We could build several miles of straight track in the waste ground behind the works," Ned said, thoughtfully.

"Not a chance! There is neither time nor money for such work. Besides, I should have to rebuild my transforming station if I supplied longer conduit wires with current."

"You don't really consider that you have failed, do you, Tom?" and Ned's anxiety made his voice sound very woeful indeed.

"I tell you that my belief doesn't satisfy me. I hate to go West without being sure -- positive. I want to know! I have tried the locomotive out in the yard half a dozen times. It runs like a fine watch. There doesn't seem to be a thing the matter with it now. But what speed can I attain?"

"I don't see but you'll have to risk it, Tom."

"I mean to give her one more test. I'll run her out tonight when there is nobody about but the watchmen -- and you, if you want to come. I'll arrange with the Electric Company for all the current they can spare. By ginger! I've got to take some risk."

"By the way, Tom," said his chum, "did it ever strike you as odd that that private detective agency never got any trace of O'Malley?"

"Well, he's gone away. We needn't worry about him. Maybe the detective wasn't very smart, at that."

"And yet he was here in town after you put the inquiry on foot. I saw him in the bank. He came there occasionally. And either he, or somebody he hired, placed that bomb in the locomotive."

"All those being facts, what of it?"

"Besides, there was that other fellow -- the man with the Vandyke beard. Might be a shyster lawyer, or something of the kind. He wasn't spotted, either."

"To tell the truth, I didn't bother to give the Detective Agency the description of that fellow, although you gave it to me," and Tom laughed. "I must confess that I depend more upon my man-trap electric wires to protect the invention than I do on the private inquiry agent."

"It's funny, just the same. If I had another job for a detective I should not submit it to the Blatz Agency," grumbled Ned.

"I fancy Montagne Lewis and his crowd called off their Wild West gunman," said Tom. "In any case, every attempt he made to bother us turned out a fizzle. I am not, however, forgetting precautions, my boy."

Ned Newton realized that his chum had determined to make this night test of the electric locomotive the pivotal trial of the whole affair. He came back to the works after dinner and was let in by the office watchman at about nine o'clock.

"Mr. Tom here yet?" he asked the man.

"Yes, Mr. Newton. The young boss didn't go home to supper, even. That colored man brought something down for him, and he's in the shed yet."

"Rad is here, you mean?"

"Yes, sir. At least, he didn't go out this way, and we watchmen have instructions to let nobody in or out by the yard gates at night."

"I'll say Tom is being careful," thought Ned, as he stepped out through the runway toward the erection shed.

Before he reached the entrance to the huge shed, however, Ned chanced to look down the enclosure. There were several arc lights burning, but even these only furnished a dim illumination for the whole yard.

He supposed that four watchmen were tramping their several beats along the inside of the stockade and close to the trolley-track. But when he saw an instant gleam of light down there, close to the ground, Ned did not believe that it was the flash of a torch in the hand of any sentry.

"Funny," he muttered. "That's outside the fence, or I'm much mistaken. I wonder now -- "

He turned from the door of the shed, left the runway, and began walking toward the distant point at which he had seen the mysterious flash of light.



Chapter XV

The Enemy Still Active


Ned was dressed in a dark business suit, so he was not likely to be observed from a distance, for it was a starless night. Half way to the end of the great yard he began to wonder if the light he had seen might not have been an hallucination.

He doubted very much if anybody was creeping about outside the fence. The boards were close together, with scarcely a crack half an inch wide anywhere. A light out there -- 

It flashed again. He was positive of it this time, and of its locality as well. It could be nobody who had any honest business about the Swift Construction Company's premises. It was not Koku, for ordinarily the giant would not use an electric torch.

Ned did not know where any of the watchmen were who were acting as sentinels. In fact, as it appeared later, three of them had been called off their beats by Tom himself to help in some necessary task inside the shed. The young inventor was getting ready to run the huge locomotive out upon the yard-track.

Remembering vividly the attempt which had been made some weeks before to blow up the Hercules 0001, it was only natural that Ned should suspect that the flash of light he had seen revealed the presence of some ill-conditioned person lurking just beyond the fence.

A man might be crouching there prepared to hurl an explosive bomb over the fence when the locomotive was brought around as far as that spot. Or was the villain foolish enough to attempt to enter the enclosure by surmounting the fence?

Ned, keeping close to the ground, crossed the rails in the fortunate shadow of one of the posts. There he found a place where, with his back to a pole-prop right at this curve in the trolley system, the shadow enfolded him completely.

Had his movements been marked by the person outside the fence? Ned waited several long and anxious minutes for some move from out there. Then something rather unexpected occurred. For the past ten minutes he had forgotten about the test of the Hercules 0001 which Tom had promised.

With a blast of its siren the huge electric locomotive burst out of the shed and thundered around the track. It smote Ned Newton's mind suddenly that the inventor was going to "take a chance" on this evening and try to get some speed out of the huge machine.

The electric headlight cast a broad cone of white and dazzling light across the yard. It suddenly struck full upon the spot where Ned Newton crouched; but the upright against which he leaned was broad enough to hide him completely.

Looking up at the top of the stockade at that moment of illumination, the young financial manager of the Swift Construction Company beheld a crawling figure nearing the wire entanglements on the summit of the fence.

The unknown man was climbing by means of a notched pole. Ned could not see that he bore any bulky object in his hands; indeed, he needed both of them to aid him to climb. But the man's right hand was reaching upward, above his head.

The Hercules 0001 came roaring on. Its cone of light passed beyond Ned's station. In a few seconds it reached the spot, and roared on. Ned had not made a move. It seemed to him that he could not move or speak.

The onrush of the electric locomotive all but swept the young fellow from his feet. It had come and gone in an instant!

"He's making more than fifteen or twenty miles an hour, all right," muttered Ned.

Then he flashed another glance up at the figure outside the fence. The man's cap showed above the top of the boards. He seemed to be dragging something up to him from below -- something that hung and swung around and around a few feet from the ground.

Ned was about to dart out of concealment and hail the fellow. He was not armed, nor could he get out of the stockade near this point. He feared what the marauder intended, and he felt that he must frighten him away.

"Suppose that is a bomb and he means to fling it in front of Tom's locomotive?" thought the anxious Ned.

He again saw the stranger's right hand reach up above his head. But he had no bomb in his hand. Ned suddenly shrieked a word of warning! It had come to him what the man was doing and what the result of his act would be.

The wire-cutters bit on one of the copper wires. There followed a flash of blue flame, and the man screamed. He dropped the thing swinging below him and involuntarily grabbed at the wires with his left hand.

He was caught, then! The crackling intermittent shocks of electric fluid passed through his body in fiery sequence. His limbs writhed. He mouthed horribly, and croaking gasps came from between his wide open jaws.

The Hercules 0001 had rounded the enclosure and was coming down upon its second lap. The cone of white radiance from the headlight fell upon the writhing body of the victim on the wires. The locomotive siren emitted a blast that almost deafened Ned.

The monster ground to a stop. Tom swung himself half out of the cab window beside the controller.

"Who's that?" he yelled. Then he saw Ned below him. "Who is that fellow?"

"No friend of yours, Tom, I believe," returned his financial manager in a shaking voice.

"Where's Rad? Rad!" Tom shouted at the top of his voice.

"I's comm', Massa Tom," rejoined the colored man.

"Never mind coming here! Get a move on, and get to the switchboard. Turn the current out of the fence wires.

"Yis, sir, I'll go Massa Tom," declared the old man.

"Is he a spotter, Ned?" demanded the inventor.

"He's no friend. I am going out by the gate. He's got something there that means harm, I believe. Do you think he's killed, Tom?"

"Only ought to be. Not enough current to kill him. But he's badly burned and -- and -- well! I bet he won't care to fool around the works again."

Ned dashed away to an entrance. A watchman came running, opened the small gate, and followed Ned into the open.

Before they arrived at the vicinity of the accident Rad had got to the switchboard. The electricity was shut out of the stockade wires.

Ned uttered another shout. He saw the writhing body of the shocked man fall from the stockade. When he and the watchman got to the spot the fellow lay upon his back, groaning and sobbing; but Ned saw at once that he was more frightened than hurt.

"Well, you did it that time!" exclaimed the young financial manager. "And I hope you got enough."

"You -- you demons!" gasped the man. "I'll have the law on you -- "

"Sure you will," cackled the watchman. "You had every right in the world to try to cut those wires, of course, and get into the yard of the works. Sure! The judge will believe you all right."

Ned was, meanwhile, staring closely at the fallen man. Tom had come down from the locomotive and was close to the fence.

"Who is he?" demanded the inventor. "Not O'Malley?"

Ned stepped to the fence and whispered:

"It's the other fellow. The little chap with the Vandyke. He's dressed like a tramp, but it's the same man."

"Is he badly hurt?" demanded Tom.

"His temper is, Boss," said the watchman callously. "And say! I know this fellow. He works for the Blatz Detective Agency. I used to work for those folks myself. His name is Myrick -- Joe Myrick."

"Ned," said Tom sternly, "go to the office and call the police. I'll make him tell why he was here. And I'll make the Blatz people explain, too. Hullo! what's that?"

Ned had seized the rope he had seen in Myrick's hand, and from a patch of weeds drew a two-gallon oil-can.

"What you got there, Ned?" repeated the young inventor.

"Whatever it is, I am going to be mighty easy with it. I think this scoundrel was trying to get it over the fence and into the way of the locomotive."

"You can't hang anything on me," said Myrick, suddenly. "I was just climbing up to the top of the fence to get a squint at that contraption you've built. You can't hang anything on me."

"He's evidently feeling better," said Tom, scornfully. "Nugent, don't let him get away from you. Go call the police, Ned. And take care of that can until we can find out what's in it."

Later, when the police had removed Joe Myrick and the mysterious can had been deposited in a tub of water in the open lot until its contents could be examined, Tom said to his chum:

"I was just working up some speed on the locomotive. The speedometer indicated fifty-five when I saw that fellow sprawling up there on the fence. I would not have dared go much faster in any case."

"Why, you weren't half trying, Tom!" cried the delighted Ned.

"She did slide around easy, didn't she? Fifty-five on an almost circular track is a good showing. I am not so scared as I was, my boy."

"You think that on a straight track you might accomplish what you set out to do?"

"It looks like it. At any rate, I shall risk a trial on the H. & P. A. tracks. I'm going to take her West. Be ready on Monday, Ned, for I shall want you with me," declared Tom Swift.



Chapter XVI

Off for the West


Of course, as Tom supposed they would, the Blatz Detective Agency denied that Joe Myrick, their one-time operative, had been engaged through their bureau either to spy upon the Swift Construction Company or to injure Tom's invention of the electric locomotive.

Nevertheless, three points were indisputable: Myrick had been caught spying; in his possession was a can of explosive which could be set off by concussion; and it was a fact that to Myrick had been first entrusted the matter of hunting for Andy O'Malley when Tom had put the search for the Westerner up to the Blatz people.

"He played traitor both to you, Mr. Swift, and to our agency," declared Blatz to Tom. "I wash my hands of him. I hope the police send him away for life!"

"He'll go to prison all right," said Tom, confidently. "But the main point is that one of your operatives fell down on a simple job. I wanted that Andy O'Malley traced. He's out of the way, now, of course. If you had put an honest man to work for me, O'Malley would be behind the bars himself."

"Some doubt of that, Mr. Swift," grumbled Blatz.

"Why?"

"Where's your evidence that this O'Malley was connected with the attempt to blow up your locomotive the first time? Mr. Newton's testimony would need corroboration."

"Never mind that," rejoined the young inventor, with a smile. "I'd have him for highway robbery. I recognized him. He robbed me of a wallet. Guess we could put O'Malley away for awhile on that charge. And by the time he got out again my job for that Western railroad would be completed."

"Humph! Nothing personal in your going after the fellow, then?" queried the head of the detective agency.

"No. But I frankly confess that I am afraid of O'Malley. He is undoubtedly in the employ of men who will pay him well if he wrecks my invention. But there really is no personal grudge between O'Malley and me. At least, I feel no particular enmity against the fellow."

There was a pause.

"If you say so we will give you a couple of good men as bodyguards on your trip West," suggested Blatz, licking his lips hungrily.

"As good men as Myrick?" retorted Tom, rather scornfully. "No, thank you. Just make your bill out to the Swift Construction Company to date, and a check will be sent you the first of the month. I will take my own precautions hereafter."

And those precautions Tom considered sufficient. When the Hercules 0001 was towed out of the enclosure belonging to the Swift Construction Company early on Monday morning, each door and window of the huge cab was barred and locked. Inside the cab rode Koku, the giant.

Koku had his orders to allow nobody to enter the Hercules 0001 until Tom or Ned Newton came to relieve him of his responsibility as guard. The giant had a swinging cot to sleep on and sufficient food -- of a kind -- to last him for a fortnight if necessary.

He was not armed, for Tom did not often trust him with weapons. The young inventor, however, did not expect that any armed force would attack the electric locomotive.

If Montagne Lewis desired to wreck the new invention which might mean so much to Mr. Bartholomew and the H. & P. A., he surely would not allow his hirelings to attack openly the locomotive while it was en route.

On the other hand, Tom did not really believe that Andy O'Malley would attempt any reprisal against him personally. Of course, the Western desperado might feel himself abused by Tom, especially in the matter of Tom's use of his ammonia pistol.

But that had happened months ago. O'Malley had undoubtedly been hired by Mr. Bartholomew's enemies to obtain knowledge of the contract signed between the young inventor and the railroad president; and later it was certain that the spy had tried his best to wreck the electric locomotive.

As for any personal assault so many weeks after O'Malley had clashed with him Tom Swift did not expect it. With Ned in his company on this journey to Hendrickton, the young inventor had good reason to consider that he was perfectly safe.

Mary Nestor and Mr. Swift came to the station to see the two young men off on Monday evening. Mary had heard about the second attempt made to blow up the Hercules 0001 and she begged Tom to take every precaution while he was in the West.

"You will be in the enemy's country out there, Tom dear," she warned him. "You won't be careless?"

"I know I shall be mighty busy," he told her, laughing. "I'll let Ned play watch-dog. And you know, his is a cautious soul, Mary."

"I've every confidence in Ned's faithfulness," the girl said, still with anxious tone. "But those men who are trying to ruin Mr. Bartholomew's road will stop at nothing. I must hear from you frequently, Tom, or I shall worry myself ill."

"Don't lose your courage, Mary," rejoined the inventor, more gravely. "I do not think they will attack me personally again. Remember that Koku is on the job, as well as Ned. And Mr. Damon declares he will follow us West very shortly," and again Tom chuckled.

"Even Mr. Damon may be a help to you, Tom," declared Mary, warmly. "At least, he is completely devoted to you."

"So is Rad Sampson," said Tom, with a little grimace. "I certainly had my hands full convincing him that father needed him here at home. At that, Rad is pretty warm over the fact that I sent Koku on with the locomotive. If anything should chance to happen to my invention, Eradicate Sampson is going to shout 'I told you so!' all over the shop."

Mary dabbed her eyes a little with her handkerchief, and Tom patted her shoulder.

"Don't worry, Mary," he said more cheerfully. "There won't a thing happen to me out there at Hendrickton. I'll keep the wires hot with telegrams. And I'll write to both you and father, and give you the full particulars of how we get along. You'll keep your eye on father, Mary, won't you?"

"You may be sure of that," said the girl. "I will not leave him entirely to the care of Rad," and she tried hard to smile again. But it was a difficult matter.

Such a parting as this is always hard to endure. Tom wrung his father's hand and warned him to be careful of his health. The train came along and the two young men boarded it with their personal luggage.

They had a flash of the two faces -- that of Mr. Swift's and Mary's blooming countenance -- as the express started again, and then the outlook from the Pullman coach showed them the fast-receding environs of Shopton.

"We're on our way, my boy," said Tom to his chum.

"We certainly are," said Ned, thoughtfully. "I wonder what the outcome of the trip will be? It may not be all plain sailing."

"Don't croak," rejoined the young inventor, with a grin.

"I don't see how you can appear so cheerful. Why! you don't even know if that electric locomotive is safe. Something may have already happened to it. The freight train might be wrecked. A dozen things might happen."

"I am not crossing any bridges before I come to them," declared Tom. "Besides, I propose to keep in touch with the Hercules Three-Oughts-One in a certain way -- Hullo! Here it is."

"Here what is?" demanded Ned.

The Pullman conductor at that moment came in through the forward corridor. He had a telegram in his hand, and intoned loudly as he approached:

"Mr. Swift! Mr. Thomas Swift! Telegram for Mr. Swift."

"That is for me, Conductor," said Tom briskly, offering his card.

"All right, Mr. Swift. Just got it at Shopton. Operator said you had boarded my car. This is railroad business, you'll notice. Have you any reply, sir?"

Tom ripped open the envelope and unfolded the telegram. He held it so that Ned could read, too. It was signed: "N. G. Smith, Conductor, Number 48."

"What's that?" exclaimed Ned, reading the message.

"'Locomotive and crazy man in it all right at Lingo,'" repeated Tom aloud, and chuckled.

"No, Conductor, there is no answer."

"Good!" exclaimed Ned. "You arranged to get reports en route from the conductors handling the Hercules Three-Oughts-One?"

"Surest thing you know," replied Tom. "And I guess, from the wording of this message, that the crew of Forty-eight have already found out that Koku is not an ordinary guard."

"He's a great boy," smiled Ned. "Glad he is on the job."



Chapter XVII

The Wreck of Forty-Eight


The two chums sought their berths that night in high fettle. Even Ned sloughed off his mood of apprehension which he had worn on boarding the train at Shopton.

For, true to the arrangement Tom had made with the railroad people, another reassuring telegram was brought to him before bedtime. The second conductor responsible for the management of the Western bound freight to which the Hercules 0001 was attached, sent back a brief statement of the safety of the electric locomotive.

Naturally the two chums would have passed the freight and got well ahead of it before reaching Hendrickton. But Tom had business in Chicago, and they stayed over in that city for twenty-four hours. The freight train went around the city, of course. But the telegrams continued to reach Tom promptly, even at the hotel where he and Ned stopped in the city.

Occasionally the trainmen in charge of the freight mentioned Koku. His eccentric behavior doubtless somewhat puzzled the railroaders.

"That's all right," chuckled Ned. "Let them think Koku is dangerous if they want to. That O'Malley person believed he was!"

"I'll say so!" replied Tom. "The way he ran when Koku started after him that time on the Waterfield Road seemed to prove that he didn't want to mix with Koku."

"If he -- or other spies -- learns that Koku is with the Hercules Three-Oughts-One, it ought to warn them away from the locomotive."

This was Ned's final speech before getting into his berth. He, as well as Tom, slept quite as calmly on this first night out of Chicago as they had before.

They knew exactly where the electric locomotive was. It was on the same road as this train they were traveling in, and, although on a different track, it was not many miles ahead. In fact, if the two trains kept to schedule, the transcontinental passenger train would pass the freight in question about five o'clock in the morning.

It lacked half an hour of that time when the Pullman train came suddenly to a jolting stop. Both Tom and Ned were awakened with the rest of the passengers in their coach.

Heads were poked out between curtains all along the aisle and a chorus of more or less excited voices demanded:

"What's the matter?"

"Nothin's the matter wid dis train, gen'lemens an' ladies," came in the porter's important voice. "Jest nothin' at all's happened. It's done happened up ahead of us, das all."

"Well, what has happened ahead of us, George?" asked Ned.

"Jest another train, Boss, been splatterin' itself all ober de right of way. We sort o' bein' held up, das all," replied the porter.

"That's good news -- for us," said Ned, preparing to climb back into his berth. But he halted where he was when he heard his chum ask:

"What train left the track, George?"

"A freight train, sah. Yes, sah. Number Forty-eight. She jumped de rails, side-swiped de accommodation dat was holdin' us back, and has jest done spread herself all over de right of way."

"My goodness!" gasped Ned.

"Hear that, Ned?" exclaimed Tom. "Scramble into your clothes, boy. The Hercules Three-Oughts-One is hitched to Forty-eight."

"Suppose she's off the track?" murmured Ned.

"It's lucky if she isn't smashed to matchwood," groaned Tom, and almost immediately left the Pullman coach on the run.

Ned was not far behind him. When they reached the cinder path beside the freight train it was just sunrise. Long arms of rosy light reached down the mountain side to linger on the tracks and what was strewed across them. A glance assured the two young fellows from the East that it was a bad smash indeed.

Several of the rear boxcars were slung athwart the passenger tracks. The passenger train that had been ahead of the Pullman train on which Tom and Ned rode, had been badly beaten in all along its side. Scarcely a whole window was left on the inner side of the five cars. But those cars were not derailed. It was merely some of the freight cars that retarded the further progress of the transcontinental flyer. A derrick car must be brought up to lift away the debris before the fast train could move on.

Tom and Ned walked forward along the length of the wreck. Suddenly the anxious young inventor seized Ned's arm.

"Glory be!" he ejaculated. "It's topside up, anyway."

"The Hercules Three-Oughts-One?" gasped Ned.

"That's what it is!"

Tom quickened his pace, and his financial manager followed close upon his heels. The forward end of Forty-eight had not left the track and the electric locomotive stood upright upon the rails, being near the head end of the train.

"If this wreck was intentional, and aimed at your invention, Tom," whispered Ned Newton, "it did not result as the wreckers expected."

Tom scouted the idea suggested by his chum. And in a few moments they learned from a railroad employee that a broken flange on a boxcar wheel had caused the wreck.

"So that disposes of your suspicion, Ned," said Tom, approaching the huge electric locomotive.

"Hey, gents!" exclaimed another railroad man, one of the crew of the wrecked freight. "Better keep away from that locomotive."

"What's the matter with it?" Ned asked, curiously.

"Got some kind of an aborigine caged up in it. You put your hand on any part of it and he's likely to jump out and bite your hand off, or something. Believe me, he's some savage."

Both Tom and Ned burst into laughter. The former went forward to the door of the cab and knocked in a peculiar way. It was a signal that the giant recognized instantly.

"Master!" Koku cried from inside the cab. "Master! Him come in?"

"No, Koku," said Tom. "I'm not coming in. Are you all right?"

"Yes. Koku all right. Him come out?"

"No, no!" laughed Tom. "You are not at your journey's end yet, Koku. Keep on the job a while longer."

"Sure. Koku stay here forever, if Master say so."

"Forever is a long word, Koku," said Tom, more seriously. "I'll tell you when to open the door. I'll be at the end of the journey to meet you."

"It all right if Master say so. But Koku no like to travel in box," grumbled the giant.

Tom turned from the electric locomotive to see Ned staring across the tracks at a man who was talking to several of the train crew of the side-swiped accommodation train. That train was about to be moved on under its own power. None of the wreckage of the freight interfered with the progress of the accommodation.

Tom stepped to Ned's side and touched his arm. "Who is he?" the inventor asked.

The man who had attracted Ned's attention and now held Tom's interest as well was a solid looking man with gray hair and a dyed mustache. He was chewing on a long and black cigar, and he spoke to the train hands with authority.

"Well, why can't you find him?" he wanted to know in a hoarse and arrogant voice.

"Who is he?" asked Tom again in Ned's ear.

"I've seen him somewhere. Or else I've seen somebody that looks like him. Maybe I've seen his picture. He's somebody of importance."

"He thinks he is," rejoined the young inventor, with some disdain.

In answer to something one of the railroad men said the important looking individual uttered an oath and added:

"There's nobody been killed then? He's just missing? He was sitting in the coach ahead of me. I saw him just before the wreck. You know O'Malley yourself. Do you mean to say you haven't seen him, Conductor?"

"I assure you he disappeared like smoke, sir," said the passenger conductor. "I haven't an idea what became of him."

"Humph! If you see him, send him to me," and the solid man stepped heavily aboard the nearest coach and disappeared inside.

Tom and Ned stared at each other with wondering gaze. O'Malley! The spy who had represented Montagne Lewis and the Hendrickton & Western Railroad in the East.

"What do you know about that?" demanded Ned, wonderingly.

"Hold on!" exclaimed Tom. He sprang across the rails after the conductor of the accommodation train that was just starting on. "Let me ask you a question."

"Yes, sir?" replied the conductor

"Who was that man who just spoke to you?" "That man? Why, I thought everybody out this way knew Montagne Lewis. That is his name, sir -- and a big man he is. Yes, sir," and the conductor, giving the watching engineer of his train the "highball," caught the hand-rail of the car and swung himself aboard as the train started.



Chapter XVIII

On the Hendrickton & Pas Alos


The transcontinental was delayed three hours by the strewn wreckage of the rear of Number Forty-eight. When she went on the two young fellows from Shopton gazed anxiously at the Hercules 0001, which stood between two gondolas in the forward end of the freight train.

"Just by luck nothing happened to it," muttered Ned.

"Just luck," agreed Tom Swift. "It was a shock to me to learn that Andy O'Malley was right there on the spot when the accident happened."

"And his employer, too," added Ned. "For we must admit that Mr. Montagne Lewis is the man who sicked O'Malley on to you."

"True."

"And they were both in the accommodation that was sideswiped by the derailed cars of Number Forty-eight."

"That, likewise is a fact," said Tom, nodding quickly.

"But what puzzles me, as it seemed to puzzle Lewis, more than anything else, is what became of O'Malley?"

"I guess I can see through that knot-hole," Tom rejoined.

"Yes?"

"I bet O'Malley got a squint at me -- or perhaps at you -- as we walked up the track from this coach, and he lit out in a hurry. There stood the Three-Oughts-One, and there were we. He knew we would raise a hue and cry if we saw him in the vicinity of my locomotive."

"I bet that's the truth, Tom."

"I know it. He didn't even have time to warn his employer. By the way, Ned, what a brute that Montagne Lewis looks to be."

"I believe you! I remember having seen his photograph in a magazine. Oh, he's some punkins, Tom."

"And just as wicked as they make 'em, I bet! Face just as pleasant as a bulldog's!"

"You said it. I'm afraid of that man. I shall not have a moment's peace until you have handed the Hercules Three-Oughts-One over to Mr. Bartholomew and got his acceptance."

"If I do," murmured Tom.

"Of course you will, if that Lewis or his henchmen don't smash things up. You are not afraid of the speed matter now, are you?" demanded Ned confidently.

"I can be sure of nothing until after the tests," said Tom, shaking his head. "Remember, Ned, that I have set out to accomplish what was never done before -- to drive a locomotive over the rails at two miles a minute. It's a mighty big undertaking."

"Of course it will come out all right. If Koku is faithful --  -- "

"That is the smallest 'if' in the category," Tom interposed, with a laugh. "If I was as sure of all else as I am of Koku, we'd have plain sailing before us."

Two days later Tom Swift and Ned Newton were ushered into the private office of the president of the H. & P. A. at the Hendrickton terminal. The two young fellows from the East had got in the night before, had become established at the best hotel in the rapidly growing Western municipality, and had seen something of the town itself during the hours before midnight.

Now they were ready for business, and very important business, too.

Mr. Richard Bartholomew sat up in his desk chair and his keen eyes suddenly sparkled when he saw his visitors and recognized them.

"I did not expect you so soon. Your locomotive arrived yesterday, Mr. Swift. How are you, Mr. Newton?"

He motioned for them to take chairs. His secretary left the room. The railroad magnate at once became confidential.

"Nothing happened on the way?" he asked, pointedly. "There was a freight wreck, I understand?"

"And we chanced to be right at hand when that happened," said Tom.

"So was your friend, Mr. Lewis," remarked Ned Newton.

"You don't mean to say that Montagne Lewis -- "

"Was there. And Andy O'Malley," put in Tom.

Then he detailed the incident, as far as he and Ned knew the details, to Mr. Bartholomew, who listened with close attention.

"Well, it might merely have been a coincidence," murmured the railroad president. "But, of course, we can't be sure. Anyhow, it is just as well if your servant, Mr. Swift, keeps close watch still upon that locomotive."

"He will," said Tom, nodding. "He is down there in the yard with the Hercules Three-Oughts-One, and I mean to keep Koku right on the job."

"Good! Let's go down and look at her," Mr. Bartholomew said, eagerly.

But first Tom wanted to go into the theoretical particulars of his invention. And he confessed that thus far his tests of the locomotive had not been altogether satisfactory.

"I have got to have a clear track on a stretch of your own line here, Mr. Bartholomew, and under certain conditions, before I can be sure as to just how much speed I can get out of the machine."

"Speed is the essential point, Mr. Swift," said the railroad man, seriously.

"That is what I have been telling Ned," Tom rejoined. "I believe my improvements over the Jandel patents are worthy. I know I have a very powerful locomotive. But that is not enough."

"We have got to shoot our trains through the Pas Alos Range faster than trains were ever shot over the grades before, or we have failed," said Mr. Bartholomew, with decision.

"But -- " began Ned; but Tom put up an arresting hand and his financial manager ceased speaking.

"I have not forgotten the details of our contract, Mr. Bartholomew," he said, quietly. "Two-miles-a-minute is the target I have aimed for. Whether I have hit it or not, well, time will show. I have got to try the locomotive out on the tracks of the H. & P. A. in any case. The Hercules Three-Oughts-One has been dragged a long distance, and has been through at least one wreck. I want to see if she is all right before I test her officially."

"I'll arrange that for you," said Mr. Bartholomew, briskly, putting away his papers. "I will go with you, too, and take a look at the marvel."

"And a marvel it is," grumbled Ned. "Don't let him fool you, Mr. Bartholomew. Tom never does consider what he's done as being as great as it really is."

"Everything must be proved," Tom said, cautiously. "If it was a financial problem, Mr. Bartholomew, believe me it would be Ned who displayed caution. But I have seldom built anything that could not -- and has not -- later been improved."

"You do not consider your electric locomotive, then, a completed invention?" asked Mr. Bartholomew, as the three walked down the yard.

"I have too much experience to say it is perfect," returned Tom. "I can scarcely believe, even, that it is going to suit you, Mr. Bartholomew, even if the speed test is as promising as I hope it may be."

"Humph!"

"But before I shall be willing to throw up the sponge and say that I have failed, I shall monkey with the Hercules Three-Oughts-One quite a little on your tracks."

"Your six months isn't up yet," said Mr. Bartholomew, more cheerfully. "And it doesn't matter if it is. If you see any chance of making a success of your invention, you are welcome to try it out on the tracks of the H. & P. A. for another six months."

"All right," Tom said, smiling. "Now, there is the Hercules Three-Oughts-One, Mr. Bartholomew. And there is Koku looking longingly through the window."

In fact, the giant, the moment he saw Tom, ran to unbar and open the door of the cab on that side.

"Master! If no let Koku out, Koku go amuck -- crazy! No can breathe in here! No can eat! No can sleep!"

"The poor fellow!" ejaculated Ned.

"What's the matter with him?" asked Mr. Bartholomew, curiously.

"Get out, if you want to, Koku. I'll stay by while you kick up your heels."

No sooner had the inventor spoken than the giant leaped from the open door of the locomotive and dashed away along the cinder path as though he actually had to run away. Tom burst into a laugh, as he watched the giant disappear beyond the strings of freight cars.

"What is the matter with him?" repeated the railroad president.

"He's got the cramp all right," laughed Tom Swift. "You don't understand, Mr. Bartholomew, what it means to that big fellow to be housed in for so many days, and unable to kick a free limb. I bet he runs ten miles before he stops."

"The police will arrest him," said the railroad man.

It was then Ned's turn to chuckle. "I am sorry for your railroad police if they tackle Koku right now," he said. "He'd lay out about a dozen ordinary men without half trying. But, ordinarily, he is the most mild-mannered fellow who ever lived."

"He will come back, if he is let alone, as harmless as a kitten," Tom observed. "And when I am not with the Hercules Three-Oughts-One, and while I continue making my tests, Koku will be on guard. You might tell your police force, Mr. Bartholomew, to let him alone. Now come aboard and let me show you what I have been trying to do."

They spent two hours inside the cab of the great locomotive. Mr. Richard Bartholomew was possessed of no small degree of mechanical education. He might not be a genius in mechanics as Tom Swift was, but he could follow the latter's explanations regarding the improvements in the electrical equipment of this new type of locomotive.

"I don't know what your speed tests will show, Mr. Swift," said the railroad president, with added enthusiasm. "But if those parts will do what you say they have already done, you've got the Jandels beat a mile! I'm for you, strong. Yes, sir! like your friend, Newton, here, I believe that you have hit the right track. You are going to triumph."

But Tom's triumph did not come at once. He knew more about the uncertainties of mechanical contrivances than did either Mr. Bartholomew or Ned Newton.

The very next day the Hercules 0001 was got out upon a section of the electrified system of the Hendrickton & Pas Alos Railway, and the pantagraphs of the huge locomotive for the first time came into connection with the twin conductor trolleys which overhung the rails.

Ned accompanied Tom as assistant. Koku was allowed by the inventor to roam about the hills as much as he pleased during the hours in which his master was engaged with the Hercules 0001. Tom did not think any harm would come to Koku, and he knew that the giant would enjoy immensely a free foot in such a wild country. The two young fellows, dressed in working suits of overall stuff, spent long hours in the cab of the electric locomotive. Their try-outs had to be made for the most part on sidetracks and freight switches, some miles outside Hendrickton, where the invention would not be in the way of regular traffic.

Speed on level tracks had been raised in one test to over ninety-five miles an hour and Mr. Bartholomew cheered wildly from the cab of a huge Mallet that paced Tom's locomotive on a parallel track. No steam locomotive had ever made such fast time.

But Tom was after something bigger than this. He wanted to show the president of the H. & P. A. that the Hercules 0001 could drag a load over the Pas Alos Range at a pace never before gained by any mountain-hog.

Therefore he coaxed the electric locomotive out into the hills, some hundred or more miles from headquarters. He had to keep in touch with the train dispatcher's office, of course; the new machine had often to take a sidetrack. Nor was much of this hilly right-of-way electrified. The Jandels locomotive had been found to be a failure on the sharp grades; so the extension of the trolley system had been abandoned.

But there was one steep grade between Hammon and Cliff City that had been completed. The current could be fed to the cables over this stretch of track, and for a week Tom used this long and steep grade just as much as he could, considering of course the demands of the regular traffic.

The telegraph operator at Half Way (merely a name for a station, for there was not a habitation in sight) thrust his long upper-length out of the telegraph office window one afternoon and waved a "highball" to the waiting electric locomotive on the sidetrack.

"Dispatcher says you can have Track Number Two West till the four-thirteen, westbound, is due. I'll slip the operator at Cliff City the news and he'll be on the lookout for you as well as me, Mr. Swift. Go to it."

Every man on the system was interested, and most of them enthusiastic, about Tom's invention. The latter knew that he could depend upon this operator and his mate to watch out for the western-bound flyer that would begin its climb of the grade at Hammon less than half an hour hence.

The electric locomotive was coaxed out across the switch. Tom was earnestly inspecting the more delicate parts of the mechanism while Ned (and proud he was to do it) handled the levers. Once on the main line he moved the controller forward. The machine began to pick up speed.

The drumming of the wheels over the rail joints became a single note -- an increasing roar of sound. The electric locomotive shot up the grade. The arrow on the speedometer crept around the dial and Ned's eye was more often fastened on that than it was on the glistening twin rails which mounted the grade.

Black-green hemlock and spruce bordered the right of way on either hand. Their shadows made the tunnel through the forest almost dark. But Tom had not seen fit to turn on the headlight.

"How is she making out?" asked the inventor, coming to look over his chum's shoulder.

"It's great, Tom!" breathed Ned Newton, his eyes glistening. "She eats this grade up."

"And it's within a narrow fraction of a two per cent.," said the inventor proudly. "She takes it without a jar -- Hold on! What's that ahead?"

The locomotive had traveled ten miles or more from Half Way. The summit of the grade was not far ahead. But the forest shut out all view of the station at Cliff City and the structures that stood near it.

Right across the steel ribbons on which the hercules 0001 ran, Tom had seen something which brought the question to his lips. Ned Newton saw it too, and he shouted aloud:

"Tree down! A log fallen, Tom!"

He did not lose completely his self-control. But he grabbed the levers with less care than he should. He tried to yank two of them at once, and, in doing so, he fouled the brakes!

He had shut off connection with the current. But the brake control was jammed. The locomotive quickly came to a halt. Then, before Tom could get to the open door, the wheels began spinning in reverse and the great Hercules 0001 began the descent of the steep grade, utterly unmanageable!



Chapter XIX

Peril, The Mother of Invention


Tom Swift's first thought was one of thankfulness. Thankfulness that he did not have a drag of fifty or sixty steel gondolas or the like to add their weight to the down-pull. The locomotive's own weight of approximately two hundred and seventy tons was enough.

For when the inventor pushed Ned aside and tried to handle the controllers properly, he found them unmanageable. There was not a chance of freeing them and getting power on the brakes. The Hercules 0001 was backing down the mountain side with a speed that was momentarily increasing, and without a chance of retarding it!

The young inventor at that moment of peril, knew no more what to do to avert disaster than Ned Newton himself.

It flashed across his mind, however, that others beside themselves were in peril because of this accident. The fast express from the East that should pass Half Way at four-thirteen, might already be climbing the hill from Hammon. Hammon, at the foot of the grade, was twenty-five miles away. Nor was the track straight.

If the operator at Half Way did not see the runaway locomotive and telephone the danger to the foot of the grade, when the Hercules 0001 came tearing down the track it might ram something in the Hammon yard, if it did not actually collide with the approaching westbound express.

Such an emergency as this is likely either to numb the brains of those entangled in the peril or excite them to increased activity. Ned Newton was apparently stunned by the catastrophe. Tom's brain never worked more clearly.

He seized the siren lever and set it at full, so that the blast called up continuous echoes in the forest as the locomotive plunged down the incline. He ran to the door again, on the side where Half Way station lay, and hung out to signal the operator who had so recently given him right of way on this stretch of mountain road.

"We're going to smash! We're going to smash!" groaned Ned Newton.

Tom read these words on his chum's lips, rather than heard them, for the roar of the descending locomotive drowned every other sound. Tom waved an encouraging hand, but did not reply audibly.

Meanwhile his brain was working as fast as ever it had. He had instantly comprehended all the danger of the situation. But in addition he appreciated the fact that such an accident as this might happen at any time to this or any other locomotive he might build.

Automatic brakes were all right. If there had been a good drag of cars behind the Hercules 0001, on which the compressed air brakes might have been set, the present manifest peril might have been obliterated. The brakes on the cars would have stopped the whole train.

But to halt this huge monster when alone, on the grade, was another matter. Once the locomotive brake lever was jammed, as in this case, there was no help for the huge machine. It had to ride to the foot of the grade -- if it did not chance to hit something on the way!

And with this realization of both the imminent peril and the need of averting it, to Tom's active brain came the germ of an idea that he determined to put into force, if he lived through this accident, on each and every electric locomotive that he might in the future build.

This monster, flying faster and faster down the mountain side, was a menace to everything in its track. There might be almost anything in the way of rolling stock on the section between Half Way and Hammon at the foot of the grade. If this thunderbolt of wood and steel collided with any other train, with the force and weight gathered by its plunge down the mountain, it would drive through such obstruction like a projectile from Tom's own big cannon.

Tom realized this fact. He knew that whatever object the Hercules 0001 might strike, that object would be shattered and scattered all about the right of way. What might happen to the runaway was another matter. But the inventor believed that the electric locomotive would be less injured than anything with which it came into collision.

At any rate, thought of the peril to himself and his invention had secondary consideration in Tom Swift's mind. It was what the monster which he could not control might do to other rolling stock of the H. & P. A. that rasped the young fellow's mind.

The grade above Half Way had few curves. Tom soon caught the first glimpse of the station. Would the operator hear the roar of the descending runaway and understand what had happened?

He leaned far out from the open doorway and waved his cap madly. He began to shout a warning, although he saw not a soul about the station and knew very well that his voice was completely drowned by the voice of the siren and the drumming of the great wheels.

Suddenly the tousled head of the operator popped out of his window. He saw the coming locomotive, the drivers smoking!

To be a good railroad man one has to have his wits about him. To be a good operator at a backwoods station one has to have two sets of wits -- one set to tell what to do in an emergency, the other to listen and apprehend the voice of the sounder.

This Half Way man was good. He knew better than to try the telegraph instrument. He grabbed the telephone receiver and jiggled the hook up and down on the standard while the Hercules 0001 roared past the station.

It did not need Tom's frantically waving cap to warn him what had happened. And he remembered clearly the fact of the expected westbound flyer.

"Hammon? Get me? This is Half Way. That derned electric hog has sprung something and is coming down, lickity-split!

"Yes! Clear your yard! Where's Number Twenty-eight? Good! Side her, or she'll be ditched. Get me?"

The voice at the other end of the wire exploded into indignant vituperation. Then silence. The Half Way operator had done his best -- his all. He ran out upon the platform. The electric locomotive had disappeared behind the woods, but the roar of its wheels and the shrill voice of its siren echoed back along the line.

The sound faded into insignificance. The operator went back into his hut and stayed close by the telephone instrument for the next ten minutes to learn the worst.

If the operator's nerves were tense, what about those of Tom Swift and his chum? Ned staggered to the door and clung to Tom's arm. He shrilled into the latter's ear:

"Shall we jump?"

"I don't see any soft spots," returned Tom, grimly. "There aren't any life nets along this line."

Ned Newton was frightened, and with good reason. But if his chum was equally terrified he did not show it. He continued to lean from the open door to peer down the grade as the Hercules 0001 drove on.

Around curve after curve they flew. It entered Ned's tortured mind that if his chum had wanted speed, he was getting it now! He realized that two miles a minute was a mere bagatelle to the pace now accomplished by the runaway locomotive.



Chapter XX

The Result


As Ned Newton, fumbling at the controls when he saw the fallen tree across the tracks, had jammed the brakes, the station master at Hammon, at the bottom of this long grade on the Hendrickton & Pas Alos, had stepped out to the blackboard in the barnlike waiting room and scrawled with a bit of chalk:

"No. 28 -- Westbound -- due 3:38 is 15 m. late."


The fact, thus given to the general public or to such of it as might be interested, averted what would have been a terrible catastrophe.

The fast express was late. When the babbling voice of the Half Way operator over the telephone warned Hammon of the coming of the runaway electric locomotive, there was time to shift switches at the head of the yard so that, when Number Twenty-eight came roaring in, she was shunted on to a far track and flagged for a stop before she hit the bumper.

Thirty seconds later, from the west, the Hercules 0001 roared down the grade and shot into the cleared west track in a halo of smoke and dust. Speed! No runaway had ever traveled faster and kept the rails. The story of the incident was embalmed in railroad history, and no history is so full of vivid incident as that of the rail.

When the first relay of excited railroad men reached the electric locomotive after it had stopped on the long level, even Ned Newton had pulled himself together and could look out upon the world with some measure of calmness. Tom Swift was making certain notes and draughting a curious little diagram upon a page of his notebook.

"What happened to you, Mr. Swift?" was the demand of the first arrival.

"Oh, my foot slipped," said the young inventor, and they got nothing more out of him than that.

But to Ned, after the crowd had gone, the inventor said:

"Ned, my boy, they used to say that necessity was the mother of invention. Therefore a loaf of bread was considered the maternal parent of the locomotive. I've got one that will beat that."

"Whew!" gasped Ned. "How can you? I haven't got my breath back yet."

"It is peril that is the mother of invention," Tom went on, still jotting down his notes. "Believe me! that jolt gave me a new idea -- an important idea. Suppose that operator at Half Way had been out back somewhere, and had not seen or heard us flash by?"

"Well, suppose he had? What's the answer?" sighed Ned.

"Like enough we would have rammed something down here."

"And I hardly understand even now why we didn't do just that," muttered his chum, with a shake of his head.

"Wake up, Ned! It's all over," laughed Tom. "While it was happening I admit I was guessing just as hard as you were about the finish. But -- "

"Your recovery is better," grumbled his friend. "I'm scared yet."

"And it might happen again -- "

"No -- not -- ever!" exclaimed Ned. "I shall never touch those controllers again. I'll drive your airscout, or your fastest automobile, or anything like that. But me and this electric locomotive have parted company for good. Yes, sir!"

"All right. It wasn't your fault. It might happen to any motor-engineer. And the very fact that it can happen has given me my idea. I tell you that danger is the mother of invention."

"As far as I am concerned, it can be father and grandparents into the bargain," Ned declared, with a smile.

"Wake up!" cried his friend again. "I have got a dandy idea. I wouldn't have missed that trip for anything."

"You are crazy," interrupted Ned. "Suppose we had bumped something?"

"But we didn't bump anything, except my brain tank. An idea bumped it, I tell you. I am going to eliminate any such peril as that here-after."

"You mean you are going to make it impossible for this locomotive ever to slide down such a hill again if the brakes won't work? Humph! Meanwhile I will go out and make the nearest water-fall begin to run upward."

"Don't scoff. I do not mean just what you mean."

"I bet you don't!"

"But although I cannot be sure that a locomotive will never again fall downhill," said Tom patiently, "I'm going to fix it so that warning need not be given by some operator along the line. The engineer must be able to send warning of his accident, both up and down the road."

"Huh? How are you going to do that?" demanded Ned.

"Wireless telephone. I may make some improvements on the present models; but it is practicable. It has been used on submarines and cruisers, and lately its practicability has been proved in the forestry service.

"Every one of these electric locomotives I turn out will be supplied with wireless sets. The expense of making certain telegraph offices along the line into receiving stations will be small. I am going to take that up with Mr. Bartholomew at once. And I am going to fix these brake controls so that nobody need ball them up again."

If, out of such a desperate adventure, Tom could bring to fruition really worthwhile improvements in relation to his invention, Ned acknowledged the value of the incident. Just the same, he had a personal objection to having any part in a similar experience.

He was brave, but he could not forget danger. Tom seemed to throw the effect of that terrible ride off his mind almost instantly. Ned dreamed of it at night!

However, from that time things seemed to go with a rush. Mr. Bartholomew approved of the young inventor's suggestion regarding the use of the wireless telephone as a method of averting a certain quality of danger in the use of the proposed monster locomotive. The railroad man was convinced that Tom's ideas were finally to culminate in success, and he was ready to spend money, much money, in pushing on the work.

It was not long before a private test of the Hercules 0001 up the grade from Hammon to Cliff City showed Mr. Bartholomew that the speed he had required in his contract was attainable. With a drag fully as heavy as any two locomotives had been able to get over the same sector, the new locomotive alone marked a forty-five mile an hour pace.

This attainment was kept quiet; not even the train crew knew what the monster had done when they reached the summit of the mountain. But Mr. Bartholomew, who rode with Tom and Ned in the cab, had held his own watch on the test and compared it every minute with the speedometer.

"I am satisfied that you are going to do more than I had really hoped, Mr. Swift," the railroad president said at the end of the run. "Already you could drive this locomotive at a two-mile-a-minute clip on level rails, I am sure. Keep at it! Nobody will be more delighted than I shall be if you pull down that hundred thousand dollars' bonus."

"That's a fine way to talk, sir," cried Ned, with enthusiasm.

"I mean every word of it, Mr. Newton. The money is his as soon as he makes good."

Both Tom and his financial manager left the president's office in a satisfied state of mind.

"Great news to send home, Tom," remarked Ned, when they were alone.

"Righto, Ned. My father will be glad to hear it."

"And what about Mary?" And Ned poked his chum in the ribs.

"I guess she'll be glad too," Tom replied, his face reddening.

That night Tom sent word to Mary and also a telegram, in code, to his father, saying the prospects were now bright for a quick finish of the task that had brought him West.



Chapter XXI

The Open Switch


Meanwhile the work of electrifying another division of the Hendrickton & Pas Alos Railroad had been pushed to completion. As Mr. Bartholomew had in the first place stated, the road controlled water rights in the hills which would supply any number of electric power stations, and his enemies could not shut his road off from these waterfalls.

Tom had not warned his faithful servant, the giant Koku, to watch out for Andy O'Malley in particular; the inventor knew that the giant would be as cautious about any stranger as could be wished. But personally Tom was amazed that either O'Malley or some other henchman of the president of the Hendrickton & Western did not make an attempt to injure the electric locomotive.

"Perhaps Mr. Bartholomew's police are really of some good," said Ned Newton, when his chum mentioned his surprise on this point. "Has Koku seen nobody lurking about at night?"

"He certainly has not seen the man he calls 'Big Feet,'" chuckled Tom. "If he had spotted O'Malley, there certainly would have been an explosion."

"Tell you what," Ned said reflectively, "the longer Lewis keeps off you, the more suspicious I should be."

"You think he is a bad citizen, do you?"

"And then some, as the boys say out here," replied Ned. "I wouldn't trust that man any farther than I would a nest of hornets or a shedding rattlesnake."

"I am inclined to believe, with you, Ned, that Lewis is hatching up something and is keeping mighty whist about it. I sounded Mr. Bartholomew on the idea and he, too, is puzzled."

"I guess he knows that hombre," grumbled Ned.

"Mr. Bartholomew admits that several roads have sent representatives to make inquiries about my locomotive. They have got wind of it, and, after all, most railroads work in unison. What means progress for one is progress for all."

"That same rule does not seem to apply in the case of the H. & P. A. and the H. & W.," remarked Ned.

"No. They are out and out rivals. And Lewis and his gang have done this road dirt -- no two ways about that. But when I am convinced that my locomotive has got all the speed and power contracted for, Mr. Bartholomew wants to invite a bunch of his brother railroaders to see the tests -- to ride in the Hercules Three-Oughts-One, in fact."

"How about it? You going to agree? Suppose they have some inventive sharp along who will be able to steal some of your mechanical contrivances -- in his head, I mean," and Ned seemed quite suddenly anxious.

"I had thought of that. But before the test I shall send my blueprints to Washington. Our patent attorney there has already filed tentative plans and applied for certain patents that I consider completed. Don't fret. I'll make it impossible for anybody to steal our patents legally."

"Yes! But illegally?"

"That we cannot help in any case, and you know it," Tom said. "If some road tries to build anything like the Hercules Three-Oughts-One for the first two years without arranging with the Swift Construction Company, you know that that railroad can be made to suffer in the courts, and you are the boy, Ned, to put them over the jumps for it."

"Sure," grumbled his chum. "It's always up to me to save the day."

"Exactly," chuckled Tom. "And in your character of life saver, do look out for anybody who looks suspicious hanging about the Hercules Three-Oughts-One. I'll take care of rival inventors. You and Koku keep your eyes peeled for the H. & W. spies. Especially for that Andy O'Malley. I feel that he will again show up. Maybe by 'the pricking of my thumb' as Macbeth's witch used to remark."

Every day save Sunday the electric locomotive had some kind of try-out. On a level track Tom was sure of his monster invention's qualities; but in the hills, at a distance from the Hendrickton terminal, it was another matter.

The grades were steep; but the road was well ballasted. There was plenty of power. He saw the Jandel locomotives hurry back and forth with the local trains and realized that this rival invention was by no means to be despised.

It was at about this time, too, that Mr. Damon appeared in Hendrickton. Early one forenoon, when Tom and Ned were preparing to take the Hercules 0001 out of the yard, and Koku was going to his lodgings to get a little sleep, Tom's eccentric friend came across the tracks, waving his cane at Tom.

"Bless my frogs and switch-targets!" he ejaculated, "I've walked a mile from that station to get here. Where are you going with that big contraption? How does it work? Does it make all the speed you want, Tom Swift? Bless my rails and sleepers!'

"We're going about a hundred miles out on the road to a good, stiff grade," Tom told him, having shaken hands in welcome. "If you want to, get aboard."

"They haven't blown you up yet, or otherwise wrecked the locomotive," remarked Mr. Damon, grinning broadly. "I'll have to write right back to your father -- and to a certain young lady who shows a remarkable interest in your welfare -- that you are all right."

"They should already be sure of that," laughed Tom. "Ned and I have kept the post-office department and the telegraph company very busy."

"They are waiting for my report," announced Mr. Damon, with confidence. "And I am waiting for yours. Tell me, Tom: Is the locomotive a success?"

"It's going to be," declared the inventor, with decision.

"Bless my trolley wires!" cried Mr. Damon, "I am glad to hear that. Then you will surely pull down the extra hundred thousand dollars?"

"I believe I shall fulfill every clause of the contract Mr. Bartholomew and I signed," said Tom.

"Then it's more than a success!" cried his friend. "You have invented another marvel, Tom Swift!"

"Marvel or not," rejoined Tom, "I believe that the Hercules Three-Oughts-One will top anything so far built in the way of electric locomotives."

"Hurrah!" cried Mr. Damon. "Bless my controller! But your father and Mary Nestor will be glad to hear that!"

Mr. Damon was quite as much interested in this invention as he always was in anything the young inventor worked upon. When he had once seen the Hercules 0001 work on an up-grade he was doubly enthusiastic. To his sanguine mind the locomotive was already completed. He could see no possibility of failure.

Tom, however, had to prove to his own satisfaction the success of every detail of his invention before he was willing to tell Mr. Bartholomew that he was ready for a public test. Mr. Damon, nor even Ned, could scarcely see the reason for Tom's caution.

Tom's favorite try-out grade was between Hammon and Cliff City. He could obtain a right of way order from the train dispatcher on that grade, sometimes of an hour's duration. He often snaked a load of gondolas or cattle cars up the grade, relieving both the puller and pusher steam locomotive. By this time the H. & P. A. system had stopped using the Jandel machines on any grades. They had proved their lack of power for such work.

"But the Hercules Three-Oughts-One shows at every test that it has the kick," Mr. Damon cried.

In his enthusiasm he was out every day with Tom and Ned. And sometimes Koku remained in the cab during the trial runs as well.

On one such occasion Tom had drawn a heavy train over the mountain, taking it down the grade beyond Cliff City to Panboro in the farther valley. This was over a newly built stretch of the electrified road. The power station charged the trolley cables with an abundance of current, and the Hercules 0001 made a splendid trip.

"Bless my cuff-links!" ejaculated Mr. Damon, his rosy face one beaming smile. "You couldn't expect to do better than this. You save one locomotive on the haul, and you beat the schedule ten minutes, so that you had to lay by to get right of way into the yard here. Why linger longer, Tom?"

"I agree with Mr. Damon," Ned said. "It seems to work perfectly. And you have, I believe, established your required speed."

"Can't be too perfect," said the young inventor, smiling. "But I will tell Mr. Bartholomew when we get back that he can set his time for the big test whenever he pleases. I have already sent our patent attorney in Washington the final blueprints. Now, if nothing happens -- "

"Bless my stickpin!" exclaimed Mr. Damon, "What can happen now that the locomotive is practically perfect?"

That question was answered in one way, and a most startling way, within the hour. Tom got right of way back over the mountain and pushed the electric locomotive up-grade at almost top speed. He drew no train on this occasion, and the speed made by the Hercules 0001 was really remarkable.

They topped the rise at Cliff City and got orders from the dispatcher to proceed on the time of Number Eighty-seven, which chanced to be late. With that release Tom might have made the entire distance of a hundred and ten miles to Hendrickton had it not been for the accident -- the unexpected something that so often happens in the railroad business.

Tom was a careful driver; the chatter of Ned and Mr. Damon did not take the inventor's mind off his business for one instant. He was quite alert at his window, looking ahead, as Koku was at the open doorway of the cab.

Not a mile outside of Cliff City, and on this eastbound side of the right of way, was a long siding and a shipping point for timber. It was sometimes a busy point; but at this time of year there were no lumbermen about and no activities in the adjacent forest.

The Hercules 0001 came spinning along from the Cliff City yards, and Tom Swift gave scarcely a glance to the joint of the switch ahead. He had been over it so many times of late, and knew that it was always locked. The railroad did not even keep a man here at this season.

Suddenly Koku emitted a wild yell. He startled everybody else in the cab, as he flung his huge body more than half out of the doorway and prepared to jump -- or so it seemed.

Ned shrieked a warning to the big fellow. Mr. Damon began to bless everything in sight. But it was Tom, quite as excited as his friends, who understood what Koku shouted:

"Big Feet! Big Feet! I see um Big Feet, Master!"

The next moment he threw himself from the rapidly moving locomotive. He might have been killed easily enough. But fortunately he landed feet first in the drift beside the rails, and remained upright as he slid down into the ditch.

Tom, glancing ahead again, saw the flash of a man in a checked Mackinaw running up through the open wood and away from the right of way. He could not be sure of Andy O'Malley's figure at that distance; but he could be pretty confident of Koku's identification.

And then, with a shock that gripped and almost paralyzed his mind, Tom saw again the switch ahead of the pilot of the Hercules 0001. The switch was open, and at the speed the electric locomotive had attained, if she did not jump the rails, it seemed scarcely possible that she could be stopped before hitting the bumper at the end of the siding!



Chapter XXII

A Desperate Chase


These moments were fraught with peril, and not alone peril to the huge machine that Tom Swift had built, but peril to those who remained in the cab of the electric locomotive, as her forward trucks struck the open switch.

There was a mighty jerk that brought a shout from Ned Newton's lips and a grunt from Mr. Damon. Tom clung to his swivel-seat, staring ahead.

The pilot of the electric locomotive shot over on the siding; the forward trucks followed, then the great drivers. The whole locomotive swerved into the siding, but for several breathless seconds Tom was not at all sure that the monster would not jump the rails and head into the ditch!

Meanwhile his gaze measured the speed of that flying figure in the Mackinaw as it scuttled up the slope through the open grove of hard wood and pine. He could not at first see Koku, but he knew the giant was headed for the fugitive, whether the latter proved to be Andy O'Malley or not.

Tom's gaze flashed to what lay ahead of the electric locomotive. As it seemed to joggle back into balance, gain its uprightness, as it were, the inventor saw the great, log-braced bumper between the two rails at the end of the siding. With what force would the locomotive hit that obstruction?

Until the trailers were over the switch Tom dared not give her the brakes. To lock the brake shoes upon the wheels might easily throw the locomotive off the rails. But the instant he felt the tail of the long locomotive swerve off the switch he jabbed the compressed air lever and the wild shriek of the brake shoes answered to his effort.

Then the bumper was but a few yards ahead. The electric locomotive was bound to collide with it. And under the speed at which it had been running, now scarcely reduced by half, the collision was apt to be a tragic happening!

Weeks of effort might be ruined in that moment! If the crash was serious, thousands of dollars might be lost! In truth, Tom Swift apprehended the possibility of a disaster, the complete results of which might put the test of his invention forward for weeks -- perhaps for months.

Nor could he do a thing to avert the disaster. He had reversed and set the brakes immediately after the last wheel of the trailer was on the siding. Nothing more could he do as the great electric locomotive bore down upon the solid timber at the far end of this short track.

Those few seconds, as the locked wheels slid toward the end of the siding, were about as hard to bear as any experience the young inventor had ever gone through. It was not so much the peril of the accident, it was the possibility of what might happen to the locomotive.

Within those few moments, however, Tom considered more than the safety of his companions and himself, and more than the peril of wreck to his locomotive. He considered the schedule of the trains on this division of the Hendrickton & Pas Alos and remembered all those that might be within this sector at this time.

If the locomotive smashed into the bumper with force enough to wreck the structure, would some approaching train on the westbound track not be endangered?

The thought was parent to Tom's act before the collision occurred. With a single swift motion he reached for the signaling apparatus which he had established in connection with his wireless telephone.

Just the moment before the head of the locomotive rammed that seemingly immovable barrier at the end of the siding there flashed into the air from Tom's annunciator the code word agreed upon announcing a wreck, and the number of the sector on which the electric locomotive was then running.

The next moment the crash occurred.

Tom had leaped up with a shout of warning. "Hang on!" was his cry. But when the locomotive had struck and rebounded Ned, from far down the aisle of the locomotive, wanted to know in a very peevish tone what he should have hung on to?

"My elbows!" he groaned. "I've skinned 'em, and my back has got a twist in it like the Irishman thought he had when he put on his overalls hind-side to. What's happened?"

"Bless my radiolite!" growled Mr. Damon. "My watch crystal is broken all to finders, if you want to know. Bless my shock-absorbers! you won't do this locomotive a bit of good, Tom Swift, if you stop it so abruptly."

"And that's the surest word you ever said," responded Tom, hurrying to the door. "I don't know what's broken, but we're still on the rails. The most immediate thing to learn, is the where-abouts of the fellow who did this."

"Who opened the switch?" cried Ned.

"I believe it was Andy O'Malley. Come on, Ned! Koku is after him and I don't want him to tear O'Malley apart before I get there."

"O'Malley has got powerful interests behind him, and it might go hard with Koku if he injured the spy and some of these Westerners caught him," suggested Mr. Damon.

"They ought to thank Koku for manhandling the fellow -- if he does," said Ned.

"As a matter of fact," replied Tom, "Koku will merely hold to the fellow until we get there. But my giant's strength is enormous, and he does not always know the strength of his grasp. He might hurt the fellow. Come on," and Tom leaped from the doorway of the electric locomotive.

Ned leaped down the ladder after his chum.

"Which way did they go?" he asked.

"Across the ditch and up the hill," said Tom. "Mr. Damon!" he called back to that eccentric man, "will you please remain there and watch the locomotive?"

"I certainly will. And I'm armed, too," shouted Mr. Damon. "Don't fear for this locomotive, Tom. I am right on the job."

Tom waved his hand in reply, leaped the ditch, and started up through the wood. Ned was close behind him, and the two young men ran as hard as they could in the direction Tom had seen Andy O'Malley, followed by the giant, running.

In places the earth was slippery with pine needles, and the ground was elsewhere rough. Therefore the chums did not make much speed in running after the giant and his quarry. But Tom was sure of the direction in which the two had disappeared, and he and Ned kept doggedly on.

They went over the crest of the hill and lost sight of the siding and the locomotive. Here was a sharp descent into a gulch, and some rods away, in the bottom of this gully, the young fellows obtained their first sight of Koku. He was still running with mighty strides and was evidently within sight of the man he had set out after in such haste.

"Hey! Koku!" shouted Tom Swift.

The giant's hearing was of the keenest. He glanced back and raised his arm in greeting. But he did not slacken his pace.

"He must see O'Malley, Tom," cried Ned Newton.

"I am sure he does. And I want to get there about as soon as Koku grabs the fellow," panted Tom.

"He'll maul O'Malley unmercifully," said Ned.

"I don't want Koku to injure him," admitted Tom, and he increased his own stride as he plunged down into the gully.

The young inventor distanced his chum within the next few moments. Tom ran like a deer. He reached the bottom of the gully and kept on after Koku's crashing footsteps. At every jump, too, he began to shout to the giant:

"Koku! Hold him!"

The giant's voice boomed back through the heavy timber: "I catch him! I hold him for Master! I break all um bones! Wait till Koku catch him!"

"Hold him, Koku!" yelled Tom again. "Be careful and don't hurt him till I get there!"

He could not see what the giant was doing. The timber was thicker down here. It might be that the giant would seize the man roughly. His zeal in Tom's cause was great, and, of course, his strength was enormous.

Yet Tom did not want to call the giant off the trail. Andy O'Malley must be captured at this time. He had done enough, too much, indeed, in attempting the ruin of Tom's plans. Before the matter went any further the young inventor was determined that Montagne Lewis' spy should be put where he would be able to do no more harm.

But he did not want the man permanently injured. He knew now that Koku was so wildly excited that he might set upon O'Malley as he would upon an enemy in his own country.

"Koku! Stop! Wait for me!" Tom finally shouted.

Now the young inventor got no reply from the giant. Had the latter got so far ahead that he no longer heard his master's command?

Tom pounded on, working his legs like pistons, putting every last ounce of energy he possessed into his effort. This was indeed a desperate chase.



Chapter XXIII

Mr. Damon at Bay


Mr. Wakefield Damon was a very odd and erratic gentleman, but he did not lack courage. He was much more disturbed by the possible injury to Tom Swift's invention by this collision with the bumper at the end of the timber siding than he had been by his own danger at the time of the accident.

He did not understand enough about the devices Tom had built in the forward end of the locomotive cab to understand, by any casual examination, if they were at all injured. But when he climbed down beside the track he saw at once that the forward end of the locomotive had received more than a little injury.

The pilot, or cow-catcher, looked more like an iron cobweb than it did like anything else. The wheels of the forward trucks had not left the track, but the impact of the heavy locomotive with the bumper had been so great that the latter was torn from its foundations. A little more and the electric locomotive would have shot off the end of the rails into the ditch.

While Mr. Damon was examining the front of the locomotive, and Tom and Ned remained absent, he suddenly observed a group of men hurrying out of the forest on the other side of the H. & P. A. right of way. They were not railroad men -- at least, they were not dressed in uniform -- but they were drawn immediately to the locomotive.

The leader of the party was a squarely built man with a determined countenance and a heavy mustache much blacker than his iron gray hair. He was a bullying looking man, and he strode around the rear of the locomotive and came forward just as though he was confident of boarding the machine by right.

Mr. Damon, knowing himself in the wilderness and not liking the appearance of this group of strangers, had retired at once to the cab, and now stood in the doorway.

"Where's that young fool Swift?" growled the man with the dyed mustache, looking up at Mr. Damon and laying one hand upon the rail beside the ladder.

"Don't know any such person," declared Mr. Damon promptly.

"You don't know Tom Swift?" cried the man.

"Oh! That's another matter," said Mr. Damon coolly. "I don't know any fool named Swift, either young or old. Bless my blinkers! I should say not."

"Isn't he here?" demanded the man, gruffly.

"Tom Swift isn't here just now -- no."

"I'm coming up," announced the stranger, and started to put his foot on the first rung of the iron ladder.

"You're not," said Mr. Damon, promptly.

"What's that?" ejaculated the man.

"You only think you are coming up here. But you are not. Bless my fortune telling cards!" ejaculated Mr. Damon, "I should say not."

At this point the black-mustached man began to splutter words and threats so fast that nobody could quite understand him. Mr. Damon, however, did not shrink in the least. He stood adamant in the doorway of the cab.

Finding little relief in bad language, the enemy made another attempt to climb up. For one thing, he was physically brave. He did not call on his companions to go where he feared to.

"I'll show you!" he bawled, and scrambled up the rungs of the ladder.

Mr. Damon did show him. He drew from some pocket a black object with a bulb and a long barrel. Somebody below on the cinder path shouted:

"Look out, boss he's got a gun!"

At that moment the marauder reached out to seize Mr. Damon's coat. Then the object in Mr. Damon's hand spat a fine spray into the florid face of the enemy!

"Whoo! Achoo! By gosh!" bawled the big man, and he fell back screaming other ejaculations.

"Bless my face and eyes!" cried Mr. Damon. "What did I tell you? And you other fellows want to notice it. Tom Swift isn't here just at this precise moment; but he is guarding his locomotive just the same. He invented this ammonia pistol, and I should say it was effectual. Do you?"

The eccentric man was shrewd enough now to keep behind the jamb of the cab door. For some of these fellows, he realized, might be armed with more deadly weapons than his own.

"Hey, Mr. Lewis!" cried one big fellow, "d'you want we should get that fellow for you?"

"I want to know how badly that blamed thing is smashed," replied the big man with the dyed mustache savagely. "Where's O'Malley?"

"O'Malley's lit out, Boss, like I told you. That giant and them other fellows is after him."

"Break into that cab! Oh! My eyes! I'll kill that old fool! Break a way in there -- What's that?"

In pain as he was, his other senses were alert. He was first to hear the screeching whistle of the on-coming freight.

"Think they got wind of this so quick?" demanded Montagne Lewis, for it was he. "Are they sending help from Cliff City?"

"It's a regular freight," returned one of his men.

"She's comm' a-whizzin'," added another. "Right down the eastbound track. If the crew see us -- "

"Wait!" commanded Lewis. "Isn't that switch open?"

"You bet it is, Boss."

"Let it be, then," cried the chief plotter. "Let 'em run into it. That freight will smash up this electric locomotive more completely than we could possibly do it. Stand away, men, and let her go!"

A sharp curve in the right of way hid the siding, as well as the open switch into it, from the gaze of the engineer who held the throttle of the coming freight. His locomotive drew a string of empties, eastbound, and having had a heavy pull of it coming up the grade to Cliff City, as soon as he had got the highball from the yardmaster there, he had "let her out," and was now coming to the head of the down grade to Hammon at high speed.

As it chanced, the wireless receiving station of Tom's new telephone system was not yet completed at Cliff City. The news of the wreck of the Hercules 0001 and her position had not been relayed to the master of the Cliff City yards.

That employee of the H. & P. A. had taken a chance in letting the string of empties through his block. He knew the electric locomotive was somewhere ahead, but he thought it would be making its usual time and would have already passed Half Way.

But the situation was serious. The freight was coming along at top speed and the switch into the siding was still open. Montagne Lewis and his crew of ruffians might well stand back and let what seemed sure to happen, happen! The driving freight must do more harm to Tom Swift's invention than they could have hoped to do with the sledges and bars they had brought with them to the spot.

Mr. Wakefield Damon had shown his courage already. He would have been glad to do more to save Tom's locomotive from further injury, but he did not realize what was threatening. He did not hear the shriek of the freight engine's whistle.



Chapter XXIV

Putting the Enemy to Flight


The pilot and headlight of the freight locomotive came around the turn and the freight thundered on toward the switch. Seeing the group of men standing by the stalled electric locomotive, and the locomotive itself in the clear of the siding, the driver of the freight did not suppose the switch was open. Nobody who was not a criminal would have stood by idly in such an emergency and let the freight run into an open switch.

Therefore, for the first minute, the coming engineer did not observe his danger. Lewis and his gang stared at the head of the freight and did nothing. They had moved hastily back from the siding so as to be clear of the wreckage. Mr. Damon was in the front of the cab of Hercules 0001 and had no idea of the approaching menace.

But of a sudden a loud shout echoed through the wood. Tom Swift came over the ridge and started toward his invention at top speed. From that height he saw the freight train coming, he observed the men standing at the siding, and he recognized Montagne Lewis, roughly as the railroad magnate was dressed.

Instantly Tom realized what was about to happen -- what would surely occur -- and he saw what must be done if the utter wreck of his locomotive was to be averted. Yelling at the top of his voice, he leaped down the slope.

"That's Swift!" shouted Lewis. "Stop him!" But the men he had hired to do his wicked work fell back instead of trying to halt the young inventor. It was not Tom's appearance that made them quail. Over the ridge there appeared a second figure -- and a more fearful or threatening apparition none of them had ever before seen!

Koku came running with the limp body of Andy O'Malley slung over his shoulder like a bag of meal. The fellows knew it was Andy from his dress.

The giant came down the slope after Tom as though he wore the seven-league boots. The fellows Lewis had hired to wreck the electric locomotive shrank back from before both Tom and the giant.

"Get him!" yelled the half blinded Lewis again.

"Get your grandmother!" bawled one of the men suddenly. "Good-night!"

He turned tail and ran, disappearing almost instantly into the thicker woods. And his mates, after a moment of wavering, sped after him. Lewis was left alone, quite helpless because of the ammonia fumes.

As a matter of fact not all of O'Malley's predicament was due to Koku. The rascal, exhausted by his run and half blind through fright and rage, had stumbled, fallen, and struck his head on a root, which rendered him unconscious.

This, of course, Lewis and his ruffians did not know. All the men of the railroad president's gang saw was the gigantic Koku coming along in great strides, bearing the unconscious O'Malley, who was a burly fellow, as though he were a featherweight. No wonder they fled from such a monster.

Tom had reached the switch, and he was several seconds ahead of the freight locomotive. The engineer saw the open switch then; but he was too late to stop his train.

Going into reverse, however, helped some. Tom seized the switch lever and threw it over, locking it in place, just as the forward trucks thundered upon the joint. The train swept by in safety, and the engineer leaned from his cab window to wave a grateful hand at the young inventor.

Neither the engineer nor the crew of the freight understood the meaning of the scene at the timber siding. All they learned was that Tom Swift had saved the freight from a possible wreck.

The young inventor turned sharply from the switch and motioned with his hand to Koku.

"Throw that fellow into the cab, Koku," he commanded.

The giant did as he was told, just as Ned Newton came panting to the spot.

"Did they do any harm, Tom?" he cried. Then he saw Montagne Lewis standing by, and he seized his chum's arm. "Do you see what I see, Tom?" he demanded, earnestly.

"I guess we both see the same snake," rejoined his chum. "And I mean to scotch it."

"Montagne Lewis!" murmured Ned. "And we've got his chief tool."

Tom said nothing to his chum, but he approached Lewis with determined mien.

"I can see something has happened to you, Mr. Lewis, and I can guess what it is. The effect of that ammonia will blow away after a time. Ask your friend, Andy O'Malley. He knows all about it, for he sampled it back East, in Shopton."

"I'm going to get square for this, young man," growled the railroad magnate. "You know who I am. And that fellow in the cab knew me, too. How dared he shoot that stuff into my face and eyes?"

"I fancy it didn't take much daring on Mr. Damon's part," and Tom actually chuckled. "A big crook isn't any more important in our eyes than a little crook. We've got your henchman, O'Malley -- "

"And you'd better let him go. I'm telling you," snarled Lewis. "I'll ruin you in this country, Tom Swift. I've got influence -- "

"You won't have much after this thing comes out. And believe me, I mean to spread it abroad. I've got nothing to win or lose from you, Mr. Lewis. As for O'Malley, I'll put him behind the bars for a good long term."

"You'll do a lot -- "

"More than you think," said Tom. "Koku!" The giant had pitched O'Malley, who was still senseless, into the cab, and now was coming up behind Lewis.

"Yes, Master," said the giant.

"Get him!"

"Yes, Master," said Koku, and to Lewis' startled amazement, the next instant he was in the hands of the giant!

He screamed and threatened, and even kicked, to no avail. When he was pitched into the electric locomotive he was held under the threat of Mr. Damon's ammonia pistol until Tom and Ned and the giant entered and the door was shut. Then Koku proceeded to tie both the prisoners by wrist and ankle while the others examined the mechanism of the Hercules 0001.

The pantagraph had been torn off the trolley wires when the locomotive had gone on the siding. But now Tom climbed to the roof of the locomotive, and with Koku's aid managed to set the rear pantagraph at such an angle that its wheels caught the trolley cables again, and once more the current was pumped into the Hercules 0001.

Tom tried out the several parts of the mechanism and found that, despite the jar of the collision, nothing was really injured.

"I built this thing to withstand hard usage," he declared with pride. "The Swift Hercules Electric Locomotives will not be built for parlor ornaments. She is going to run into Hendrickton under her own power, in spite of a smashed cows catcher and target lights."

"Is nothing really injured, Tom?" asked Mr. Damon. "Bless my dinner set! I thought everything had gone to smash when she hit that bumper."

"She will be as good as new in a week," declared Tom, with conviction.

This prophecy of the young inventor proved to be true. A week from that day the public test of the electric locomotive on the Hendrickton & Pas Alos Railroad was held. A picked delegation of railroad men was present to observe and marvel, with Mr. Bartholomew; but Montagne Lewis, the president of the H. & W., was not one of those who attended.

Of course, Lewis soon got out of jail on bail. But the accusation against him was a serious one. His guilt would be proved by his own employee, Andy O'Malley, who was in a hospital for the time being.

O'Malley had got enough. He had turned State's evidence and implicated his employer. Influential and wealthy as Lewis was, he could not escape trial with O'Malley when the time came.

"One thing sure, Lewis has got all he wants. He isn't likely to try any more crooked work against the H. & P. A.," Mr. Bartholomew said. "I can thank you for that, Tom Swift, as well as for your invention. You have saved the day for my railroad."

"You can thank Koku," chuckled Tom. "If he hadn't spied and identified 'Big Feet,' we might not have caught O'Malley, and, through O'Malley, implicated Montagne Lewis. You give Koku a new suit of clothes, Mr. Bartholomew, and we will call it square. But be sure and have the pattern of the goods loud enough."

This conversation took place while the party of guests was gathering to board Mr. Bartholomew's private car, attached to the Hercules 0001. Mr. Damon was one of the guests and so was Ned Newton. Tom took into the cab a crew of H. & P. A. men who would hereafter drive the huge locomotive and take care of her.

The semaphore signal dropped and the electric locomotive started as quietly as a baby going to sleep! There was not a jar as the train moved off the siding and over the switches to the main line.

The dispatcher had arranged a clear road for them. Tom knew that he had a free track ahead of him -- a level of ninety-odd miles to the Hammon yards. As he passed the Hendrickton shops he touched the siren lever for a moment, and the shrill voice of the Hercules 0001 bade the town good-bye.

The next minute the visitors in the private car grabbed out their split-second watches and began to murmur. The electric locomotive had begun to travel!



Chapter XXV

Speed and Success


"What town is that?"

"Looks like a splotch of paint on a board fence, we went by so quick."

"I've lost count, Bartholomew. Where are we?"

Ned Newton listened to these comments from the visiting railroad men with delight. In reply to a question of his neighbor, the grinning financial manager of the Swift Construction Company paid:

"No, sir. That isn't a picket fence. It's the telegraph poles you see, and they are no nearer together than on another railroad. But we're going some."

"Bless my railroad stock!" shouted Mr. Damon, "I should say we were."

The electric locomotive and the private car were hurled toward the Pas Alos Range at a speed that almost frightened some of the guests.

"Three-quarters of an hour!" gasped one man as they began to see the outskirts of Hammon. "And ninety-six miles? Great Scott, Bartholomew! that's over two miles a minute!"

"That is the speed we set out to get," Mr. Richard Bartholomew said, with quite as much pride as though he had done it all himself.

But it had been his suggestion and his money that had accomplished this wonder. Tom Swift was willing to give the railroad president his share of the fame.

The train scarcely slackened speed at Hammon, for Tom got the signal announcing a clear track ahead, and he bucked the grade with all the power he could get from the feed wires. This hill, so well known to him now, was surmounted at a slightly decreased speed; but it was a wonderful display of power after all.

They went down the other side to Panboro and there linked up with an eastbound freight that the Hercules 0001 snatched over the mountain to Hammon at a pace slightly exceeding forty-five miles an hour -- at least twice the speed that any two oil-burning locomotives could attain. As for the Jandels, they were not in the same class at all with Tom Swift's locomotive!

"Bless my speedometer!" exclaimed Mr. Damon, when the train pulled down and stopped again at the Hendrickton terminal. "This is the greatest test of speed and power I ever heard of. Why, a coal burner or an oil burner isn't in it with this Hercules locomotive! What do you say, Mr. Bartholomew?"

"I'll say I am satisfied -- completely and thoroughly satisfied, Mr. Damon," said the president of the Hendrickton & Pas Alos Railroad frankly. "Mr. Swift has fulfilled his contract in every particular."

An hour later the young inventor and his two friends were in conference with Mr. Bartholomew over a new contract. The bonus of a hundred thousand dollars would be paid at once to the Swift Construction Company. But as the elder Swift's name would be needed on the new contract for the building of other Hercules locomotives, Tom had an idea.

"We won't send the papers East for father to sign," he said. "I want him to see the locomotive in real action. And I know where he can borrow a private car and come out here in comfort. Rad can come with him."

"Bless my valentines!" ejaculated Mr. Damon, "I bet somebody else will come too."

Mr. Damon must have been a prophet, for a fortnight later, when the borrowed car got in to the Hendrickton terminal at the tail of the transcontinental flyer, Tom Swift saw first of all Mary Nestor's rosy face on the platform of the car.

"Tom! are you all right?" she cried, beaming down upon the young inventor.

"No. Half of me is left," he said, grinning up at her. "You look great, Mary!"

"Do you think so?" she cried, dimpling. "Well, if anybody should ask you, Mr. Tom Swift, you look very good to me."

"Don't make me swell all up, Mary," he laughed. "How's father?"

"Splendid! And Rad -- "

"Eradicate Sampson is sho' 'nough puffectly all right," broke in the voice of the old colored man, eager to make himself heard and seen. "Here I is, Massa Tom. What dat lizard doin' here? Ain't he a sight?"

The old man had caught sight of Koku in the wonderful new suit Mr. Bartholomew had ordered made for the giant. A Navajo blanket had nothing on that suit for a mixture of colors, and Koku strutted like a turkey-gobbler.

"My lawsy!" gasped Rad again, "he's as purty as a sunset. Is dat de way de tailors out here build a man up? Sure's yo live, Massa Tom, I needs a new suit of clo'es myself."

And before he got away from Hendrickton, Rad Sampson sported a suit off the same piece of goods as that of Koku's. Otherwise there might have been a lasting feud between the giant and the Swift's ancient serving man.

Mr. Barton Swift had stood the easy journey in the private car very well. Before he would sign the contract that Mr. Bartholomew offered, he wished to see for himself just how good his son's invention was.

They made another test from Hendrickton to Panboro, over the "official route," as Ned called it. The time made by Hercules 0001 was even a little better than before.

That the invention was well nigh perfect, and that it could do even more than Mr. Bartholomew had hoped or Tom had claimed, was Mr. Swift's conviction.

"Tom," he said to his son, "you have done a wonderful thing. Not only have you completed a marvelous invention and gained thereby a lot of money, and more in prospect, but you have aided in the world's progress to no small degree.

"Speed in transportation is the big problem before the world of commerce today. To move goods from point to point safely and cheaply, as well as rapidly, is the great task of this age. We are entering the Age of Speed. The railroads must solve the problem to compete with motor-truck traffic and fast boats on the lakes and rivers of our land.

"You have, by your invention, shoved the clock of progress forward. I am proud of you, my boy. I know now that, no matter what may happen to me, you will make an enviable mark in the world of invention.

"You have done much before for the Government in time of stress. But war engines of any kind are not worthy examples of inventive genius beside such a thing as this.

"It is the inventions of peace, rather than those of war, that stand for human progress."

Coming back over the mountain, Mary Nestor rode in the cab with Tom. She sat on the swivel stool, in fact, and handled the controls for part of the way. But she gave up the driver's place to Tom before they reached the timber siding east of Cliff City.

"I cannot go by that place without a shudder," Mary said to the inventor. "Ned and Mr. Damon told me all about that accident. Suppose you had been killed, Tom!"

"I see I'll have to build an invention that will make that impossible," chuckled the young fellow.

"Make what impossible?"

"Some invention that will make it positively certain that no matter what I do or where I go, nothing can harm me. Nothing else will suit you, Mary, I plainly see."

"Well," returned the girl, smiling fondly at him. "I admit that would satisfy me completely!"

<eob>

The Fortunes Of Philippa: A School Story

By

Angela Brazil



Chapter I

My Southern Home

"When we two parted In silence and tears, Half broken-hearted To sever for years."


"Must I really go?"

"I'm afraid it has come to that, Philippa! I believe I have kept you here too long already. You're ten years old now, growing a tall girl, and not learning half the things you ought to. I feel there's something wrong about you, but I don't know quite how to set it right. After all, I suppose a man can't expect to bring up a girl entirely by himself." My father looked me up and down with a glance of despair which would have been comical if it had not seemed at the same time somewhat pathetic.

"I can do the fifth proposition in Euclid," I objected, "and the Latin Grammar as far as irregular verbs."

My father shook his head.

"That might help you a little if you were a boy in a public school, but it's not all that your mother would have wished. You've not been taught a note of music, you can't speak French or dance a quadrille, and if it came to a question of fine sewing, I'm afraid you'd scarcely know which was the right end of your needle!"

The list of my deficiencies was so dreadfully true that I had no excuse to bring forward, and my father continued.

"Besides, it's absurd to attempt to educate you in this out-of-the-way spot, where you've no opportunity of mixing with cultured people. I wish you to see England, and learn English ways, and to have companions of your own age."

"I think San Carlos is the most beautiful place in the world," I said quickly. "And I don't want any companion but you."

"Which shows me all the more that it's time I sent you away," answered Father. "Though it will strain my heart-strings to part with you, I own. It's such a splendid opportunity, too, when Madame Montpellier is returning to Paris and will take charge of you on the voyage. No, Philippa child, I've quite made up my mind. You're to go to England, and you'll please me best by taking it bravely, and trying to learn all you can in the years we must be apart from each other."

We were sitting on the vine-covered terrace of our beautiful South American home. Below us the bright flowers of our tropical garden shone a blaze of colour against the dark background of the lemon-trees; away to the right stretched the dazzling blue sea, with here and there the dark sail of a native fishing craft; while to the left rose the white houses of the little Spanish town of San Carlos, with its picturesque, Moorish-looking church and campanile, set in a frame of tall palm-trees, which led the eye over the long slopes of the coffee-plantations up the hill-side to where the sharp peaks of the sierras towered like giants against the cloudless sky.

For ten years I had lived here as in paradise, and the thought that I must leave it, and go far away over the sea to strangers and to an unknown land, filled me with dismay.

As an only child, and a motherless one, I suppose I had been spoilt, though to be very dearly loved does not always necessarily mean to be over-indulged. I am sure my father spent many anxious hours over my upbringing, and with him I was accustomed to prompt obedience, though I fear I ruled Juanita, my mulatto nurse, and Tasso, the black bearer, with a rod of iron. Friends of my own age and station I had none; my father was all in all to me, and in his constant companionship I had grown up a somewhat old-fashioned child, learning a few desultory lessons, reading every story-book upon which I could lay my hands, and living in a make-believe world of my own, as different from the actual realities of life as could well be imagined.

It was indeed time for a change, though the transplanting process might be hard to bear. I think many urgent letters from relations in England had helped to form my father's decision, and, his mind once made up, he hurried on the preparations for my journey, in a kind of nervous anxiety lest he should repent, and refuse to part with me after all.

"I suppose your aunt will find your clothes all right," he said, as he watched Juanita pack my cabin trunk. "I've told her to rig you out afresh if she doesn't. We don't go in for Paris modes at San Carlos, so I'm afraid you will hardly be in the latest fashion! You must be a good girl, and do as you're told. You'll find everything rather different over there, but you'll soon get used to it, and be happy, I hope; though what I'm to do without you here I don't know," he added wistfully. "You're all I've got now!"

And he looked out over the blue waters of the bay to that little plot under the shade of the campanile where my pretty mother lay sleeping so quietly.

I understood him, and it added a fresh pang to my sorrow. Child as I was, I felt I had in some measure helped to fill that vacant place, and the thought that I must leave him so lonely, so very lonely, seemed sometimes to make the parting almost harder than I could bear. I tried my best, however, to be bright and brave for his sake, and I made up my mind that I would do my very utmost to learn all he wished, so that perhaps I might get through the work in quicker time than he expected, and be able to return to him the sooner.

The grief of the coloured portion of our household at the news of my departure was both noisy and vehement. Juanita dropped copious tears into my boxes; José, the garden-boy, assured me that England was situated in the midst of a frozen sea, where your fingers fell off with the cold, and you chopped up your breakfast with a hatchet; Pedro, the cook, was doubtful if I should survive a course of English dishes, which he heard were composed chiefly of beef and plum-pudding, while salads and sauces were unknown; and Tasso, after a vain appeal to be allowed to accompany me, drew such appalling pictures of the perils of the seas, that I wondered how even his devotion could have induced him to think of venturing on shipboard. Of all the many friends whom I left behind, I think the one I regretted the most was Tasso. My earliest recollection is that of clinging to his stout black forefinger to toddle down the flagged pathway between the orange-trees which led to the terrace that over-looked the sea. Carried on his broad shoulders, I had made my first acquaintance with the streets of San Carlos. There one might see the funny washerwomen standing like ducks in the river to beat their clothes upon the stones, the long-eared mules with their gay trappings coming down from the mountains laden with bags of coffee-berries, the solemn Indian muleteers with their dark cloaks and fringed leggings, the little black children dancing and singing in the bright sunshine, the open-air restaurants where men of all nations sat chatting, smoking cigarettes, and drinking "eau sucrée" under the palm-trees, or the fashionable carriages of the smart Spanish ladies and gentlemen who thronged the Corso in the late afternoon.

Negro servants, having much of the child in their nature, are wonderfully patient with little children. Tasso humoured me and amused me with untiring zeal, telling me wonderful stories of African magic, singing me long ballads in the half-Spanish half-Indian dialect of the district, catching for me butterflies, green lizards, or the brilliant little humming-birds which flitted about our garden, or picking shells for me upon the beach below.

It was on this shore, just under the windows of our house, that I was once the heroine of a very real adventure, which had almost cost me my life. I think at the time I could not have been more than four years old, but it made such a deep impression on my mind that I can remember every detail as clearly as though it had happened only yesterday. I had been taken by Juanita to play in the cool of the evening on the little strip of silver sand and shingle which lay between our high garden wall and the dashing surf. I had left my doll's cape on the terrace, and I begged Juanita to go and fetch it. For a long time she refused, but on my promising not to stir from the spot where I was playing, she was at last persuaded, and hurried up the steep flight of steps on to the verandah. It had been an intensely hot day, and I was tired, so I thought I would sit down and rest until Juanita returned. Looking round I saw, as I imagined, a nice smooth round stone close by, upon which I settled myself very comfortably, curling my little fat legs under me. But the stone must surely have been an enchanted rock out of one of Tasso's fairy stories, for it suddenly began to move, and, rising up, it put out four flat feet, and marched briskly down the beach towards the sea. The entire unexpectedness of it so utterly terrified me that I could neither cry nor move, only hold on tight with both hands, and wonder what black magic had seized upon me. The turtle, for such in reality my stone proved to be, rapidly gained the water, and it was about to paddle off in a hurry with its strange burden, when Juanita, returning on to the verandah, saw my desperate plight, and by her frantic screams brought Tasso, who dashed down the steps and into the sea, just in time to rescue me before the turtle took a dive into the deeper water.

I do not think Tasso ever quite forgave poor Juanita for this accident, though she beat her breast and lamented in a perfect hail-storm of southern grief. And always after this he would keep an eye upon me when I was in her charge, appearing mysteriously from behind trees, popping his dark head through windows, or peering between the vines of the pergola; coming so suddenly and unexpectedly upon us, that I began to think he had the gift of some of his magic heroes, and could make himself visible and invisible at pleasure.

I like to recall those happy days of my early childhood; days when the sun always shone, and the air was full of the scent of orange-blossom, and my father and I lived a life apart among the flowers in the old terraced garden, where the hum of the little town and the roll of the surf below seemed but a distant echo of the world beyond.

In the summer-time, when the heat at San Carlos grew unbearable, we moved up into the hills, on the verge of the great forests. It was cooler there, for the wind blew fresh from the snow-capped sierras, and I could run to my heart's content along the narrow paths of our coffee-plantations, or chase Juanita between the cinnamon-trees. Sometimes, as a special treat, my father would take me in front of him on his horse, and ride into the forest. I can remember yet the thrill of those expeditions into that tropical fairyland. The tall trees stretched before our path in a never-ending vista, festooned by gigantic creepers covered with flowers; funny little chattering monkeys looked down from the branches, and scolded us as we passed; gorgeous green parrots rent the air with their screams; while tiny humming-birds and innumerable brilliant insects luxuriated in the wealth of plant life. Sometimes we would see the giant spiders which spin webs so strong that they will often knock an unwary rider's hat from his head; or sometimes a puma or a jaguar would slink away through the dense undergrowth, and I would cling a little closer to my father's arm, and think what would happen to me if I ventured alone into the forest. Of San Carlos and its inhabitants I saw little; though my father was the British Consul, he did not move in the society of the place more than was absolutely necessary, nor, for good reasons of his own, did he wish me to become very friendly with the children of his Spanish neighbours. I rarely, if ever, visited any of the white villas that dotted the hill-sides, and the pretty little dark-eyed Juans or Margaritas who sometimes peeped over the cactus hedges were strangers to me.

On one day only in the year did my father relax his rule. He would allow me to accept an invitation to watch the Carnival from the verandah of the Government House. How immensely I looked forward to those occasions! Juanita would proudly dress me in my best, and I would drive by Father's side down the Corso to the great white house, where we were welcomed by the Governor himself, and shown to a place of honour upon the balcony, where we could see everything that was passing in the street below.

It was a gay sight. First came the priests in their gorgeous vestments, carrying high the gilded images of the Saints; and behind them bands of sweet-faced children dressed as angels, in long white robes, with soft plumed wings fastened on to their shoulders. Carriages followed, garlanded with flowers, in which sat men and women who represented Greek gods, or nymphs, or famous characters from history, attended by tiny boys with gilt wings as Cupids. After these came a mob of masquers, jesters, clowns, harlequins, columbines, peasants of all nations, fishermen, hunters, Indians, or savages; shouting, gesticulating, pushing one another about, and all seeming to try to make as much noise as they possibly could. It was then that the fun began. Piled up in the balcony were baskets full of flowers, confetti, bon-bons, and tiny wax balls full of scented water. We flung these far and wide among the crowd below, some receiving the flowers and bon-bons, and some being hit by the wax balls, which, bursting, scented the victim rather too heavily for his enjoyment. It was all taken, however, with the greatest good-humour, and the merry throng passed on to parade round the town, and end with a dance under the palm-trees in the public gardens.

And so my life in my southern home had passed like a kind of delightful dream, and it was not until my father talked of change that I had ever thought there could be an awakening.

The little time left to me fled all too fast, and brought the much-dreaded day when I must leave everything that had grown so dear. I can never forget our parting. A hurried message had been sent to us that the steamer was to start earlier, and that I must go on board in the evening instead of on the following morning as had been at first arranged. The full moon shone on the waters of the bay, lighting up the vessel which was to take me so far away, and which had steamed out a little from the quay where the launch was waiting. Big girl as I was, my father carried me in his arms down the garden. I held my cheek pressed close against his, and we neither of us spoke, for there are some heart-breaks too great for words. The fireflies were flitting about like living jewels, every blossom looked clear-cut and perfect in the moonlight; I can smell even now the heavy scent of the orange-blossom as we went along the terrace walk, and hear the tremulous call of some night-bird among the mimosa-trees. It was but a short way to the quay, and we were soon in the launch, steaming out over the bay to where the lights of the great ship shone red against the pale moonlight.

"So this is the small passenger I'm waiting for!" said the captain, as my father helped me on deck. "Well, I'm sorry, but I can't allow elaborate leave-takings. We're beyond our time already, the tide's on the turn, and if we don't start at once we sha'n't be able to cross the bar. We've had our steam up since sunset."

"Good-bye, my darling, my darling!" said Father, as he held me close for one long, last kiss. "We shall meet again, God willing, before many years have passed away. Be a good girl, and whatever you do don't forget your poor old daddy, who will be thinking of you always, wherever you may be."

He put me into the friendly arms of Madame Montpellier, who was crying for sympathy, and ran down the companion-ladder as if he were afraid to look back. The little launch drew off, the great screw began to revolve slowly, and the ship started eastward in a train of silvery light, leaving my happy home behind, and taking me to a new and untried world, where my future was all before me.



Chapter II

My Cousins

"There's a new foot on the floor, my friend, And a new face at the door, my friend."


I came to England with the swallows, and I think I felt as much a bird of passage as they; more so, indeed, for all the young swallows had been reared under northern skies and were but returning home, while I was as yet a stranger in a new land. My uncle met me at Liverpool, where I had a terrible parting from Madame Montpellier, who had been very good to me on the voyage, and who seemed my last link with the past; and we set out at once upon the long journey to London. I liked my uncle, he reminded me much of my father; there was a merry twinkle in his eye, and a kindliness in his voice which seemed to call for some response, so I made a desperate effort to check my flowing tears and take an interest in the various things he pointed out to me from the window of the railway-carriage. The green fields and hedgerows, the picturesque villages and churches, the smooth rivers and the quiet pastoral scenery as we steamed through the midlands were all new to my wondering eyes, but to watch them from the fast express, as they appeared to whizz rapidly by, made my head ache, and I had curled myself up in a corner and subsided comfortably to sleep long before London was reached.

I am afraid my arrival must have been a bitter disappointment to my little cousins, of whom the elder ones were waiting in the hall to welcome me when our cab drove up. I was so utterly weary with my journey, and I felt so forlornly shy at the sight of so many strange faces around me, that, forgetting both my manners and my good intentions, I burst into a flood of tears, and refused all comfort.

"Better put her to bed," said my aunt briskly; "she's tired out, and it's no use worrying her. After a thorough night's rest she'll be more ready to make friends with us."

I was so miserable that I did not much care what happened to me, so I submitted with a good grace to be undressed, and to swallow the hot milk which they brought me; then with my father's photograph clasped tightly in my hand, I cried myself to sleep on that my first night in my new home. Somehow with the morning sunshine life seemed to wear a different aspect, and instead of telling Aunt Agatha that I could never be happy in England, and begging her to send me straight back to San Carlos by the very next ship, as I had quite made up my mind to do the night before, I went downstairs to breakfast full of curiosity to make the acquaintance of my cousins. I had heard them for some time, as during the last hour the whole upper story of the house had seemed to be pervaded with the noise of small shrill voices, the stamping of feet, the slamming of doors, and finally the melancholy sound of the minor scales on the piano, the performer appearing to get into complications with the sharps and flats, and occasionally to relapse altogether into the major key.

Aunt Agatha came bustling into my bedroom as I fastened the last button of my dress (the voyage had taught me to dispense with Juanita's help), and she stood and surveyed me with a critical eye. Her first impression of me had been hardly a fair one, so I trust that this morning I presented a more favourable appearance.

"Yes," she said slowly, "you have your father's eyes, but otherwise you're the image of your mother: the same slight build, and the same light hair and colour which I remember so well in my poor sister-in-law. Dear me! how little I thought when I said good-bye to her that I should never see her again! You must try to make yourself at home, my dear, among us all. It's hard, I dare say, to settle down into new ways, but if you'll try your best, we will do our part, and I hope you'll soon like England as well as the country you've left behind. Now come with me, and say good-morning to your cousins."

There were so many of them, and of such various ages, that when I entered the nursery I might have supposed myself for the moment in an infant school. From Lucy, the eldest, who was six months older than I, to the baby in long clothes, they descended in a series of eight little steps, all blue-eyed and auburn-haired, all sturdy of limb and lusty of voice, and all dressed in stout brown holland pinafores, warranted to resist the hardest of wear and tear.

"I'm sure you'll soon become friends," said Aunt Agatha, after Lucy, Mary, Edgar, Donald, Frank, Cuthbert, Dorothy, and the baby had all been duly presented. "You're to have lessons in the school-room from Miss Masterman. I've spoken to her about your work. I believe your father mentioned that you hadn't yet begun either French or music. And, Blair, I should like you to go over her clothes after breakfast. I must arrange for Miss Jenkins to come at once for a few days' sewing. Be sure she drinks plenty of milk with her porridge, and be careful she doesn't get into draughts just at first, as she's accustomed to a warmer climate."

Blair was a power in the household. She managed her nursery with the tactics of a general, reducing small rebels to a state of submission with admirable skill, and keeping order among her noisy little crew with a firm though just hand. She might not always be exactly pleasant, but on the whole her moral atmosphere was like an east wind, bracing, though a little trying at times. She accepted an addition to her numerous charges with grim philosophy.

"You'll soon shake down among the others," she said to me, not unkindly. "It seems queer to you, I dare say, after living in a foreign country, with black servants and outlandish cookery, but there's everything in habit, and with plenty of lessons to keep you busy, you'll have no time to fret."

Just at first I certainly found the shaking-down process rather a rough one. It was all so utterly different from my old life. Accustomed to spend most of my time with my father, I thought it hard to be restricted to the nursery and school-room, and instead of being the centre of my little world, to be only one of a flock who were not favoured with many indulgences.

My aunt, I am sure, did her very best for me according to her lights, and perhaps she thought that I should settle all the sooner if I were left judiciously alone, but, looking back now upon her upbringing, I think she might have shown me more tenderness. She was a tall, handsome woman, with a capable manner, and what she called "sensible" views of life. If she had ever cherished any illusions, they had long ago worn down to the level of strict commonplace. Though she loved her children, in her practical, unsentimental way, they were to her always "the children", to be ruled and reared, clothed and educated, but never in any respect her companions; and a friendship between two people of widely differing ages, such as existed between my father and myself, was a thing she could scarcely understand. There were certain well-arranged regulations for our daily life and conduct, and that any allowance should be made for individual temperament was to her mind neither suitable nor desirable. She treated me as one of her own, and that it was possible for me to need more did not enter into her calculations. But I did need more. I was a child of extremely warm affections, and though I could not have expressed the feeling, my heart felt starved upon the very small amount of love and attention which fell to my share. I tried my best to be brave and not to fret, but sometimes my home-sickness would gain the upper hand, and I have often wet my pillow with bitter tears, longing with a yearning that was almost agony for one kiss from my father before I went to sleep.

With my cousins I was soon a favourite.

"Tell us again about San Carlos, and the forest, and the tree-witches, and the gri-gri man," said Edgar and Mary, who listened spell-bound to my reminiscences of Tasso's marvellous stories; and I would sit in the dusk by the nursery fire, with an audience of eager little faces around me, putting such horrible realism into my narratives that Donald brought Blair from her supper by screaming that the gri-gri man was under his bed, while poor Mary never dared in future to pass the lumber-room door, for fear of seeing a grinning goblin pop his head suddenly out of the darkness.

Though we afterwards became the best of friends, Lucy treated me at first with little airs of superiority and patronage. I am afraid we began our acquaintance with a wordy war.

"You must feel quite glad to be in a proper English house, after living in that queer foreign place," she remarked, by way of opening the conversation.

"No, I'm not," I retorted. "Our house at San Carlos is ever so much nicer than this. It has marble floors, and a terrace, and a pergola."

"I don't know what a pergola is," replied Lucy. "But we have a balcony, and that's quite as good. Your clothes are so funnily made, Blair says she hardly likes to take you out. Mother has sent for Miss Jenkins to make you some new ones. You're going to do lessons with us every day. I wonder if you'll be able to learn with me. Can you speak French?"

"No, but I can speak Spanish."

"Oh, that's no use! Who wants to talk Spanish? Mother said you had learnt it from the servants, and the sooner you forgot it the better."

"I won't forget it. I shall speak it when I go back."

"You're not going back."

"Yes, I am, soon. Father will send for me," I ventured desperately.

"No, not till you're quite grown up. I heard Mother tell Miss Masterman so just now. She said your ways were as queer as your clothes, and you would take a great deal of training before you were fit to be sent to school."

"I will go back! I will speak Spanish!" I declared in great indignation. "Juanita and Tasso can't speak anything else."

"I wonder you care to talk to negroes," said Lucy, tossing back her hair. "I like white people myself, and I'm sure you needn't boast of having been carried about by an old black man!"

The slight to my dear friends stung me even more than the insult to my clothes and my manners, and I ended in a storm of miserable crying. Next to my father I very truly missed those kind companions of my childhood, and ever to forget them seemed to me the basest ingratitude.

My new English clothes were of sober colours and serviceable materials; they seemed to match my new life, and perhaps my manners changed with them, for I soon settled down into the little daily round which was appointed for me. At first I found the regular lessons somewhat of a trial, as I had never been accustomed either to learn systematically, or really to apply myself. But Miss Masterman, our daily governess, was both a kind and clever teacher, and after a while I grew so interested in my work that I easily caught up Lucy, and even began to outstrip her -- a little, I fancy, to her chagrin.

I wrote regularly to my father. I have one of these childish letters by me now, for he treasured them carefully, and to read it brings back so keenly the remembrance of those early days that I shall give it a place in these pages. Here it is, exactly as I wrote it, in my most careful round hand.

CHESTNUT AVENUE, June 12th.

"My dearest Father,

"I think of you every day of my life. I have put your photo on my dressing-table, and I kiss it good-night and good-morning as if it were really you. I am trying very hard to be happy, but my two troubles are porridge and scales. Porridge is something like the food Tasso used to mix up for the ducks, only you eat it hot. Blair says it will make me grow strong, and I must take what is given me and not find fault, so I gulp it down, though it nearly chokes me. Scales are detestable. Miss Masterman puts pennies on the backs of my hands, but I cannot help jerking my arm when I turn my thumb under, so they always fall on to the floor, and then she is cross.

"I like drawing the best of all my lessons. I have bought a new paint-box with the money you sent me, and I will try and make pictures for you of everything I see. There are no orange-trees or coffee-plantations here. We go walks down long streets with tall houses on both sides, or sometimes into the Park, which I like better, though it is not so nice as the garden at San Carlos, for you may not pick the flowers, and there are sparrows instead of humming-birds. I hope Juanita does not forget to feed the terrapin and the green lizard. Give my love to her, and to Tasso and Pedro and everybody. Aunt Agatha is writing to you herself, and she will put this letter inside hers.

"From your loving little daughter, "PHILIPPA SEATON."

If I found my life in London rather hard to bear at times, I am afraid my attempts to relieve the monotony of my existence were not always a success at head-quarters. I had a lively imagination, and my inventive faculty was continually leading me into planning games which my cousins thought only too delightful, but which were set down as either mess or mischief by those in authority. When Aunt Agatha found us tobogganing down the back staircase in a clothes-basket, she knew at once the instigator of the sport, and she easily guessed who had taken the chairs from the best bedroom to form a menagerie in the nursery. It was I who conceived the brilliant idea of making a sea-side resort for the dolls with the aid of the tea-tray full of water and the sand out of the canary's cage, a most interesting and fascinating pastime for us, but looked at in a very different light by Blair, when she returned to find the younger children with sopping pinafores, and my miniature ocean slowly wending its way in trickles over the nursery floor.

"You get into mischief the moment my back is turned. I'm sure the children never thought of doing such things before you came!" she said severely.

I do not suppose they had, for though they loved a romp, they were not naturally imaginative; but they immensely enjoyed my ideas, and were always ready to fall in with my schemes, from soap slides on the attic-landing to the fairy palace which I constructed in the lumber-room out of old lace curtains hung over towel-rails, or the ogre's den in the housemaid's cupboard under the stairs.

I remember well how, one afternoon, when Blair for a wonder was absent, I seized the golden opportunity to organize a grand game of carnival. The children's pocket-handkerchiefs and silk neckties were collected from the various drawers and hung up as flags on a string fastened from the gas-bracket to the window. All my little cousins were eager to be masquers, and I racked my brains to devise costumes for them out of the very limited materials at my command.

Lucy, in her night-dress, with two sheets of copy-book paper fastened on to her shoulders as wings, made quite a creditable angel. Edgar was an Indian, his face painted in stripes of red and yellow, some feathers plucked from the dusting-broom stuck in his curly locks, and the hearth-brush for a tomahawk. Mary, with my best sash draped artistically over her right shoulder, represented Venus, with Cuthbert for a Cupid; Donald, in Aunt Agatha's furs, stolen shamelessly from her bedroom, rollicked about as a savage; and, as I really had no clothes left for Dorothy, I blacked her face with a piece of coal, and transformed her into a little negro child. I myself was Father Neptune, with a toasting-fork for a trident, and as we paraded round the nursery, pelting each other with pieces of torn-up paper for confetti, I think we rivalled in noise the wildest carnival I had ever witnessed at San Carlos.

We were in the very height of our excitement, and were scrambling eagerly for pretended bon-bons, which Lucy was flinging from an imaginary balcony, when the door was suddenly opened, and Aunt Agatha entered, ushering in a visitor.

"This is my little flock, Mrs. Winstanley -- " she began, then stopped short in utter dismay at the scene of confusion before her.

My aunt's sense of humour was not keen; her orderly nursery and tidy family were her pride, and the sight of the tumbled heads and crumpled pinafores, the clothes strewn hither and thither, and the painted and blackened faces of her ordinarily well-behaved darlings was enough to justify her look of extreme annoyance. She turned at once upon the true offender.

"Philippa, what have you been doing with the children?" she asked sharply.

No culprit caught red-handed could have felt more guilty or discomfited than I. I gasped out something incoherent about "carnival", and burst into tears.

But here the visitor saved the situation.

"It is very kind of the little ones to be en fête to welcome us, Mrs. Seaton," she said gently. "My own children often dress up when they wish to give me a treat. I have not seen a carnival since I was last at Nice, and I don't think any of the masquers were so natural as these. So this is little Philippa!" she continued as she sat down, and drew me quietly to her side. "I hope you will learn to love me some day, for your mother was my dearest friend, and I could not pass through London to-day without taking the opportunity of coming to see her only child."

She kissed me with a warmth I had missed since I bade that last good-bye to my father; there were tears in her eyes, and, strangely moved, I clung to her, crying a little, but more comforted than I could have found words to tell.

It was thus that I first made acquaintance with one of the truest friends of my life.



Chapter III

I Go To School

"The noises intermixed, which thence resound, Do learning's little tenement betray."


I had now been nearly two years in England, and the keen edge of the remembrance of my southern home was beginning to fade slightly from my mind, though never my love for my father. Spanish I had utterly forgotten, scarcely a word remaining in my memory, and I think the foreign ways which Aunt Agatha had objected to had vanished along with it. It was decided that the time had come to send me to school, and the particular establishment to be chosen was a subject for much discussion between Aunt Agatha and her friends.

Lucy and I were sometimes allowed to have afternoon tea in the drawing-room, "to improve our manners", and on these occasions I found that my education was the main topic of conversation.

"Send her to Fairfield College, my dear," said Mrs. Montgomery, whose own daughters were the champion hockey-players of the neighbourhood. "It is splendid for games. Compulsory cricket, Swedish gymnastics every day, and a thoroughly healthy and active out-of-door existence. Just the life for a rather delicate child."

"Now I think they overdo athletics at most schools," said Mrs. Buchanan Smith, the gay widow of an officer. "Give me the French system of education. My Stella is at a convent in Paris. I consider the Sisters teach the most adorable manners, and the girls return home with a finish that is very different from the hoydenish ways they learn at some of our colleges."

"If you ask me, I have no opinion at all of foreign schools," said Mrs. Northby, the doctor's wife. "My husband says the sanitary arrangements are generally most defective, and that English children, accustomed to plenty of fresh air and ventilation, would be very liable to contract typhoid. I think, too, that the French 'jeune fille' is brought up in an atmosphere of falsehood and deceit, and without any idea of rational enjoyment, and I prefer to send my little girl to a day-school, where she can get a sound education, while I can keep her under my own eye. I do not like the plan of sending children away to boarding-schools just at the time when their health needs most attention, and they are forming their strongest opinions."

"I'm afraid I don't agree with you," said Mrs. Montgomery. "I consider a boarding-school is the world in miniature, and it helps a girl to find her own level. She will learn many other things besides her lessons, and will no doubt make some pleasant friendships; but the school must be a good one, for inferior companions are worse than none."

"It is no question of terms," said Aunt Agatha. "My brother-in-law is anxious for her to have every advantage. It's simply a matter of choosing the best, and I feel the responsibility of my position."

"If you will take my advice, you will send her to The Hollies," said Mrs. (Archdeacon) Carrington, who had listened silently so far to the conversation. "Mrs. Marshall only receives forty pupils, but I consider she turns out the best-informed and best-mannered girls of my acquaintance. She has so many applications, that it is sometimes difficult to secure a vacancy, but I think on my recommendation it might be arranged."

The Archdeacon's lady was the leader of society among Aunt Agatha's friends, and her opinion carried weight.

"We all know how particular she is," said Mrs. Buchanan Smith afterwards. "And any school which she recommends must be most select, both as regards education, and the girls who are there. Indeed, if Stella had not already returned to Paris, I think I should have seriously considered the possibility of sending her to The Hollies."

My aunt was inclined to take the same view, and when on further inquiries it was found that Mrs. Marshall was equally highly thought of in other quarters, and that Mrs. Winstanley's only daughter Catherine was already a pupil at the school, the question was considered settled. I was to be sent after the Easter holidays, and Uncle Herbert determined that Lucy should accompany me. We were full of the importance of our departure.

"We're to learn German and dancing," said Lucy. "And music from an Italian master. Our school clothes won't be made by Miss Jenkins; Mother is going to take us to her own dressmaker. We're each to have a new trunk, and umbrellas with silver tops."

Aunt Agatha escorted us herself to The Hollies, for she had not yet seen either the school or the neighbourhood, though she had had an interview with Mrs. Marshall in London. It seemed a long journey into Derbyshire, and our pent-up excitement had plenty of time to cool while the train ran through the rather uninteresting scenery of Northampton and Leicester, but it burst out again with renewed vigour when we at length drew up at the little station of Helston Spa.

With what curiosity we viewed every other girl upon the platform, wondering whether she were bound for the same destination as ourselves, and how soon we should get to know her. We looked rather longingly at an omnibus laden with a jolly, laughing crew, who seemed to be in charge of a teacher; but my aunt bustled us into a cab, and we drove away along a white limestone road, bordered with tall crags on the one side and a brawling stream on the other.

The Hollies proved to be an old-fashioned red-brick house with a trim garden, and playing-fields beyond.

"It's a nice open situation, and the air feels bracing," said Aunt Agatha, sniffing the breeze as if to test its quality. "I notice that it faces south, and there's a pretty view over the woods and hills. It ought to be healthy, I'm sure, so far away from London smoke and fog."

Lucy and I looked with delight at the gray hills in the distance, and the line of fresh green trees which fringed the river; after the long, dull streets of our suburban home, it was pleasant to feel that our school was in the country.

Mrs. Marshall received new arrivals in the drawing-room, and when we had bidden a rather hasty good-bye to Aunt Agatha, who was returning to town by the next train, and had unpacked our boxes in the pretty little bedroom which we were to share together, we were ushered down to the play-room by a teacher, to make the acquaintance of our school-fellows. There was a pause in the loud hum of conversation as the door opened, and I caught the words "new girls". Miss Buller, the governess, seemed busy, and not able to waste any time upon us, so she merely announced: "Lucy and Philippa Seaton. I hope you will make them welcome, girls;" and hurried away, leaving us standing shyly by the door, not quite knowing what to do next.

The little group collected round the fire moved slightly so as to make room for us, and a pretty fair-faced girl, with a mop of frizzy pale-gold hair, came forward.

"Come along," she said brightly, "and I'll tell you who we all are. I'm Doris Forbes, and this is my sister Janet, and these are Ellinor Graham, Millicent Holmes, Blanche Greenwood, and Olave and Beatrice Milner," pointing to each as she spoke. "Most of the others are still upstairs unpacking their boxes, and a few of us haven't arrived yet. Now as you're new girls, we want to know all about you. To begin with, which is Lucy, and which is Philippa? Are you sisters, and have you ever been to school before?"

"I'm Philippa," I replied, "and this is my cousin Lucy. We've never been to school before; we had a governess at home."

"All the better for you," put in the tall girl in the blue dress whom the others called Millicent Holmes. "Mrs. Marshall never likes girls who come from other schools. She says she has to teach them everything all over again."

"That's just to make you think her ways are better than anyone else's," said Ellinor Graham. "I've had five music masters, and every one has put me back to the beginning, and told me the others didn't know how to teach."

"Then you'll get put back again this term," laughed Blanche Greenwood. "For Herr Goldschmidt has gone home to Germany, and we're to have an Italian, named Signor Salviati, instead."

"No!" cried the girls with thrilling interest. "Have you seen him? What's he like?"

"Oh, don't excite yourselves! He's not a romantic-looking Italian, with long curls and a twisted moustache; he's a nasty little fat oily kind of a man, with a pointed beard, who looks as if he could be horribly cross if you played wrong notes."

"How disgusting!" cried the others. "Are there any other changes?"

"Miss Buller is to have the fourth class," said Blanche, who seemed to be the general fund of information. "Janet, Beatrice, and Olave are on the early-morning practising list for this month" (groans from Janet, Beatrice, and Olave at the bad news), "the Simpsons have the bedroom at the end of the passage, with the balcony, and Miss Percy is to take the sewing this term."

"What a nuisance!" lamented Janet. "She's so particular! I can never make my stitches small enough to satisfy her. I hate poking over sewing. I wish we went to Ecclestone, where our cousins go, it's exactly like a boys' public school; they have a matron to do all the mending, and the girls play football."

"I know they do," said Millicent, "and Mother says it is most unladylike. We know several girls who go there, and they behave so badly, sitting on the edges of the drawing-room tables, and gulping their tea, and bolting their cake, and talking the most atrocious slang."

"My sister goes to St. Chad's," said Ellinor Graham, "and they weigh the girls every time they go back. They won't let them do any work if they're not 'up to standard', and Patty's so thin that she's always 'turned out to grass', as they call it, for at least a fortnight at the beginning of each term. I think she has a lovely time."

"Yes, but you have to wear the school costume at St. Chad's, even in church," put in Doris. "And it's ever so ugly -- a blue serge dress with no shape in it, a plaid golf-cape, and a cricket-cap. I shouldn't like that at all!" and she smoothed down her pretty dress with evident satisfaction.

"You haven't yet told us what class you're to be put in," said Blanche Greenwood, turning to Lucy and myself, who had been listening with much interest to the conversation.

"In the fourth, I believe," said Lucy. "Mrs. Marshall said she expected we could both manage the work."

"The fourth! That's to be Miss Buller's. Janet and Olave and I are in the same class, and Catherine Winstanley is to be monitress for the month. By the by, where is Cathy? Has no one seen her?"

"Here!" said a voice from the door, and a slender girl of about thirteen came forward to join the group. She was a pretty girl, with long, curling brown hair, and a very graceful way of holding herself. Her pleasant manner and bright winning smile attracted me to her at once. Her dark eyes seemed familiar, and I wondered where I had seen them before, till in a sudden flash of remembrance I recalled how eyes just the same had looked into mine when Mrs. Winstanley had held me close in her arms, and told me she was my mother's friend. So this was the little daughter of whom she had spoken, and as I watched her I hoped with all my heart that we, too, might become friends. She seemed to be a general favourite, for there were many affectionate greetings between her and the other girls, and numerous interchanges of home and school news, but at length she turned to where Lucy and I were standing.

"I think," she said, speaking to me, "that you must be Philippa Seaton. Mother told me you would be here, and that I was to look out for you. I suppose this is your cousin Lucy. I'm so glad that we're all to be in the same class. I hope your bedroom is near mine. Oh! there's the tea-bell, and we must go, but I shall see you again afterwards."

She walked away, with her arm linked in that of Janet Forbes, and Lucy and I followed the others to the dining-room, where tea was being dispensed in an informal manner by Miss Buller and one of the under teachers. For this first meal there were no special places, and I found myself sitting at table next to a rather stout, rosy-cheeked girl, perhaps a year older than myself, whose name appeared to be Ernestine Salt.

She moved very grudgingly to make room, but she did not speak to me, nor take any further notice. Lucy and I sat silently watching our thirty companions. It was all new and strange to us -- the fresh faces, the school-girl chaff, the jokes and allusions to things of which we as yet knew nothing, and we wondered how long it would be before we could take our part in that lively conversation.

"I never can eat anything the first night," declared one of the girls, mopping her eyes rather ostentatiously with a lace-edged pocket-handkerchief. "I'm always so terribly homesick, and they cut the bread so thick!"

"Nothing spoils my appetite," proclaimed Ernestine Salt. "I'm so frightfully hungry, I shall eat your share. I didn't have half enough sandwiches on the journey, though I bought three oranges and two jam-tarts at the railway-station as well. Where is the bread-and-butter?"

As the plate was within my reach, I handed it to her. She looked me coolly up and down, as if she were taking in every detail of my appearance, but she did not thank me.

"Oh, never mind manners, just help yourself and shove it on," she said carelessly. "We do as we like the first evening. Mrs. Marshall will come down to tea to-morrow, and then it'll have to be prunes and prism."

"Not so loud, Ernestine, I can hear your voice above all the others," said Miss Buller, who seemed trying to check the talk that every now and then threatened to become too uproarious.

A fresh instalment of girls, who had arrived by a later train, and now joined the tea-table, claimed general attention, and the meal at length being over, the whole party trooped away to the play-room. It was a chilly evening, and I stood by the fire warming my hands, while I watched the various girls who were walking about arm in arm, or standing together in select little groups. They were most of them laughing and talking with much excitement, but the loudest and noisiest of them all was Ernestine Salt, who with a few choice spirits had taken possession of the table, where she sat dangling her legs and eating chocolate, the silver paper from which she made into small hard pellets, and fired at unsuspecting passers-by, provoking shrieks of laughter from her companions. So amusing did she evidently find this occupation, that, the pellets being exhausted, she fished some walnut-shells out of her pocket, and commenced a perfect onslaught on a neighbouring group of girls. They, however, did not take it so peaceably, for, suddenly seizing the table, they tilted it over, sending her ignominiously sprawling upon the floor, while, seating themselves in her vacant place, they announced their intention of holding the fort against all comers.

"I don't care!" said Ernestine, picking herself up, and moving away towards the fire. "It's horribly cold, and I was going to get warm anyhow. You can keep your old table, if you want. Here, get out of my way, you little animal!" and, pushing me rudely aside, she pulled a chair forward and seated herself in the very front of the cheerful blaze.

"I'm not an animal!" I said with some indignation, for I thought her manner most disagreeable, and I was determined to hold my own.

"Mineral, then, if you prefer it!" she returned, with a laugh.

I looked her up and down as coolly as she had surveyed me at the tea-table.

"I should think it is you who are the mineral, if your name is 'Salt'," I said quietly. "I only wonder they didn't add 'pepper' when they were christening you!"

Her companions tittered.

"You've met your match, Ernestine?" declared one.

"Sharp little thing! Who is she?" whispered another.

"You won't put 'salt' on that bird's tail!" said a third, laughing at her own joke.

Ernestine looked as black as thunder, but for the moment she had no repartee ready, and she was saved from the necessity of a reply by the tinkle of a bell, and the voice of the head-girl, who announced that a general meeting of the various committees of the school sports and games was about to be held, at which everybody was requested to attend.

"I'm glad you stood up to Ernestine Salt," said Janet Forbes, who had been a silent listener. "But I'm afraid she'll hate you ever afterwards, and she can be uncommonly nasty when she likes. You'll be in for the cricket? We all have to play, whether we want to or not. I suppose you didn't bring a bat? The tennis-courts are reserved for the upper forms, but the fourth and fifth classes are getting up a Badminton club, and I advise you to join that. I'll propose you for the archery, too, if you like; it's splendid fun when we have a tournament."

Lucy and I were only too ready to be included in anything that might be going on, and soon found ourselves duly elected members, not only of the Badminton and archery, but also of a croquet club and an athletic society, which was to practise various feats of skill for the annual sports.

"How are you getting on?" said Catherine Winstanley, making her way across the room to us from a quieter group of girls who seemed to have been having a private meeting apart from the others. "I'm glad you're joining all the games. Shall I propose you for the dramatic society? We always get up a piece at the end of the term. Mother told me how you were playing at carnival that time she saw you in London, and how well you had dressed up all your cousins, so I'm sure you must be fond of acting."

"I wish you would," I replied; "I should like to join immensely."

"Then let us go at once; they're just electing the members now. Janet, come here! I'm going to propose Philippa for the dramatic society. Will you second her?"

"Of course I will," answered Janet heartily; and they stepped across to the select committee, who were seated on the top of a long row of lockers at the end of the room.

"I beg to propose Philippa Seaton as an active member of this society," said Cathy, with a little business-like air.

"And I beg to second this proposal," added Janet, pulling me forward to show me to the committee. The president, a tall girl in spectacles, took out her note-book and a well-worn stump of pencil ready to record my name.

"The candidate has been duly proposed and seconded. Has any member any objection to raise?" she enquired.

"I veto the election!" said Ernestine Salt hastily, rising before anyone else had time to reply. "The candidate is a new girl; we don't know yet whether she can act, and we don't want to admit members who can't speak up, and who turn their backs upon the audience!"

"I can answer for it that she wouldn't do that," said Cathy, flushing rather indignantly.

"How do you know? Don't be absurd, Cathy Winstanley! We're not going to spoil the society to oblige you, or anybody else. Besides, ten members are quite enough if we want to give parts to each, and I, for one, sha'n't consent to any more being brought in."

The committee seemed inclined to take Ernestine's view of the matter, and, the bell ringing for prayers, the meeting broke up in confusion.

"I'm so sorry!" said Cathy, squeezing my hand as we went up the stairs together. "I'm sure you can act. I can see it in your face. They would certainly have elected you if it hadn't been for Ernestine. Never mind, you'll get your chance later, and then you must show them what you can do."

Lucy and I went to bed that night feeling as if it were years since we had left home, so much seemed to have happened already in the short time we had been at school.

"There are two things I'm quite certain of," I remarked, as we discussed the day's doings while we brushed and plaited our hair. "I shall dislike Ernestine Salt exceedingly, but I've simply fallen in love with Catherine Winstanley."



Chapter IV

The Hollies

"I have had playmates, I have had companions, In my days of childhood, in my joyful school-days."


I was happy at school, though the work was hard and the discipline strict. When I try to recall our system of education, I think it must have been somewhat unique, for it was an endeavour to combine the very best points of a thoroughly modern course of study with the rigid rules and exemplary behaviour of a past generation. We learnt mathematics at The Hollies, but we curtsied to our teachers as we left the room; we had chemistry classes in a well-fitted laboratory, but we were taught the most exquisite darning and the finest of open hem-stitch; we played cricket, hockey, and all modern games, but we used backboards and were made to walk round the school-room balancing books upon our heads, to learn to hold ourselves erect; we had the best of professors for languages and literature, and we were taught to receive visitors graciously, to dispense afternoon tea, arrange flowers, and to write and answer invitations correctly.

It was the summer term. Each morning the great school bell roused us from our slumbers at half-past six, and woe to her who dared to turn over and go to sleep again! At a quarter-past seven we assembled in the hall, where rows of little blue mugs were waiting for us upon the table; then, under the escort of Miss Buller, we all turned out, weather permitting, to go and drink the waters for which Helston Spa was famous. The brisk run through the fields, where the hawthorn was opening, and an occasional bird's nest might be found by those who were skilful enough to lag behind, was inspiriting as a beginning to the day. We always entreated for the stile path, and lamented when a wet night made Miss Buller declare the grass too damp, and necessitated a walk along the high-road, where we must file two and two -- "in a crocodile," as Janet called it.

"Why a crocodile?" asked Lucy, who was not yet used to school-girl parlance.

"Oh, don't you know?" replied Janet. "Some terribly clever person, I can't remember whether it was Ruskin or Browning or Carlyle or who it was, said he would any day rather meet a crocodile than a ladies' school, so a long row of girls has been called a crocodile ever since."

"It's a stupid old-fashioned custom," said Ellinor, who was generally disposed to grumble. "At St. Chad's the girls have bounds and may go where they please, three together. I hate to be paraded like a file of convicts. We look so foolish carrying our mugs, anyone would take us for a Sunday-school picnic."

Whether we came by field-path or road the well was quite a romantic spot when we reached it, for the water bubbled up in a clear spring from a rocky basin grown round with moss and shaded by ferns. As yet it had not been spoilt by having had a pavilion built over it, but was left in its natural condition, under the care of a homely old woman called Betty, who turned an honest penny by dispensing the waters to visitors, and who stood our school-girl banter with perfect good-humour.

"Good-morning, Mother Shipton! You haven't flown away on your broomstick yet?"

"My broom's too busy sweepin' floors, miss, to be used for anything else."

"What will you do when we've drunk up all the waters, Betty?"

"There's plenty more, miss, where this comes from, so I won't deny you another mugful if you're wantin' it."

"No, thank you, one is enough of such disgusting stuff! What I want now is something to take the taste out of my mouth."

Betty drove a brisk but illicit trade with us in toffee. She kept a basket concealed under her chair, in which was a species of mint-rock very dear to our souls. We were not supposed to be allowed to buy any such luxuries at The Hollies, but at this point of the proceedings Miss Buller would kindly turn her back and pretend to take a deep interest in the surrounding landscape, thinking perhaps that the nastiness of the waters deserved some recompense. In my own case, I am certain the combined flavours completely spoilt my breakfast. I was growing fast, and was inclined to be a little fastidious about my food. Mrs. Marshall held to the old-fashioned principle that we must finish everything that was put upon our plates; a trying rule for me, for, like many children, I had a horror of fat, and to have eaten it would, I think, almost have choked me. Very fortunately I sat at table next to a girl named Marion Burns, whose appetite was large and indiscriminate. The portions which I viewed with dismay were to her insufficient, so I hit upon the happy expedient of slipping a part of my dinner each day upon her plate, and, like Jack Spratt and his wife, I was thus able to "leave the platter clean". Strange to say my little manoeuvre was never discovered, even by the watchful eyes of Miss Percy.

Miss Percy was Mrs. Marshall's right hand in all matters of discipline. She was a lady of uncertain age, and even more uncertain temper; though, as Cathy said, "It's not uncertain, because you may be quite sure it's going to be disagreeable". She seemed to regard school-girls with perpetual suspicion, and to have a perfect genius for pouncing down upon us on the most inopportune occasions. Were we indiscreet enough to talk in bed, Miss Percy was sure to be passing the door at the identical moment; were we late for prayers, hoping to scuffle in unnoticed among the servants, she was certain to be waiting for us in the hall. She had a very lynx eye for missing buttons or untied shoe-laces, her long thin nose smelled out directly the chestnuts we endeavoured to roast by the school-room fire, and she could catch the lowest whisper in the preparation hour.

"I think she must have eyes in the back of her head, and second sight as well," said Janet, who was a frequent sufferer.

In spite of the strict rules I enjoyed my new life; the variety of the school work, the excitement of the games, and the companionship of so many girls of my own age, were far pleasanter to me than the quiet humdrum of our daily round at Aunt Agatha's.

I got on well with my school-fellows, and I think I was a favourite with most of my class. I am sure, too, I honestly tried to share in that "give and take" which is the essence of school-girl conduct.

The one flaw in my happiness was Ernestine Salt. Since the day of my arrival she had taken a dislike to me, which she seemed to lose no opportunity of showing. There are many ways in which a girl can make herself unpleasant without giving any actual cause of complaint, and I found that I was subjected to a number of petty annoyances, too small for comment, but which stung all the same. When we met in the ladies'-chain at dancing, she would squeeze my unfortunate hand till I almost cried out with the pain; was it her turn to distribute the clubs at calisthenics, she would take care that I received the one with the split handle. She would try to leave me out in the games, and scoffed at my efforts at croquet, rejoicing openly when my opponents won and making light of my best strokes. If I were unlucky enough to sit next her at tea-time, she would nudge my elbow as if by accident at the very moment when I was raising my cup to my lips, and would profess the deepest concern for the spill which followed. She nicknamed me "Tow-head" in allusion to my light hair, and had always some clever remark to make at my expense. I kept out of her way as much as possible, for I was of a peaceable disposition and disliked quarrelling; but every now and then some little occasion would arise when I was obliged to stand up for myself, and a battle would follow, in which, with her sharp tongue and ruthless witticisms, she generally managed to get the best of it.

As a compensation for this trouble, I had the great delight of my growing friendship with Catherine Winstanley. She had taken me into her bedroom on the day after our arrival, and had shown me her various treasures -- the water-colour picture of her home which hung over the chimney-piece ("painted by my mother", she explained), the photographs of her family, and snap-shots of various horses, dogs, and other pets "taken by the boys".

"That's George on Lady. Edward snapped them just as they were leaping the fence. That's Dick bowling; he looks as if he were scowling horribly, but it's only the sun in his eyes. That's Edward asleep under the apple-tree. I took that myself, and he was so indignant when he found it out he wanted to tear up the photo, but I wouldn't let him. That's Father, with his fishing-rod, proudly holding up a good catch; and that is Mother pouring out tea on the lawn, with Zelica on her knee."

"Is it a rabbit?" I enquired.

"No, it's a Persian cat. Uncle Bertram brought her home really from Persia, so we christened her out of 'Lalla Rookh'. Are you fond of pets?"

"We haven't any at Aunt Agatha's, but I used to keep a few when I was at home. I had two green parrots, a monkey, and a terrapin; and once Tasso brought me a tiny baby puma from the forest. It was the sweetest little thing, with soft yellow fur, and it purred just like a kitten. But Father wouldn't let me keep it; he thought it would be so dangerous when it grew up. So he sent it to the Zoo at Monte Video."

"Tell me all about your life in South America. It is so interesting. I want to hear what your house was like, and your black servants, and the forest and the queer animals. Have you no pictures of them all?"

I had not, but I wrote at once to my father, who sent me a charming series of views of the neighbourhood, and enough pocket-money with them for me to be lavish in the matter of frames, so my walls were soon hung with remembrances of my old home.

Our bedrooms at The Hollies were rather a feature of the school. They were so arranged that the two little beds and the washstand could be screened off by a curtain, leaving the rest as a sitting-room. A table and two chairs stood in the window, and during the summer term we were allowed to prepare our lessons here instead of in the school-room, a privilege we much appreciated, but which was at once forfeited if we were caught talking during the study hours. It was a point of honour for each girl to make her bedroom as pretty as possible, and we vied with one another in the way of photo-frames, artistic table-covers, book-shelves, mats, and china ornaments. We were allowed to buy flowers on Saturday mornings for our vases, and must have been quite a source of income to the funny old man at a certain stall in the market, who kept us plentifully supplied according to the season.

"What was you wantin'? Don't know 'em, leastways by that name," as I enquired for lilacs. "Oh, ay, loylacs! Here you have 'em, purple and white, and no charge extry for smell. Roses? I can bring 'em next week, both Glory Johns and Jack Minnots" (he meant Gloire de Dijon and Jacqueminots!). "Sweet peas is gettin' on gradely, and Fair Maids o' France, just ready for the fair maids who buy 'em!" with an attempt at a compliment which was severely repressed by Miss Percy, who whisked us away in a hurry lest the old man should become "too familiar".

But to return to Cathy. Whenever possible I sat next her in school, I was her partner when we walked out "in crocodile", and she kindly initiated me into the mysteries of cricket, Badminton, archery, and croquet, in all of which I had hitherto been profoundly ignorant. She was a most stimulating companion. A little older than myself, and brought up among a family of brothers, she had all the frank open ways of a boy, with the pretty attractive manners which often mark a much-thought-of only daughter. To hear her talk took me into a new world. Instead of the ordinary topics common among school-girls, the lessons, the games, the chances for the next prize, or grumbles at Miss Percy's tiresome rules, she would tell me about her home, and the delightful round of hobbies and interests which seemed to make up their life at Marshlands. I did not know before that people pressed ferns, collected shells and sea-weeds, painted studies of birds and flowers, scoured the hills in search of antiquities, and held classes for wood-carving among the village boys. At my aunt's I had heard of none of these things. I had lived almost entirely in the nursery and school-room, and on the few occasions when I had been allowed to come down to the drawing-room the conversation was certainly far from intellectual.

"But do your father and mother go out to picnics, and hunt for shells, and help you to paste sea-weeds in books?" I asked, almost incredulously.

"Why, of course! They enjoy it as much as we do. Father is tremendously keen on butterflies, and Mother is making a collection of mosses and lichens. It wouldn't be half the fun unless they did everything with us. Just wait until you come to stay at Marshlands and then you'll see for yourself. Mother means to ask you, I know."

I very much hoped she would, as I could imagine no greater treat than a visit to Cathy's home. I longed to see all the places she had described, and to meet the people of whom she had spoken, and to share in the many tempting projects which she seemed to be planning. I was proud of her friendship, for she was popular at school, and could have taken her choice of playmates among girls who were both older and cleverer than myself. To be thus singled out as her special companion seemed an honour of which I felt scarcely worthy, and my letters to my father were mainly filled with ecstatic praises of my new friend.



Chapter V

The Winstanleys

"Thus fortune's pleasant fruits by friends increased be; The bitter, sharp, and sour by friends allay'd to thee, That when thou dost rejoice, then doubled is thy joy; And eke in cause of care, the less is thy annoy."


I spent my first holidays at Marshlands, and my joy knew no bounds. To have Cathy all to myself for seven long glorious weeks seemed the absolute summit of earthly bliss. Mrs. Winstanley received me like a second daughter, and the bluff jolly squire patted me on the head with kindly welcome.

"We must show her something of English country life," he declared. "Can she sit a pony? We don't grow oranges and bananas here, but the gooseberries are ripe in the kitchen-garden, and they take a good deal of beating, in my opinion."

I thought Marshlands was the most delightful spot I had ever seen. The long, low gray stone house, with its mullioned windows and flagged passages, stood just above the little village of Everton, on the verge of the moors, where one could catch a glint of the distant sea and the peaks of the Cumberland mountains. Behind lay the home-farm, with the granaries and stables and orchards, and in front was a sweet old-fashioned garden, with archways of climbing roses and borders of closely-clipped box.

"I see the roof of the arbour has fallen in," said Cathy, as we wandered round on a tour of exploration after breakfast the first morning. "Edward will be dreadfully disappointed about it. He made it himself last holidays, and I thought at the time it wasn't strong enough, for we have such high winds here. Dick's badger has escaped. Caxton stupidly left the stable-door open, and, of course, it took the opportunity to run away, and is probably back in the woods by now. I don't know how we shall break the news to him."

It seemed that the boys were expected home that afternoon, so at Cathy's suggestion we set to work to make a few preparations for their arrival.

"We had better clean out all the animals, and brush their coats," she said. "I'm afraid the ferret has got terribly savage again. George begged Caxton to be sure and handle it every day, so that it should keep tame, but he says he is afraid to touch it. Don't you try, Philippa dear. Look at it now!"

I certainly did not feel inclined to put in my hand and fondle the creature, its sharp red eyes gleamed so viciously at me from among the straw; and I much preferred the black Angola rabbit, with fur as soft as silk, which submitted to caresses with the utmost stolidity and impassiveness.

"I expect George will bring his white mice home with him," continued Cathy. "He has eight of them at school. He kept them in a box behind the window-curtains in his bedroom, and the other boys had twelve brown ones and a dormouse. It was a dead secret for weeks, but at last the second master discovered it. He said they smelled, and he hunted all round the bedroom until he found them. At first he threatened to drown them, but afterwards he repented and said the boys might keep them in a shed outside until the end of the term, and then they must take them home and never bring them back to school again. George kept a newt once, too. He had it in his water-jug for several days, till it escaped and he couldn't find it anywhere. It turned up in one of the other boys' beds, when the housemaid was doing the rooms, and frightened her nearly into a fit, for she thought it was a serpent."

"Does Dick have pets?" I asked.

"Not of that kind. He generally has heaps of caterpillars and chrysalides, which are turning into moths and butterflies for his collection. He likes birds' eggs, too, but such a dreadful accident happened last holidays that he'll have to begin all over again."

"How was that?"

"Well, you see, they were all in a splendid big box with little divisions, which he had made on purpose. He put the box inside the lid, and laid it on the top of the school-room book-case. Then he forgot he had left it in that way, and thought the box was lying shut, only upside down. So he reached up and turned it over, and all the eggs came tumbling out, and more than half of them were smashed. It will take him a long time to get so many together again."

"Does Edward collect?"

"Oh, stamps and post-cards and that kind of thing. He's fond of reading, and it's dreadfully hard to get him away from a book. We have to pinch him sometimes before he will listen. Shall we wash the dogs, and take them down to the station to meet the boys?"

I was willing to assist in any project, so we spent the rest of the morning in a moist and exciting struggle with a Pomeranian, a fox-terrier, and two poodle pups. They looked beautiful as the result of our efforts, and as we stood that afternoon on the station platform, holding them by their leashes, we felt they made a most impressive array.

"There goes the signal, and here comes the train!" said Cathy. "Keep Max tight, Phil. We'll stay by the ticket-office, where they can see us first thing."

But we had not calculated upon the joy of the dogs at seeing their masters again. The moment they appeared there was a wild rush, all the strings seemed to get mixed together, and we greeted the boys in the midst of a medley of barking, whining, and yelping which resembled Bedlam.

"Oh, I say! Keep those beasts off!" drawled Edward. "They wear a fellow out."

We dragged the dogs away, and I saw a tall boy of sixteen, much too smart for a school-boy, who brushed the marks of the Pomeranian's paws from his coat-sleeve with tender consideration. At that stage of his existence Edward was a dandy. He "fiddled" over his neck-tie, his collars were never altogether to his satisfaction, he was particular about the cut of his coat and the fit of his boots, and affected an air of general boredom and "used-up-ness" which he fondly imagined to be the height of manly dignity.

"We've lost our luggage," announced Dick cheerfully (he was a jolly, merry-looking boy of fourteen). "But I've got a glorious specimen of the Poplar Hawk-moth. It was actually blown in through the carriage window, and I caught it on the back of the Babe's neck. Would you like to see it?"

George, otherwise "the Babe", as he was nicknamed by his brothers, appeared to be the youngest of the family. He had the eight white mice loose in one pocket, and a box containing two hermit crabs in the other, which seemed to cause him some anxiety.

"They're such beggars for fighting," he explained. "And I don't want them to kill each other before I get them home to the aquarium."

He enquired tenderly about the ferret.

"Beastly shame they've let it get savage," he said. "But one of our fellows is going to send me a fox cub, if the governor will only let me keep it. Where's the mater? Hasn't she come down to the station?"

I had never lived before among a family of school-boys, and their rollicking ways, their slang, their endless chaff, their jokes, and the thrilling stories they told of their numerous adventures, were altogether a new experience for me. Being a visitor, they treated me at first with a certain amount of ceremony, but finding that I was ready to climb fences, play hare-and-hounds, ride, fish, or tramp miles over the heathery moors, they voted me "a jolly sort of girl", and included me in the bosom of the family circle.

"We thought, as you'd lived abroad, you'd perhaps go about shaking out your skirts, and holding up a parasol, and shriek if you saw a cow," said George, who had tested my courage by springing at me from behind corners, letting a bat loose in my bedroom, and locking me into the dark jam-cupboard, all of which ordeals I had borne with heroism.

"She can't be troubled with nerves if she can stand the Babe's little diversions. It makes a fellow quite limp to look at him this hot weather. Why don't you give her a book and a deck-chair in the garden, and leave her in peace?" said Edward, his suggestions for my entertainment being based on his own ideals of enjoyment.

With Dick I soon won golden opinions, as I took an interest in the birds' eggs, and would consent to carry the wriggling caterpillars and slimy snails which he collected on our walks, or to fill my pockets with stones and other specimens for the museum. This museum was a large cabinet with glass doors, which filled one entire end of the school-room at Marshlands. It held a very miscellaneous assortment of treasures, to which both Cathy and the boys were constantly adding, sometimes with rather more zeal than discretion. I shall never forget how Dick put the hornet's nest there.

"I've smoked it thoroughly with brown paper," he said, "and the grubs are as dead as door-nails, so you needn't be at all afraid of it."

But I fear the brown paper could not have been strong enough after all. A few days afterwards we were sitting at tea in the school-room, when a peculiarly irritated buzzing noise began to resound from the region of the cabinet, and Edward, who was giving us an imitation of his classical master's stately style on speech-day, suddenly ducked his head in a most undignified fashion, and, seizing the bread-knife, made a frantic cut into the air.

"It's a hornet!" he exclaimed. "Just see the size of it! Take care, Cathy, the brute's going into your hair! Look out! If there isn't another of them!"

We jumped up in a hurry; there was not only another, but more and more and more, and, like the oysters in the ballad of the walrus and the carpenter, they came up so thick and fast that for the moment it seemed to us as if the whole room were full of yellow stripes and buzzing wings. I am not brave where wasps are concerned, and I am afraid my strong-mindedness went to the winds, and I shrieked like any bread-and-butter miss, at least George assured me so afterwards. Cathy had the presence of mind to fling her dress over her head, while the boys made a valiant though fruitless effort to slay those within immediate reach.

"Oh, I say!" cried Edward. "This is no joke! They're all pouring out of the museum. We'd better cut, or there'll be damage done!"

And we beat an ignominious retreat, leaving our tea cooling upon the table, and the hornets in clear possession of the school-room. The question of how to get rid of them presented some difficulty, it being an unequal match to war with wasps; but in the end a tray full of burning sulphur was thrust through the door, and allowed to smoulder for some hours, after which we were at length able to enter in safety, and sweep up the bodies of our victims in triumph from the floor.

Somehow poor Dick's experiments did not always turn out very happily, in spite of the best intentions on his part. Fired by an article in a boys' magazine, he once volunteered to stuff a dead bullfinch which Cathy had found in the garden, and after a long operation of skinning and drying, he produced it in the school-room with great pride.

"Doesn't it look a little fatter on one side than on the other?" suggested Cathy, doubtfully surveying the bullfinch, which was wired upon a twig as no bird in real life had ever perched.

"Nonsense!" said Dick, pinching his specimen to send the stuffing straight. "It's just exactly as if it were pecking at a bud. Look at its eyes! I made them out of two black-headed pins I took from the mater's bonnet."

"I don't think its tail looks quite natural," said Cathy. "It seems somehow to stick up like a wren's."

"Well, if you're going to find fault," answered Dick indignantly, "just try and do one yourself, that's all. It's jolly difficult, I can tell you, and I've taken no end of trouble over it."

"Oh, I'm not finding fault!" said Cathy hastily. "I think it's ever so nice, and you're a dear boy to do it for me. We might bend the tail down a little -- so! That's better. Now it looks splendid, and we'll give it a front place in the collection."

"All right!" said Dick, somewhat mollified. "But you girls seem to think these things are as easy as eating cakes. It takes practice even to skin a sparrow, as you'd soon find out if you'd ever tried your hand at it."

The bullfinch was duly placed in the museum, where it really looked very well. Not long after, however, we began to notice a most peculiar odour in the school-room.

"It's the flowers!" said Cathy, sniffing at a vase, and throwing the water out of the window. "They always get nasty if you leave them too long."

"It smells to me more like a dead mouse," I declared. "Perhaps one may have had a funeral inside the wall;" and, dropping on my knees, I crept round the room, scenting the skirting-boards like a pointer. In spite of my efforts I was not able to fix the spot, and as Cathy turned out a potful of sour paste which we had forgotten in the cupboard, and found a pile of stale mushrooms in the pocket of George's coat, which was hanging behind the door, we came to the conclusion that it might be either of these.

But the odour did not improve, and by the next day it had become almost unbearable. Even the boys perceived it, and that is saying something. We all went round the room, sniffing in every corner, and trying to find the cause of offence, till at length Edward flung open the door of the cabinet.

"It's your beastly bullfinch!" he declared. "Take the wretched thing away! It's only half-cured, and smells like a tan-yard! Whew!"

Poor Dick was rather crest-fallen, especially as Edward made it a subject of chaff for many days; and he grew so huffy about it, that for some time we did not dare to mention either birds or the collection in his presence. He came home one day, however, bubbling over with laughter.

"I've a ripping museum joke for you!" he said. "Beats your old bullfinch into fits!"

"What's that?" we enquired.

"Why, I was down the village with the governor this morning, and we dropped into old Mrs. Grainger's. I was telling her a yarn or two about the Babe's crocodile's egg, and so on, and she turned round to a drawer, and fished out a piece of pink coral. 'If you like things from furrin' parts,' says she, 'I'll give you this. My sailor son brought it home from Singapore on his last voyage. I've heard as coral is all full of insects, but I've boiled this piece well in a saucepan, so I reckon it'll be clean enough now!'"

"Boiled!" we exclaimed.

"Yes, boiled! To kill the insects, don't you see?"

"Your imaginative faculties, my dear fellow, are considerable," said Edward. "But you won't get me to swallow that!"

"Fact, all the same!" said Dick. "You ask the governor. You're jealous, old chap, because you can't glean up humour yourself in the village. The yokels are so taken up with staring at your last new tie, or your immaculate collar, that you don't get a word out of them. There was old Jacob Linkfield, now, who --  -- "

But at this point of the story Edward went for Dick, and chased him out of the house and down to the stack-yard. He could occasionally stir his long legs when he considered the "cheek" of the younger ones grew beyond bounds, and, once he was moved, they deemed it prudent to flee before him.

You must not think, however, that we spent the whole of our time at Marshlands with the boys. They were frequently out with their father upon some shooting or fishing expedition, and Cathy and I would potter about the garden or in the fields with "the mater", only too delighted to have the chance of getting her quite to ourselves. A sweeter or truer gentlewoman than dear Mrs. Winstanley it has never been my good fortune to meet. She took me to her kind heart at once, and gave me for the first time in my life that "mothering" which I had so sadly lacked. I have hinted that my aunt did not make too much of me; even her own children did not run to her with their joys and sorrows, and I had never been accustomed to think of her as in any sense a possible companion. Mrs. Winstanley, on the other hand, was the most delightful of comrades. She had not forgotten in the very least what it felt like to be young; she could sympathize in all our amusements, indeed I think she enjoyed a picnic tea in the woods, or a scramble for blackberries, fully as much as we did ourselves; but she contrived at the same time to make us interested in those intellectual pleasures which were the great resource of her life. Under her guiding hand I made my first efforts at sketching; she taught me the names of the trees and the flowers, of which before I was lamentably ignorant; and a walk to see a cromlech or a stone circle upon the moors was an opportunity for such delightful stories about the early dwellers in our lands, that I became a lover of "antiquities" on the spot. I feel I can never be grateful enough to her for giving me in my childhood that taste for natural history which has been such a joy to me in my after-life. She taught us to use our eyes, and to see the beauty in each leaf and flower and every common thing around us. At her suggestion Cathy and I each began a "Nature Note-Book", in which we recorded all the plants, birds, animals, or insects we met with during our rambles, drawing and painting as many of them as we could.

"It will form a kind of naturalists' calendar," she said. "You must put the dates to all your finds, and in years to come the books will prove very interesting. Never mind whether the sketches are good or bad. Persevere, and you will soon begin to improve, and the very effort to copy a flower or a butterfly will impress its shape and colour upon your minds in a way which nothing else could do."

We waxed very enthusiastic over these note-books, and there was quite a keen competition between us as to which should contain the most records. As we kept them for several years, we naturally had different entries during the holidays we spent apart; and while I was able to sketch gorgeous sea-anemones and madrepores which I found upon the shores of south-country watering-places, Cathy would exult over the coral cups or birds'-nest fungi for which she searched the woods in winter.

Somehow, after my friendship with the Winstanleys I realized that in some subtle way the bond between my father and myself grew and strengthened. In the years which I had spent at my aunt's, though I had never ceased to love him, we had seemed in a very slight degree to have drifted apart, but since my visit to Marshlands all the old spirit of comradeship returned, and I felt he was even more to me than he had ever been before. I think I must have unconsciously expressed this feeling in my letters, for in his, too, I began to notice a change. He wrote back to me more fully and freely, not as to a child, but as to a friend, telling me his hopes and his difficulties, and the little details of his lonely days, and asking almost wistfully for a full record of all my doings. His gratitude to my kind friends knew no limit, yet I think all the same he felt it hard that he should miss those years of my life when I was receiving my most vivid impressions, and that he must leave to others the care he would so gladly have bestowed upon me himself.



Chapter VI

Mischief

"When Greek meets Greek, then comes the tug of war."


The celebrated Dr. Johnson is said to have advocated the theory, "When you meet a boy, beat him! For either he has been in mischief, or he is at present in mischief, or he is about to get into mischief!" In the case of the two younger Winstanley boys, I fear this axiom was only too true, since they sometimes allowed their love of fun to lead them into rather questionable undertakings, and I do not think their neighbours altogether appreciated the many jokes and escapades with which they sought to enliven the holidays.

There resided in the village High Street a certain elderly bachelor, a retired sea-captain, of somewhat autocratic manners and a very great idea of his own importance. Dick and George had once ventured into his garden in quest of a runaway puppy, and had been met with such a storm of wrath from the fiery old gentleman, who threatened to prosecute them for trespassing, that they had carried on a kind of feud with him ever since. On the captain's side, I have no doubt, there were many reasonable grounds of complaint, but the boys, on the other hand, considered themselves to have just cause of grievance. Their enemy had been seen deliberately to wipe off the treacling mixture which they had smeared upon the trees to attract moths, though the said trees were situated on the public highway, and not on his private property; he had put an impassable fence of barbed wire round the particular field where specimens of the Clifden Blue might occasionally be captured, and he had clipped his brambly hedge, allowing the prickles purposely to fall and remain in the cinder-path below, though he knew it was the short cut by which they bicycled from Marshlands to the railway-station.

"Hoped we should puncture our tyres, no doubt!" said Dick indignantly. "By sheer good luck I saw them in time, and we carried our machines the whole length of the lane. But it was a sneaking trick to play, and we'll be even with him. We owe him a good long score now, and I have it in my mind to just jolly well pay him out."

Needless to say, neither Mr. nor Mrs. Winstanley were aware of these fell designs against old Captain Vernon, with whom they had always managed to keep on excellent terms of neighbourly good-will, and, knowing full well that their schemes would be promptly forbidden if they ventured to divulge them, the boys seized the opportunity when "the mater" and "the governor" were out at a dinner-party to carry into execution their plan of revenge.

Edward declined altogether to be a party to the deed.

"Beastly bad form, I call it!" he yawned. "You don't catch me leaving a decent arm-chair to go ragging an antiquated old fossil of a sea-captain. As for you two girls, I suppose you can do as you like, but don't let the mater catch you at it, that's all!"

And, stretching out his long legs on a second chair, he took up a copy of Punch, and resigned himself to ease and comfort.

"That's all jolly well for the fifth form," said Dick, "but it's a little too good for us chaps. We're off now, and if Cathy and Phil like to join the show, they can, and if they don't, they may stop at home and hem dusters."

It was extremely naughty of us, but we wanted so much to see what happened; so we thought if we followed the boys at a discreet distance we should not be exactly aiding and abetting, and yet we should come in for a full share of all that went on.

It was a dark evening, with only a fitful gleam from a watery moon which occasionally showed itself behind the driving clouds, and the unlighted village street seemed quiet and deserted.

The captain lived in the end house of an old-fashioned red-brick terrace. Though he had a good garden at the side and back, his front-door and the bow-window of his dining-room were flush with the road, and by flattening our noses against the glass, we were able to peep through a crevice in the red curtains and watch him, as he sat in a particularly easy arm-chair, with a cigar between his lips and a newspaper in his hand.

"Looks much too comfortable!" muttered Dick. "Just wait till I'm ready and we'll make him sit up!"

He had been cautiously fastening a piece of cobblers' wax to the centre of the window-frame. This wax had a hole in it, through which a long piece of string was threaded, having a button at the end, and it was so arranged that the button should hang down over the glass, while Dick, standing under cover of the trees on the opposite side of the road, held the other end of the string in his hand.

"Are you well out of sight?" he whispered. "Don't give the thing away by flapping your skirts about and giggling. Now! Mum's the word, and you'll see some sport!"

He pulled the string, and the button tapped smartly upon the window. It evidently had some effect, for the red curtains were drawn aside, and the captain peered out enquiringly into the darkness.

"Unearthed!" whispered George, but Dick gave him a severe pinch for silence, and pulled the cord again. "Rap! Tap!" sounded the button on the pane. This time our foe threw open the sash, and, thrusting out his head, glanced up and down the street, muttering something we could not catch. We could see him very plainly, his red face and long white whiskers outlined against the lamp-light of the room behind, and we could hear his peculiar husky wheeze as he fumbled with the curtain, and thrust aside a small table which stood in his way.

"I hope he won't catch cold!" I whispered to Cathy, feeling just a little compunction when I heard the old man's cough. Perhaps she did, too, for she squeezed my hand; but we were in for it now, as we did not dare to move an inch for fear of betraying the boys.

Not finding anybody outside, the captain evidently thought he must be mistaken. He closed the window again, carefully drew the red curtains, and no doubt returned once more to the enjoyment of his paper and his cigar. Loosing his string, Dick crept across the road, and, giving a sudden sharp bang on the window-frame, he at the same moment dropped a number of pieces of glass which he had brought with him, and which fell on the pavement with a resounding crash. Thinking, no doubt, that his panes were smashed to atoms, Captain Vernon appeared again, in great wrath and utter mystification when he found that after all no visible damage had been done. He opened the front door this time, and came a few steps into the street, narrowly missing Dick, who had rushed back to his point of vantage opposite. He picked up a piece of the broken glass, examined it by the aid of his hall lamp, peered up and down once more into the darkness, and finally went in, slamming the door after him.

"It's my turn now," whispered George. "Just watch me bait the badger!"

"Haven't you done enough?" whispered Cathy. "It seems rather too bad, and the poor old man is getting so cross!"

"Oh, do stop, George!" I implored. "I know you'll be caught!"

"We're not half quits yet," returned George grimly. "You girls always want to spoil things by hanging back. I wish we had left you at home with Edward. Keep quiet now you're here, at any rate."

He had a coil of rope with him, and, moving with extreme caution, he fastened one end of it to the captain's door-handle, and the other end to the door-handle of the next house, which was only a few feet lower down the street. Then, seizing the knockers, he beat a terrific tattoo on both doors and fled. He had hardly gained our sheltering trees before the captain appeared on the threshold, uttering some very uncomplimentary remarks, varied by perfect explosions of coughing. As the rope had been allowed to hang rather loosely, he was just able to open his door, but at that identical instant his neighbour also desired to investigate matters, with the effect that no sooner did he open his door, than it drew the rope so tightly that the captain's door was banged to with great violence. In a fury of rage he pulled it open again, which had the result of shutting his neighbour's, and for a few moments the two doors opened and closed as if they were worked by a wire. It really looked very funny, and in spite of our guilty consciences we nearly choked ourselves with trying to laugh noiselessly. I think a faint giggle must have escaped us, or perhaps the victims of our practical joke suspected that somebody was trying to play a trick upon them, at any rate both doors were hastily slammed hard, and all was silence.

"Good old Babe!" whispered Dick, when he had recovered his breath. "Your dodge went even better than mine! But I say, we can't leave our apparatus over there! We must manage to fetch it somehow!"

They slipped across the road again, Dick to remove his lump of bees'-wax and the button, and George to untie the rope; but they had counted without their host. The captain had evidently scented the plot, and was waiting for them, for from the bedroom casement above descended a perfect deluge of water, as though the whole contents of a bath had been suddenly emptied on to the pavement below. Almost blinded for the moment, and drenched to the skin, the boys beat a gasping retreat, while such extraordinary sounds of mixed chuckling and coughing proceeded from the open window, as to lead us to suppose that the old man was exulting in his triumph.

We kept this adventure a dead secret. Cathy and I felt rather ashamed of ourselves, and, as Edward had hinted, we knew Mrs. Winstanley would have been greatly annoyed if she had discovered that we had made use of her absence to play such very questionable pranks, especially in the village, where we might so easily have been seen and recognized. Whether the captain suspected us, we could not tell; if he did, he said nothing to the squire, probably thinking that on the whole he had had the best of it, and that as he could not prove us to be the culprits, it was wiser not to push his advantage too far.

The next event in the feud was really a very innocent one on our part. Even the boys on this occasion were quite guiltless of any evil intent, and I think the fault lay with the old captain's hot temper. It was a most lovely September afternoon, and we decided that nothing would be nicer than to take our kettle and tea-things, and after a ramble round in search of blackberries, to picnic in any suitable spot where we might happen to find ourselves when the pangs of hunger assailed us.

"Always allowing that George doesn't insist upon getting hungry before four o'clock!" said Cathy. "He'll have to wait if he does. And don't let him carry that basket, or you'll find the cake half gone! You take it, Philippa dear, and give him the kettle instead."

"Fibs!" said George. "I wouldn't touch the tuck. I'll carry them both if you like, and Cathy's satchel as well. Here, sling it over my back! Now I call this returning good for evil, Madame Catherine, when you've just been slanging me so hard!"

"Poor old Babe!" said Cathy soothingly. "You see, when people earn a bad name, it is apt to stick. But to console you, we'll let you choose where we shall go this afternoon; only make up your mind quickly, for we are all ready and waiting."

"All right!" said George promptly. "Up the common, and round by the oak-wood; there's a stream there where we can get water for the kettle, and I know a place to camp in that's just A1."

We set off without further delay, and scrambled up the hill-side on to the heathery common, where the blackberries were already ripening fast on the low brambles. It took a considerable time to fill the large milk-can which we had brought for the purpose, although there were four pairs of hands hard at work; and I don't really think a very great many had gone into our mouths, in spite of the suspicious stains round George's lips.

"Hullo, it's after half-past three!" cried Dick at last, looking at his watch. "If we want to get to the oak-wood, and then light a fire and boil the kettle, it will take us all our time to get tea by four o'clock, I can tell you!"

So, mounting the stile into the lane, we set off in the other direction down the hill, and by climbing a steep wall found ourselves at last in a pretty little wood, carpeted with soft green grass, and with a clear stream running through the midst.

"Here's the place!" said George, pointing to a kind of natural arbour, formed partly by the bank, and partly by the roots of a huge oak-tree, the branches of which stretched far overhead, and made a green roof with their interlacing leaves. "I found it out once when I came here alone, and I put these logs inside for seats. It makes a ripping summer-house, and I made up my mind we would have tea here some day. Well, what do you say to it?"

We were all enthusiastic in our approval, and Cathy and I set to work at once to lay out the tea, while the boys collected sticks for the fire, and filled the kettle at the brook. The thought that we were trespassing never entered into our heads. The Winstanleys knew all the farmers and the land-owners about Everton, and were accustomed to go where they pleased without thinking of asking leave. Being country bred they could be trusted not to trample on springing crops, disturb young pheasants, or in any way do injury to other people's property. We were quite unaware, also, that the plantation belonged to old Captain Vernon (I am not sure whether the knowledge would not have added a zest to our enjoyment!); and though we knew he owned a considerable amount of land in the district, we imagined this particular wood to be part of the preserve of a neighbouring squire, with whom the boys were on very friendly terms, and who had often taken them for a day's grouse-shooting on the moors. Cathy and I arranged the tea-cups most artistically, laying flowers and fronds of fern between them, with the cakes and the bread-and-butter piled up in graceful pyramids in the centre. It looked very tempting, and we all waited with some impatience for the kettle to boil; but it was a case of the watched pot, for the sticks being rather damp, the fire gave out more smoke than heat, in spite of Dick's desperate efforts to fan it with a piece of newspaper.

"I'll fetch some bracken. They've been cutting it lower down," he declared. "That'll be dry enough at any rate, and ought to help it a little. Get up, George, you lazy-bones, and bestir yourself, or we sha'n't have any tea to-night!"

The boys were not long in bringing back a large pile of withered ferns, and stoked the fire to such good purpose that the kettle was soon boiling briskly. Cathy had the tea ready in the pot, and Dick was in the very act of pouring in the water, when we suddenly heard a tremendous crashing a little higher up in the wood, and whom should we see bearing down furiously upon us, his red face redder than ever with rage, and his long white whiskers waving in the wind, but -- the captain, followed by his equally crusty old gardener!

"What are you doing here, you young scoundrels?" he roared, flourishing his riding-whip as he ran, and interspersing his words with gusts of coughing. "I'll teach you to trespass on my property! Burning my wood and spoiling my grass! Boys or girls, you're one as bad as another, and I'll spare none of you! Come on, Johnson, we'll give them a lesson!"

Whether he would actually have done so, or whether he only meant to frighten us, I cannot tell; but he did not get the opportunity, for, dropping the kettle, Dick seized my hand, and dragged me down the hill at such a breakneck speed that I could scarcely keep on my feet, while George and Cathy raced behind as if they were possessed of seven-leagued boots. With the old captain's angry shouts ringing in our ears, we scrambled somehow over the fence at the bottom of the wood, and never stopped running till we were quite a long way up the high-road, and within a safe distance of Marshlands again.

"Of course we weren't in the very least in a funk for ourselves," explained Dick afterwards. "If it had only been the Babe and myself, we'd have stayed and tackled them both, and enjoyed the fun, but I thought the old madman was going for you girls, and the best thing to do was to clear out of his way as quick as we could. Is he gorging on our tea and cakes, I wonder? It would be like his cheek. Perhaps he'll annex the tea-cups, too, while he's about it."

But the captain was honest as regarded our property. That same evening the old gardener arrived at the back-door, and with an imperturbable countenance handed our baskets to the astonished cook, stalking away without uttering a word, in spite of the many questions she hurled at his head.

After this the boys declared it was war to the knife. They had not intended to do any harm in the wood, and therefore, they argued, the captain's action was quite unjustifiable; and as he had shown intentions of not confining the use of his riding-whip to his own sex, he had forfeited all claim to be treated as a gentleman, and his conduct must be repaid with interest.

This time they did not take Cathy and me into their confidence beforehand, though from various dark hints we imagined they must have some scheme of revenge brewing in their minds.

They came home one evening brimming over with satisfaction.

"Done him at last!" chuckled Dick. "It was the Babe's idea, too, not mine, so I won't take the credit of it. You know the old duffer has a gorgeous pear-tree at the end of his garden; well, we just stood in the lane outside with our catapults, and shot pellets into the pears as hard as we could go. We've been wiring into them all the afternoon. Fancy they'll taste a little gritty when he comes to eat them! Too bad? Not at all! Serves the old beggar right!"

Cathy and I, however, felt somewhat uneasy, thinking the boys had gone rather too far.

"If the captain finds out who has done it," said Cathy, "and complains to Father, they'll get into the most dreadful row. He can be terribly angry over some of their scrapes."

We waited rather anxiously for further developments, and they were not long in coming. On the very next day a large basket of pears was delivered at Marshlands by the old gardener, "with Captain Vernon's compliments".

"How very kind of him!" said unsuspecting Mrs. Winstanley. "He has never sent us a present before. They are finer than anything we have been able to grow for ourselves."

The pears were brought in at dessert, and remarkably ripe and luscious they appeared. I thought the boys looked a little conscious when they saw them placed upon the table, but they hid their feelings under a mask of would-be unconcern.

"These are some of Captain Vernon's pears, my dear," said Mrs. Winstanley, passing the dish to the squire. "He sent such a polite message, saying he thought we should like to taste them."

"They must be his early Bergamots," said Mr. Winstanley, choosing a particularly fine one, and slicing it. "I know he's very proud of them, and boasts that he can beat all the gardens round. Hullo! What's this? It looks as if the pear were riddled with shot!"

"Perhaps they're the seeds, they often look black when they're ripe!" suggested George hastily. He and Dick were eating apples, and Cathy and I had also declined the offered delicacy.

"Seeds! You don't find pips made of lead! I tell you they're pellets, though how they came inside the pear, I can't imagine. Hand me the dish, and I'll try another."

The next was in like condition, and Mrs. Winstanley's and Edward's plates told the same story.

"There's something queer about this!" said the squire, cutting into his third pear. Then, suddenly catching sight of the air of elaborate nonchalance which the boys were rather overdoing, "You young rascals!" he roared. "I verily believe this is your handiwork!"

I will draw a veil over the explanations which followed. To Dick and George they proved extremely unpleasant, as Mr. Winstanley was really angry. He had little patience with practical jokes, and especially disliked to give any cause of offence to his neighbours, so he insisted upon marching both the boys off then and there to make their apologies to Captain Vernon.

"And if he likes to horse-whip you, he may do so," he declared. "And I'll stand by and watch it done, and say you deserve it for a couple of mischievous young jackanapes!"

To the great surprise of all concerned, however, the old captain "turned up trumps". Bursting into a roar of laughter, he declared he had had the best of the joke, shook the boys warmly by the hand, and proclaimed an amnesty. He even did more. Next day he sent us a beautiful basketful of his best wall-apricots as a peace-offering, and permission to pick blackberries in his fields if we chose.

"It's ever so decent of the old chap," said George. "We certainly did rag him rather hard. But I've promised to catch the moles in his garden -- I'm a capital hand at setting mole-traps -- and he says if I like to come and scare the birds from his autumn peas, he'll lend me an air-gun, and I can blaze away all day if I want."

It was a very satisfactory conclusion to the feud, and I think the boys were glad it had ended thus; for by the next holidays the poor old captain's cough no longer resounded through the village, his garden knew him no more, and other and younger faces looked out from his red-curtained windows.



Chapter VII

Tit For Tat

"All in the nick To play some trick And frolic it with Ho! ho! ho!"


Though the natural-history portion of the Marshlands Museum grew so rapidly that it threatened to overflow the cabinet, there were very few antiquities in the collection, a Roman lamp, an Egyptian scarab, a few old coins, and a Georgian snuff-box making up the whole of the scanty store.

"I wish we could get a few really ancient things," said Cathy one day, as she dusted and tidied the shelves. "Arrow-heads, I mean, and spindle-whorls, and bronze brooches, and all those delightful finds you hear of people digging up out of barrows. I'm sure there ought to be some on these moors if we only knew where to look for them."

"Go and dig, then," suggested Dick. "You don't know what you might come across."

"Why shouldn't I?" said Cathy. "There's a little round green mound just in the corner of the field near the stone bridge that, I always think, looks as if it ought to have something inside it. I shall certainly try some day, when I have time."

Cathy generally carried out her intentions, so one afternoon about a week later she came from the tool-house carrying two small garden spades in her hand.

"Come along, Phil," she said. "We'll go and dig on the moors. It's a good opportunity while the boys are out fishing. They always make such fun of us. It will be quite time to tell them about it if we find anything."

I was more than willing, so we started briskly up the steep stony road towards the moors. It was a glorious autumn afternoon, with larks singing overhead, and the heather a glow of soft purple below. Flocks of plovers scared at our approach flew off with warning cries, and a sea-gull or two, which had been feeding with them, flapped majestically away towards the silvery line of the sea in the far distance. We followed the course of the noisy brook for about a mile, till we reached the little rough stone bridge which spanned the rapid, rushing water.

"Why do they make the bridge so much wider than the stream?" I asked, as I looked down at the narrow channel under the arch.

"The water is low now," answered Cathy. "But you should see it when there has been a storm upon the hills. It comes raging down in a great foaming torrent, and it's so wide that sometimes you can scarcely get on to the bridge. It looks grand then. I often think the country is even more beautiful in winter than in summer, yet how few people who live in towns ever dream of taking a Christmas holiday to see what the moors are like in December!"

"They would find it dull, I expect," I suggested, for I could not imagine Aunt Agatha or any of her friends leaving the diversions of London to seek nature's solitudes in mid-winter.

"They don't know how to enjoy themselves," said Cathy, who had a fine scorn for town-dwellers. "I would rather have a ramble over the fells in the snow, or a scamper on Lady after the hounds, than all the parties and pantomimes you could offer me."

The mound proved to be a small green hillock in the corner of a very stony field close to the bridge.

"It's just the kind of place the prehistoric people used to bury their chiefs under," declared Cathy. "Don't you remember the pictures I showed you in Mother's book? There ought to be a skeleton in the middle, and all the drinking-vessels and ornaments and things which they put in the grave with him. If we pull a few of these stones away I think we shall be able to dig; the soil seems fairly light."

"It's very soft here," I said, putting in my spade as I spoke and turning up the turf without much difficulty.

"So it is. Perhaps a rabbit has burrowed there and loosened the earth. We'll go on here, as it seems an easy place."

We had not dug more than a foot deep when Cathy's spade struck upon something hard.

"Stop, Philippa! Be careful!" she cried. "If there's really anything here we mustn't spoil it on any account."

She went down on her knees, and, putting her hand into the hole we had dug, began to feel about cautiously.

"There is! There actually is!" she exclaimed, and with eyes shining with delight she drew forth a small round vessel fashioned somewhat in the shape of an urn. It appeared to be made of baked clay, and was broken and crumbling round the top and stained with darkish marks below.

"It must be two thousand years old or more," said Cathy, in a voice of rapture. "And there's something inside it too!"

She turned it carefully upside down, and out fell a few little bones and five worn and rusty-looking coins.

"Now, this is a discovery," she continued. "No doubt it was a Celtic chief who was buried here. They would burn his body first, and put his bones in the urn along with a few Roman coins. You can't see the marks on them, can you? Never mind, we'll rub them up when we go home. What an addition to the collection! Sha'n't we crow over the boys, just!"

We filled up the hole in the mound again, and went home elated with pride, feeling that the British Museum itself might justly envy us our possession. The boys were hanging about the gate as though they were waiting for our return, though they certainly could not have known where we had been that afternoon.

"Hullo! What have you got there?" they cried, as Cathy produced her treasure.

"Don't ever dare to chaff me again about antiquities," she announced. "What do you say to this?"

It might have been fancy, but I certainly thought I saw a wink pass between Dick and Edward. Perhaps, however, I was mistaken, since they all seemed duly impressed.

"Looks a real mouldy, crumbly, museum old kind of a performance," said Edward.

"Must be genuine if you dug it up yourself," remarked Dick.

"You'll have to write about it to the newspaper," put in George. "What sport for you to see your name in print!"

"Go and ask Evans for a box of metal-polish," said Cathy. "I must certainly find out what the coins are, they'll fix the date of the mound."

Dick went with a readiness which might have aroused our suspicions, and hung over her shoulder while she rubbed vigorously away at the worn-looking specimens.

"It's certainly coming off!" she cried with enthusiasm. "Oh, look! There is a mark like a head, and some writing, and -- it looks like -- why -- why --  -- !"

She held the coin up critically, and her face fell; as well it might, for when the dirt was cleaned away, there appeared the unmistakable profile of Queen Victoria, while on the other side was the familiar figure of Britannia and the remains of the words "Half Penny"!

"Dick!" cried Cathy with sudden enlightenment.

But the boys were doubled up in such convulsions of jubilant mirth that it was a few moments before they could gasp out any remarks.

"Done you, old girl, for once!" spluttered George.

"Oh! I really didn't think you'd be taken in by such an easy fake!" shrieked Edward.

"Made it ourselves," explained Dick, between bursts of chuckles. "We modelled it in clay, after the pattern of those pictures in the mater's antiquarian book, and baked it in the oven. Then we crumbled the top away, and stained the bottom with iron-water, and filled it with pigs' bones and all the oldest coppers we could muster. We didn't bury it too deep, because we knew you'd never fag to dig half the mound away. I dare say the place was soft! No doubt a rabbit had been burrowing there! Oh, I say! I feel quite weak with laughing!"

Cathy and I bore our chaffing with the best grace we could.

"It was really rather clever of them," said Cathy. "Of course it's a dreadful sell, but we might find something genuine some day; only the next time we mean to go hunting for antiquities we won't tell the boys beforehand!"

All the same the affair rankled in our minds, and we came to the conclusion that if we could possibly seize an opportunity we should like to play a trick upon these determined practical jokers, so as to pay them back to some extent in their own coin. It was rather difficult to hit upon anything fresh, Cathy scorning such stale devices as apple-pie beds or stitched-up trousers.

"Those are as old as the hills," she said. "And would scarcely amuse them. I want to find something quite out of the common, and if possible to give them a good fright into the bargain."

"Ghosts," I suggested.

"Um! No. It's rather hard to get up a clever ghost, they find it out directly. You see they've done it so often themselves to scare the servants. Stop! I have it! Oh, I've thought of a most glorious idea! Didn't you hear Edward reading out an account from the newspaper this morning of a robbery at Thistleton Hall? Why shouldn't we have a sham burglar, and rouse them all in the middle of the night? It would make a splendid sensation."

Mr. and Mrs. Winstanley were away from home, spending a week in Scotland, and Edward considered himself to be the head and safeguard of the establishment during their absence, so the scheme really seemed very feasible.

"We can dress up the figure of a burglar with some of Father's old clothes stuffed with straw," said Cathy, "and let it down through the trap-door in the end bedroom. But first of all we must pave the way. Suppose we were to write a letter to Edward, as if it came from some poor person, warning him that there's going to be an attack on the house? It would make them ever so excited about it first, and then they'd fall quite easily into the trap, and be ready to believe that someone was really breaking in. Can you keep the secret, Phil, absolutely tight and safe? We mustn't betray even by a look what we're meditating."

"I think I can," I replied. "I'm rather clever at hiding my feelings. I didn't let George guess last night that I knew where Dick had put his cricket-cap, though I helped him to look for it everywhere except in the right place."

We set to work at once so that we might have time to carry out our plans before the squire and Mrs. Winstanley returned home. Cathy's letter was a product of genius. It was written on the thinnest of village note-paper, with the vilest and scratchiest of pens; the handwriting was unformed and scrawling, and the tails of the letters were occasionally smeared, as if a large and dirty finger had industriously and laboriously pursued its way along the page. It ran thus, being guiltless of stops -- 

"honered sir "i take up my pen to tel you wot as bin on my mind and i ope you wil not considder it a liburty but Honored Sir i feel it is ony rite to warn you as your pa and ma is away and you the squire as is to be and i dont like to split on my pals but there is some as will ope to find your ouse not two well looked arfter at nite and i can tel you no more at present for i dont want to get into no trubble "this is from "one oo knows"

She addressed the envelope on the extreme top to -- 

"Mister edward winstanly marchelands near evverton",

put the stamp on upside down at the bottom, smeared the letter with her thumb previously rubbed in the dust-pan, and dropped the epistle herself into the village post-box.

It was extremely difficult to keep our faces the next morning when Edward opened this strange communication, especially when we saw that he took it in all seriousness.

"I say, Dick, look here!" he said, drawing his brother aside. "Just read this, and see what you make of it. It appears to me there's going to be an attempt to break into the house, and someone has written to warn us. Whom could it possibly be from? There's no name or address on it."

Dick turned the dirty sheet of paper over and over in his hand, and examined the envelope closely, but it was evident he could make no more of it than Edward had done.

"What's the matter?" asked Cathy innocently. "What are you two putting your heads together about?"

"I don't know whether I ought to tell you girls," said Edward in his most fatherly manner. "I'm afraid you'll be scared out of your senses. But after all perhaps it's wiser to let you know, for you're both pretty plucky on the whole. Here, you may read the letter."

We seized it as if we had never seen it in our lives before, and looked at each other with much apparent consternation.

"It's certainly meant for a warning," I said gravely.

"If I were you, Edward," remarked Cathy, "I should put it into the hands of the village constable."

"Put it into the hands of the village fiddle-stick!" growled Edward. "What help would poor old Gaskell be, I should like to know? He'd run away if he saw the very tail of a burglar. I dare say he's all right to lock up a drunken man on fair-day, or to slip the handcuffs on poachers when the gamekeepers are holding them tight, but he'd be of no earthly use in a case of this sort. Just you leave it to me. Dick and I will undertake to look after the house. You girls had better lock your bedroom door to-night; and be sure you don't let the servants get a hint of it, or we shall have them all in hysterics."

So far our hoax had answered admirably, and Cathy and I retired upstairs after breakfast in fits of delighted laughter.

"He looked so solemn over it," chuckled Cathy; "that touch about his being the future squire was most effective. He feels he's quite a man and must defend the family property."

"I nearly exploded when Dick sniffed the letter, and said he could tell it was written by a clodhopper, because it smelled of their abominable tobacco!" said I.

"We'd better get on with our burglar," said Cathy. "I have Father's old tweed suit and his fishing-boots here, and I brought up a whole sackful of hay yesterday, it's underneath my bed. Have you locked the door? No one must come in on any account."

We first securely stitched the coat and trousers together, fastened the trousers firmly into the fishing-boots, sewed a pair of gloves on to the ends of the sleeves to represent hands, and then stuffed the whole figure tightly with hay. The head was a little more difficult to manage. We tried at first to make it out of a sponge-bag, but that did not seem to answer at all; so in the end Cathy fetched a large mangold out of the field, which had a warty protuberance on one side very much resembling a human nose, and by the aid of two shoe-buttons stuck in with hair-pins for eyes, and a slit cut with a penknife for a mouth, we really made a very creditable burglar countenance. We mounted it on a sharpened stick, which we rammed down into the body, crowned it with a soft felt hat, tied a silk handkerchief round its neck to cover up deficiencies, and then sat down and rejoiced over our handiwork.

"Doesn't he look a splendid Bill Sykes?" cried Cathy. "In the dark I'm sure anyone would think he was real. Those fishing-boots look very clumping and murderous."

"He's not very heavy either," I said, lifting the figure easily in my arms, "I think you'll be able to manage him."

The place where we intended to spring our surprise on the boys was a large unoccupied bedroom at the end of the passage, generally called the "north room". It had a trap-door in the ceiling which opened out on to a flat roof, and by climbing upon the edge of Cathy's balcony it was extremely easy to step on to this roof; indeed we had often done so to watch the sunset, or to get a good view of the surrounding country. We arranged that about midnight Cathy should mount up here, I should then hand the burglar to her, and after opening the trap-door she should allow his legs to dangle through it as though he were in the very act of forcing an entrance into the room. When she was ready I was to give the alarm, and we trusted that in the faint moonlight the boys would not readily discover the imposture. We hid "Bill Sykes" safely away under the bed, and went downstairs again, feeling all impatience for the evening to arrive.

Edward was extremely particular about locking up that night -- he examined every bolt and bar, closed all the shutters, put a screw in the back-kitchen window and a wedge in the cellar door, and finally went round the whole establishment with a lantern, peeping into pantries and china-closets, and even the housemaid's cupboard under the stairs, to make quite sure that nobody was concealed there with nefarious intent. He retired to bed at last with a revolver under his pillow; Dick took the air-gun, which he had borrowed from Captain Vernon, while George, not being able to obtain any firearms (the squire having wisely locked up his gun cupboard and taken the key away with him), was obliged to content himself with the garden syringe well charged with water, with which he could certainly give anyone a decidedly cold reception. It was past ten o'clock before we were all in our rooms, and Cathy and I decided that we would not go to bed, as we were much too excited to feel sleepy; so we sat eating apples and reading to pass the time, as we did not dare to talk much for fear the boys should overhear us. At ten minutes to twelve we opened our window and looked out. It was a beautiful moonlight night, just bright enough to make the room rather light without showing any object too plainly, and nothing could be more fortunate for the success of our plot.

Cathy climbed cautiously on to the roof, and I managed to hand up the burglar -- with some difficulty, I own, for if he were not heavy he was decidedly bulky. She had tied a rope under his arms so that she might dangle him more securely, and she very soon unfastened the trap-door and let his legs down through the opening.

"Are you ready?" I called under my breath, as I watched her from the balcony.

"Hush! Yes, just got him right!" she whispered; "you may go now. Remember, Edward first!"

It was an exciting moment. I ran down the passage, and tapped softly at Edward's door.

"Oh, do come quick!" I said in a low voice, which I am sure must have sounded most agitated. "We've heard such strange noises, and we can't help thinking that someone's trying to break into the north room!"

Edward appeared in an instant, fully dressed, and armed with his revolver. I am sure that even if he had lain down on his bed, he had neither removed his clothes nor closed his eyes. He looked rather white, but I must say very determined and self-possessed.

"Have you roused the others?" he whispered. "Don't make any noise, and perhaps we may be able to catch him. You'd better go back to Cathy, and both of you stay in your room. This thing's not fit for girls, and you might get hurt."

Dick and George, who slept in the adjoining bedroom, arrived on the scene with equal promptitude, and the three crept silently down the passage, while I, after pretending to retire, followed at a little distance to watch the fun. Arrived at the north room they noiselessly opened the door, and sprang back for a moment, looking rather aghast, for dangling through the opening in the roof appeared the large fishing-boots of our burglar, moving about in such a natural and lifelike manner, that it was no wonder the boys were deceived.

"Hullo! Who's that?" cried Edward in a firm tone, levelling his revolver at the figure.

The legs twitched, and came slightly lower, so that a portion of the body might be seen through the trap-door.

"Stop, or I'll fire!" declared Dick, with a suspicious little quaver in his voice.

"If you move an inch, I'll kill you!" roared valiant George, though his weapon was certainly the least deadly of the three.

Cathy let the burglar down a good piece, so that his head and his felt hat now appeared, while his arms seemed to be waving about in a wild demonstration of defiance. Bang! went both revolver and air-gun at the same instant, while the syringe discharged its contents freely over the room, George in his agitation having somewhat miscalculated his aim. Cathy loosed the rope, and "Bill Sykes" dropped with a heavy plump on to the floor below, his mangold head striking the bed-post with great violence. A dead silence followed.

"Have we done for him, or is he only foxing?" whispered George.

Cathy from above uttered a low groan.

"He's still alive!" gasped Dick.

"Ay, but he's hurt," said Edward. "We'd better see what damage is done. Be ready, Dick, to hold his legs, in case he should jump up suddenly."

They advanced with extreme caution towards the figure, which lay stretched out in a most natural manner, face downwards, in the patch of moonlight which fell through the window. Dick seized the fishing-boots, and held them securely while Edward made a firm grasp at the arm. Perhaps something in its consistency felt unusual, for with a cry he turned the burglar over. The sudden movement loosened the mangold head, which we had not been able to fasten on very securely, and, rolling off with a bound, it fell at the feet of the astounded George.

A yell of disgusted wrath arose from the indignant boys, and I could not forbear to run into the room, clapping my hands in my glee, while Cathy peered down through the trap-door in rejoicing triumph.

"Done you this time, old fellows!" cried Cathy.

"Oh, I didn't think you'd be taken in by such an easy fake!" I echoed.

"Made it ourselves!" exploded Cathy from above. "Only Father's old suit stuffed with hay! And you thought you had done for him! I think I could tell you who sent that letter if you were to ask me!"

"Come down, you young wretch!" said Edward. "If you let yourself drop, I'll catch you. Well, of all the sells I've ever had in my life, this is about the biggest. So you wrote that precious letter, did you? It was uncommonly smartly done, too! And as for this countenance, it's simply ripping!"

And he burst into a roar as he picked up the head of our decapitated house-breaker.

I really think the boys laughed as much as we did, for they were good-natured enough not to mind a joke at their own expense.

"You've jolly well taken us in for once," said Dick. "And I give you the credit for it. I didn't think you girls could have got it all up so neatly. You've scored no end, and I suppose now you'll be satisfied, and cry quits about the antiquities."



Chapter VIII

A Breaking-Up Party

"What has this day deserved? What hath it done That it in golden letters should be set Among the high tides in the kalendar?"


Cathy and I went back to school with much regret. After the freedom of our life at Marshlands it seemed difficult to settle down again to the strict discipline of The Hollies, with Miss Percy's manifold rules and regulations. It was exciting, nevertheless, to meet our friends once more, and to hear the accounts of their holiday rambles and sea-side adventures. We made quite a little round amongst the various bedrooms, admiring Janet's new pictures, helping to arrange Olave's books, partaking of Blanche's hospitable offers of cheese-cakes and chocolate, bewailing the lengthened hours of the time-table, and all chattering like a flock of sparrows.

In her quiet, undemonstrative way, Lucy was glad to see me again. I think she had found the holidays a little dull without me, and she listened rather wistfully to my rapturous accounts of my visit to Marshlands. She told me all the home news -- how the baby had already learnt to walk, Frank had gone to school, and Cuthbert was in knickerbockers; how the old baby had been shorn of his curls, and Dorothy had begun lessons. My little porcelain tea-service had, alas! been broken (Blair ought not to have allowed the children to play with it), there was a new carpet in the school-room, and Mary was learning the violin. We talked in whispers for a long time after we were in bed, till Miss Percy, overhearing us, bounced in with such dire threats of penalties to be worked out on the following Saturday afternoon, that we were obliged to defer our interesting conversation until the morning.

I found the winter term at "The Hollies" differed in many respects from the summer one. We no longer drank the waters at the pretty little well, and I greatly missed the morning run over the fields. It was now too cold to study in our bedrooms, and evening preparation was held in the school-room under the strict eyes of Miss Percy. When the weather permitted we played hockey, but there were many days when it was considered too wet for us to go out, and we were obliged to take what exercises we could in the play-room. A new feature of our school-life with which we had not hitherto been acquainted consisted of the Saturday receptions, which were held during the winter evenings to supply the place of the weekly cricket matches we had enjoyed in the summer-time. It was part of Mrs. Marshall's system to form our manners and fit us for good society, therefore these "At Homes" were very solemn affairs, conducted with all the ceremony of a genuine party, though none of the enjoyment. At half-past six o'clock, attired in white frocks and our best hair-ribbons, we were received in state in the drawing-room, each girl being duly announced in her turn by the parlour-maid. How I have shivered with nervousness when "Miss Philippa Seaton" was called out, and I was bound to advance with becoming grace, and shake hands elegantly with Mrs. Marshall, her critical eye upon my demeanour, and her censorious tongue ready with comment if my unlucky elbows protruded, or my hand did not give the exact warmth of pressure required!

When we were all seated, Mrs. Marshall would start a general conversation upon some topic, notice of which had been given out previously, and we were each supposed to come primed with some intelligent remarks upon it. It was horribly difficult to think of anything new and original to say, especially as your best ideas were liable to be anticipated by someone else airing them first, leaving you racking your brains for any observation to contribute, however stale and commonplace. I remember upon one occasion the subject was botany. Most of the girls said something pretty about flowers and gardens. Janet quoted Wordsworth, and Cathy scored by mentioning exogens and endogens with an air of much knowledge. Mrs. Marshall at length turned to me.

"Cannot you give a fresh direction to the conversation, Philippa?" she asked. "We have spoken so much already of blossoms in spring-time, of pressed wild-flowers, hot-houses, and the beauties of Kew Gardens. It is surely possible to treat the subject from a different stand-point."

There seemed to be nothing left. The topic, to my mind, was plainly exhausted, but I was bound to hazard some remark. In my desperation I ventured:

"Botany Bay is a place in New South Wales where criminals used to be sent. Many of the principal families of Australia are descended from them."

A shudder ran through the room. Though I did not know it at the time, Mrs. Marshall had been born in Australia, and I could not have uttered a more deliberate insult. She flushed a little, and glanced at me keenly. I think she either realized my complete ignorance, or thought it wiser to ignore the allusion.

"Not quite to the point, my dear," she replied with dignity. "It is well to keep strictly to our subject. I had thought you would have been ready with some remark upon the orchids of your South American forests, or the orange plantations which I have heard you mention. But here comes the coffee. Doris, it is your turn to pour out to-night!"

To hand and receive the cups prettily, and to sit drinking them in graceful attitudes, was part of our evening discipline; and to us a very severe one, for Mrs. Marshall was hard to satisfy, and to clink your tea-spoon or to flop into a chair was a desperate offence. She herself was a tall, elegant woman, erect and stately, with a habit of swimming into the room, and a measured way of speaking, as if each word had been prepared beforehand. The abrupt school-girl type of conversation she would not tolerate, and our sentences must be as carefully chosen as her own. A girl who had spoken slang in her presence would, I believe, almost have been threatened with expulsion. I sometimes think her training made our manners too studied and artificial, but her system was a reaction against the free-and-easy and often ungracious style which was current in many other large schools of the day. After coffee, Mrs. Marshall would ask for a little music, and we were obliged to take it in turns to play, the lot falling to each girl about once a month. How I hated the pieces which I solemnly practised for these weekly evenings, and in what an agony of nervousness my trembling fingers stumbled through the performance! If I could have bidden the company leave the room, I think I might have acquitted myself better, but to discourse sweet strains with Mrs. Marshall's eye upon me, my music-mistress sitting close by, and an audience of critical school-mates listening, was an ordeal from which many a girl might shrink. The programme was varied by a few songs and recitations, and at half past-eight we all filed out, each in her turn saying good-bye, and thanking Mrs. Marshall for a pleasant evening, a courtesy which I always felt to be most insincere, since I was sure that neither she nor ourselves had enjoyed it in the least.

At the end of the term a large conversazione was held, to which many friends interested in the school were invited, and when we were expected to put into practice those lessons in manners and deportment which were drilled into us during the Saturday evening "At Homes". We tried our honest best to be pleasant little hostesses, and the visitors were indulgent, but I often think we must have afforded them much amusement by our "improving conversation".

"It always makes me feel so bad, I want to scream, or do something outlandishly improper," said Janet. "Mrs. Marshall set me to talk to old Canon Wavertree, and I simply longed to ask him if his waistcoat buttoned at the back, and whether he could fasten the middle button himself, and how he managed to shave into the creases of such a very double chin. Instead of that, I had to look polite and proper while he talked about butter-making. It was such an absurd subject for him to choose, and the worst of it was I thought he said 'batter', instead of 'butter', and so we got completely at cross purposes. I declared we always put eggs in it at home, and he seemed to think I was half an idiot!"

"I got on much better," said Lucy. "I had to talk to Mrs. Graveson, and by sheer good luck she began on church work. You remember it was the 'topic' we had three weeks ago, so I was well primed, and brought out all Miss Percy's best remarks. I heard her tell Mrs. Marshall afterwards that she had rarely met a more intelligent girl, and she thought I should make an ideal clergyman's wife!"

"I had the doctor," I said; "and he's so jolly, he just made fun all the time, and I enjoyed myself immensely. He asked me a riddle he said he'd made up himself: 'Why are school-girls like bottles of medicine? Because they are meant to be shaken.' It's not very good, but of course I had to smile."

"I had Judge Saunders," said Cathy. "He started upon the weather, but I didn't think that was classical enough, so I tried to bring the conversation round to poetry and Shakespeare. But he shook his head and laughed. 'It's no use, my dear,' he said, 'I used to be thrashed at school for my defective Latin verses, and I have preferred plain prose ever since. Now you have done your duty, and you will please me better by telling me how you are going to spend your holidays.' So I began about home and the boys, and I'm afraid I didn't remember to 'choose my sentences' or 'keep to the subject', but he patted my shoulder, and said he would tell me a secret, and then he whispered: 'Just forget all your conversation lessons, and be your natural little self; it's ever so much nicer. Only don't let Mrs. Marshall know I said so!'"

If we regarded the conversazione as somewhat of an ordeal, we all thoroughly enjoyed the breaking-up party which took place on the last day before the holidays. It was quite an informal affair, to which no visitors were invited, and we were not expected to keep up such a severe standard of ceremonious behaviour. Indeed, on that day all rules were relaxed -- we talked in our bedrooms, we sang in the passages, we sat on the school-room desks, and lolled about in easy attitudes under Miss Percy's very nose. During half the term the members of the dramatic society had held secret rehearsals in the small class-room, from which outsiders were rigidly excluded, for they were to contribute part of the evening's entertainment, and were busily preparing for the event. It had been a great disappointment to me that I was not permitted to join the society. I had been so successful in the elocution class, that many of the girls would have been willing to include me, but Ernestine Salt, who seemed no more friendly towards me than before, had always exerted her influence very strongly against it, and as she was an older girl than myself, and had also been longer in the school, she was able to carry her point. They had arranged to act the casket scene from the "Merchant of Venice", and Cathy, who was one of their brightest members, had been chosen for the rôle of Portia. As she had no secrets from me, I helped her every day to study her part, and we went over it so often and so constantly, that in the end I knew it as well as she did herself. She was to wear a dress of rose-coloured sateen, with a crimson sash and lace collar, and gold ornaments in her hair, and to carry a large fan of peacocks' feathers in her hand. Mrs. Winstanley had sent the costume from Marshlands, and we unpacked the large cardboard box in much curiosity and excitement.

"Let me see it on you, Philippa dear," said Cathy, as, after a private rehearsal in her bedroom to try the effect, I helped her to remove the gorgeous gown. "I can tell much better what it looks like on someone else. Ah! it fits you exactly! I knew it would! And the sequins twist so prettily in your hair! Will you go through the scene just as you are? and I'll take Bassanio's speeches. Real actresses always have an under-study, I believe, so I'm going to pretend that you're mine."

The acting, however, was only a part of the excitement of the breaking-up day. The results of the examinations were to be read out, and, as a special encouragement to the literature classes, Mrs. Marshall had offered a prize for the best original poem contributed by any girl in the school. We had written essays on various subjects, and even short stories, but verses made quite a new departure, and to most of our companions it seemed an almost impossible competition.

"It's not the slightest use my trying," said Janet. "I'm a plain, prosy, matter-of-fact kind of a person. I couldn't even compose a nursery rhyme if my life depended upon it. You and Cathy are the poetical geniuses of the school, and we shall expect to hear something very inspired."

I was fond of scribbling, and had always had rather a turn for versifying, so I thought I should like to compete for the prize. It did not seem very easy to choose a suitable subject, and I covered sheets of exercise-paper with my effusions, varying from sentimental to humorous, according to my frame of mind. I tried to keep my secret, but the other girls suspected my efforts, and I came in for a good deal of chaff.

"Is Pegasus pretty strong on the wing, Philippa?"

"Of course he is! Can't you see her eye with fervid fancy rolling?"

"She's burning the midnight oil. That's why her cheeks are so pale!"

"Look here, Phil, a poetess shouldn't eat so much bread-and-butter. You ought to live on odes and sonnets!"

Though I did not exactly burn the midnight oil, I certainly composed my poem in bed. I suppose the darkness and the quiet were inspiring, for all my best ideas came to me when the lights had been turned out, and only the sound of Lucy's regular breathing broke the silence.

I had tried at first to model my style on Spenser, with very indifferent success; I fared no better with the heroic couplets of Dryden or Pope; so, abandoning these ambitious efforts, I finally contented myself with a humble imitation of the cavalier poets, a period which we had just been studying in our literature class. I copied it out clearly, and with many qualms I dropped my contribution into Mrs. Marshall's letter-box. It was to be a point of honour not to let anyone read the poems beforehand, so even Cathy did not see my manuscript, nor did she show me hers, though I divined from her abstracted manner that she, too, had been engaged in all the agonies of composition.

The much-longed-for day arrived at last. At six o'clock we all assembled in the large school-room, Mrs. Marshall and the teachers taking their places on the platform. First came the examination lists. To my delight I was head of my class in French; Cathy carried all before her in both ancient and modern history; while Blanche and Janet divided the honours in geography and mathematics. It was now the turn of the poems, and I felt little cold shivers of nervousness running down my back as Mrs. Marshall rose to read out the result of the competition. Would she think mine very bad, I wondered, and perhaps even cite it as an example of faulty composition? For one wild moment I devoutly wished I had consigned it to the flames with the rest of my efforts.

"On the whole," began Mrs. Marshall, "I have had some extremely satisfactory results from our literary contest, a very fair number of poems having been received. I regret that some of the contributors do not seem to have mastered even the elementary rules of metre, and their verses cannot be made to scan, but the average standard is higher than I had expected; and I have two here which I think are certainly deserving of praise, and of such equal merit that I have decided to divide the prize between them. They are 'The Ballad of Fair Fiona', by Catherine Winstanley, and 'When Celia Passes', by Philippa Seaton. As I am sure you will all wish to hear them, I shall read them aloud:

"The Ballad Of Fair Fiona

"When the daylight gilds the sky, Fair Fiona sits and weeps; When the evening star is high, Lonely still her vigil keeps.

"'Rise, Fiona sweet, arise! Don your robe of brightest hue. Tears are but for aged eyes, Love and pleasure wait for you!'

"'Love for me has long been dead, Pleasure followed in his train; Bring the willow wreath instead, Leave me to my tears again.'

"Knight and squire and dame are there Priests beside the altar wait, Frets and fumes the bridegroom fair. Wherefore is the bride so late?

"Sought they far and sought they wide Where the river seeks the west; Floating on its flowing tide, Fair Fiona is at rest."

"When Celia Passes

"When Celia passes through the grove And down the verdant alleys, The lily droops her envious head, The rose for jealous anger's red As in the shade she dallies. And when her dainty footsteps rove Over the meadow grasses, The flowers all weep in sheer despair To think they are not half so fair When Celia passes.

"When Celia passes through the grove, Under the bay and laurel, The nightingale forgets to sing, And silent sits with quivering wing To hear her artless carol. When cherry blooms their treasure-trove Rain down in fragrant masses, My heart leaps high to think perchance I yet may catch one kindly glance When Celia passes."

Cathy gripped my hand, and I gripped hers. We had each secretly hoped that the other would win the prize, so to share it between us was a satisfaction to us both. The girls clapped vigorously, and Janet started a cheer.

"That will do!" said Mrs. Marshall. "Catherine and Philippa have done well, but we must not turn their heads by overpraising them. They are not Mrs. Brownings yet, by any means! It is encouraging, however, to find that the literature classes have been of some help in teaching you the rules of poetical composition, and you will appreciate real poetry all the more after your attempts to frame verses for yourselves. I have much pleasure in presenting Catherine Winstanley with a copy of Moore's Irish Melodies, and Philippa Seaton with a volume of Extracts from Byron."

We went up together to receive our prizes, which Mrs. Marshall handed to us with a kind word of approval and encouragement, and then the girls were allowed to disperse, as the platform was required next by the dramatic society, and the actors withdrew to dress themselves as rapidly as possible for their parts.

I was sitting among the audience, waiting for the play to begin, when Doris, who was stage-manager, entered quietly, and drew me aside, with a troubled face.

"I wish you would come upstairs to Cathy's bedroom," she said. "She seems quite ill and is asking for you. We can't think what is the matter with her."

I flew upstairs in a panic. Cathy was lying on her bed, covered with a down quilt, and a group of anxious girls, half-dressed in various costumes, hovered around her with bottles of eau de Cologne and smelling-salts.

She raised her head languidly when I entered.

"I feel so queer, Phil," she whispered. "I don't believe I can act in the play, after all."

"Let me fetch Mrs. Marshall," I gasped.

"No! No! Not on any account! I shall be all right. I only need quiet. Phil, I want you to take Portia! You know the part as well as I do myself, and the dress fits you. Will you do it to please me?"

"But I cannot leave you if you are ill, Cathy! I can't indeed!"

"You must, you must! I don't want anyone here. I would rather be left quite alone. Millicent has promised to dress you. Oh, go all of you, please! It's getting so late, and the audience will be waiting."

"Someone must take Portia," said Doris. "We certainly can't leave her out. Philippa, you will have to try."

"I don't believe she can do it," said Ernestine, who was to act the part of Lorenzo. "It's a shame to spoil the play. Put it off for half an hour, and perhaps Cathy will be better. I declare I won't act with anyone who has not rehearsed with us beforehand."

"Don't be nasty, Ernestine! Of course you'll be obliged to act with her. How can we put it off? They've been waiting twenty minutes or more already. Come along, girls, we're terribly late! I'm so sorry, Cathy! We'll turn the light low, and you must try to go to sleep;" and Doris drove us from the room into the studio where we were to dress, and hurriedly helped the others to arrange their finishing touches.

Millicent hustled me into the pink costume, and twisted the gold ornaments into my hair with nervous fingers.

"Do you know the cues?" she asked anxiously. "Oh, I hope you'll be able to remember the part! The prompter is to stand behind the right wing, so back that way if you feel in any danger of forgetting."

The girls were waxing impatient, to judge from the clapping, which we could hear as we hurried down to the school-room.

"Is she ready?" said Doris. "Then draw up the curtain, and begin."

My head was in a whirl. It had all happened so quickly, that I had scarcely time to realize what I was doing. One little thought came to me as I walked on to the stage: "Perhaps Portia herself was equally anxious and nervous as she watched her lover making the choice upon which all her happiness depended", and I began "I pray you tarry, pause a day or two", with an eagerness that fitted in well with the part. I needed no prompting, the words seemed to come without any effort of memory. My delight at Bassanio's success, my grief at Antonio's letter, and my anxiety that they should go at once to his relief, were at the time only the expression of my natural feelings. I was living in the part, and the heroine's joys and sorrows were my own.

We were called before the curtain at the end of the performance, and the audience broke into ringing cheers for Portia. I stood upon the platform like one in a dream; my success and the shouting girls were nothing to me, I saw only one face in the room, for there, by the doorway, clapping and cheering louder than anyone else, her dear cheeks flushed and her dark eyes shining with generous triumph was -- Cathy!

"You did it on purpose!" I declared afterwards. "Cathy, I don't believe you were ill at all!"

"Of course I wasn't!" she replied, laughing. "I wanted to give you a chance to show them what you could do, and it seemed the only way possible. I thought of it from the first, and that was why I went over my part so often with you, and made you rehearse it with me. It was splendid, Philippa, simply splendid! I couldn't have done it half so well myself. Now the whole school knows that you can act, and even Ernestine Salt can't deny you the right to become a member of the Dramatic Society."



Chapter IX

A Hard Time

"I have not that alacrity of spirit Nor cheer of mind that I was wont to have."


Time seemed to pass very rapidly away, and I could scarcely realize it when I found I had been more than a year at The Hollies. I was now a tall girl of thirteen, with a considerable idea of the dignity of my age, and much resented anyone alluding to me as "a child". My aunt thought me greatly improved, and spoke in warm praise of Mrs. Marshall's system of education; while as for me, my life at San Carlos seemed such a past tale that it was difficult to believe I had ever been the forlorn little stranger who had landed in England with so many doubts and fears only three years ago. You must not think, however, that I had entirely forgotten my home and the dear old friends of my childhood. I still sent warm messages to Juanita and Tasso and the other members of our household, though I could no longer speak their language; and I liked to hear accounts of them in my father's letters, while I believe on their part they all looked forward to seeing their little signorina one day in their midst again. It was perhaps only natural after all that my new life should in some measure erase the old one from my mind; it was what my father had desired, and if I were beginning to think that England was far more to me than the country I had left, he would be the first to rejoice over my altered views. So far from feeling any danger of my affection for him being weakened, he knew that my change of opinions only tightened the bond between us, since the older and wiser I grew, so much the more would I be able to appreciate him and enjoy his companionship when we should meet again.

I was now in the third form at school, as I had been moved up with Blanche, Janet, and Cathy, and found myself the youngest in a class which had a reputation both for quick wits and hard work. Miss Percy was our teacher, and, though in many respects an excellent one, she was a woman of narrow sympathies and strict discipline; very different from kindly Miss Buller, who had always tried to make the rough paths of learning as smooth as possible for our stumbling feet. Another disagreeable point of my promotion was that I had Ernestine Salt for a class-mate, and however much I might dislike her I must perforce be thrown continually into her society. As you may imagine, she did not welcome my advent, giving me to understand that she considered me an intruder among girls who were all older than myself, and that my advancement was only due to Mrs. Marshall's partiality. Lucy had remained behind in the upper fourth. Never a very clever girl, she had little ambition, and was quite content if she could scrape along without incurring any specially severe reproof from her teachers. Though I loved her as my cousin, I felt she occupied quite a different place in my heart from my darling Cathy. It is perhaps only possible to have one very dearest friend, and while Cathy seemed to win all my love and admiration, and to appeal to everything that was highest and best in me, Lucy's tastes were based so much on the lines of Aunt Agatha that I found we had little in common. I saw less of her now than ever, for, Mary having come to The Hollies this term, Mrs. Marshall had arranged for the sisters to sleep together, while to my great delight I was allowed to share a vacant bedroom with Cathy. We moved our household goods into our new quarters with much noise and chattering. My case of South American butterflies was accorded the place of honour over the chimney-piece, together with the portrait of my father; the brush which Cathy had won at the Everton Meet hung proudly over her wash-stand; my views of San Carlos were distributed about the walls; while photos of Marshlands and the Winstanley family in every conceivable position adorned our chests-of-drawers and dressing-table.

"I feel as if we were relations now you have come to share my room," said Cathy. "I've always longed for a younger sister, so I'm going to adopt you, Philippa dear, and try to believe that you're really and truly mine. You haven't any mother of your own, so I shall put my mother's photo in the middle of the dressing-table that she may belong to us both. She has always called you her second little daughter."

I found the work in my new class taxed my exertions to the uttermost. Mrs. Marshall had a very high standard as to what should be required from girls of our age, and it was only with the greatest difficulty I was able to keep up to it. Without Cathy's help I must most certainly have failed. She was a true friend in need. She would patiently go over my preparation with me, explaining difficult rules, repeating dates and vocabularies again and again to fix them in my memory, or showing me so clearly and concisely the reasons for the various problems in mathematics, that I felt I could learn more easily from her than from our teachers. My one haunting fear was that Mrs. Marshall should consider me below the level of the class and should send me down again into the fourth, for to be thus banished from Cathy seemed the worst that fate could hold in store for me. Never very robust I worked far beyond my strength, and the continual strain began at last to tell upon my health. I grew thin and pale, I was troubled with a perpetual headache, and I sometimes indulged in unreasonable fits of crying, which incurred the severe reproof of Miss Percy, who had no sympathy with "nerves".

"I can't help it -- I can't, indeed!" I confided to Cathy after one of these outbreaks. "My head feels so chock full of facts I sometimes think it won't hold any more. When I look at my book the letters seem to dance before my eyes, and I mix up mathematics with history and want to talk German in the French class."

"Tell Mrs. Marshall, and ask her to knock something off," suggested Cathy.

"No, no! She would only say the class was too difficult for me, and send me down, and unless I can stay up here with you and Janet life simply isn't worth living. Never mind, I'll manage to worry on somehow, if only Miss Percy would let me alone!"

Unfortunately that was exactly what Miss Percy would not do. She had taken it into her head that I was hysterical, and that my whims and fancies must not on any account be humoured. I dare say she thought she was only doing her duty, but she harried me continually. An untied hair-ribbon, a blot on my exercise, an ink-stain on my finger, or an awkward attitude in class, were occasions for instant and severe fault-finding. No doubt they were all little defects which called for amendment, but she made the mistake of dealing with them too hardly. I believe, if people would only realize it, that overwork and ill-health are often responsible for many tiresome habits in growing girls. It was certainly so in my case; I sat crooked because my back ached, I lolled on my desk because I was really tired, I fidgeted from sheer nervousness when I felt Miss Percy's eye upon me, and when, having brought down all the vials of her wrath upon my head, I ended by bursting into tears, it was hard to be accused of temper or sullenness when I felt I would have given the whole world for a kind word.

I think we all suffered much from the deadly sameness of our life. In the summer-time we were allowed a considerable amount of leisure, which we spent in the garden at croquet, tennis, or archery, but during the winter months the play hours were greatly curtailed and extra classes added, while the only exercise we took was a short daily "crocodile" walk, with hockey for an hour on Wednesdays and Saturdays. Girls who are not boarders do not feel this lack of variety. The walk to and from school, and, above all, the different subjects which are discussed at home, make a change of thought and a wholesome break; but the monotony of spending week after week meeting no one except teachers and companions, discussing nothing but school topics, never seeing a newspaper or a magazine or hearing what is going on in the outside world, is apt to have a rather depressing influence upon some dispositions. The teachers, seeing us all day long, were inclined to worry too much over our small faults, while we on our side, having little else to distract our minds, were wont to magnify our woes out of all just proportion. Miss Percy's nagging only seemed to make my faults the worse.

"I never seem able to please her," I grumbled one day at breakfast-time. "If I say my lessons correctly she tells me I'm twitching my hands or wrinkling my forehead; and then if I try to think about my hands and my forehead the lessons go right out of my mind, so I'm wrong either way. It seems no use trying."

"She's horribly mean," sighed Janet, who suffered at times herself. "My exercise was quite right yesterday, but she made me copy it all out again, just because I had four mistakes in spelling. It was really too bad."

"I could forgive her the exercises," said Millicent, "if she'd only make stronger coffee. This cup of mine is simply dish-water. I wish Mrs. Marshall would come down again at breakfast-time, it used to be ever so much better when she poured out."

"Let us get up a round robin and beg her to come!" laughed Cathy. "We could say we'd missed her charming conversation."

"Quietly! Quietly!" said Miss Percy from the other end of the table, for Cathy had raised her voice above the low undertone in which we had been speaking.

"We might ask her to give 'coffee' as the next conversation topic," said Janet, "and then Millicent could announce that she liked it strong, as her intelligent remark."

"It's the chicory I object to," said Millicent; "I loathe the smell of it. I'm sure it oughtn't to have any in. Ought it, Phil?"

"Certainly not," I replied. "I wish you could have tasted the coffee we used to have at San Carlos. You'd never forget it. It came from our own plantations, and Pedro used to roast it and grind it just before he poured the water on. I've often watched him make it. That was really worth calling coffee."

"Pity we can't import him over here to give the cook a lesson," said Janet. "But I expect there's something in the quality, and how much you put in the pot. Will you have another cup, Milly?"

"No, thank you! One is enough of this brew. Here comes the bread-and-butter plate. I hope it'll all be finished before it comes to me, for I don't want any more."

Among many rules at The Hollies there was a law that nothing must be left upon the table, and the bread-and-butter was always severely passed round till the plate was empty. On this particular day I was not hungry, and when the last piece was offered to me I promptly declined it. Cathy quickly and quietly handed it on to Janet, who was in the very act of taking it when Miss Percy's voice bade her pause.

"Did I notice you refuse that piece of bread-and-butter, Philippa Seaton?" she asked.

"Yes, Miss Percy," I replied.

"And why?"

"I'm not hungry," I said nervously.

"But you know the rule?"

"I suppose I do."

"Then why did you not take it?"

"I've had enough, Miss Percy," I blurted out. "I simply can't eat any more!"

She looked at me with infinite scorn.

"Cannot eat any more! Then you must have been greedy if you find it absolutely impossible to finish even this little piece. I will not urge you after such a plea, but I think you may well be ashamed of your excuse."

I felt keenly the injustice of the suggestion, but I was powerless to retort. It was but a sample of her methods of training us, and to have "answered back" would have been an offence liable to be visited with heavy punishment. So far from over-eating myself I had generally little appetite for breakfast, and made the merest apology for a meal. As a result of this, by eleven-o'clock recreation I would find I was wildly hungry, but as we had no lunch at The Hollies I was obliged to wait until the one-o'clock dinner, by which time I was almost faint for want of food. How often have I evaded Miss Percy's sharp eye, and, dodging down the back-staircase, have begged a piece of bread or a hot potato from the sympathetic cook, to be eaten surreptitiously behind my pocket-handkerchief in the playground! I have even bribed the housemaid to buy me biscuits and smuggle them into my locker, incurring thereby both the risk of her dismissal and my own disgrace, for it was one of the strictest rules of the school that the girls should obtain no private supplies.

It is, I suppose, almost impossible for any mistress, however conscientious, to give to forty different pupils the same care and attention as they would receive at home. I am sure Mrs. Marshall thought she took every precaution to secure our health, and if I had been definitely ill or in pain she would have been kindness itself; but it is so difficult sometimes to tell whether a girl is really ailing or only shirking her work, that unless we complained of special symptoms no notice was taken of our general condition, so my pale cheeks and increased lassitude passed without comment. I felt the meaning of the old adage: "A sound mind in a sound body". I found myself worrying most absurdly over trifles which would not have distressed me to nearly such an extent if I had been able to distract my thoughts. After all, school is one's little world, and a bad mark, an unjust reproof, or a quarrel with a companion at the time, seem as overwhelming troubles as any we may encounter in after-life.

Matters went on from bad to worse. In my struggles to keep up to the standard of my class I began the foolish habit of smuggling my books into my bedroom, that I might take a last glance at my lessons before I got into bed, and I would lie repeating French verbs or German grammatical rules to myself long after the gas in the passage had been turned out. It was but a natural consequence that I could not sleep. Night after night I have tossed and turned, trying first one side of my pillow and then the other to cool my burning head, counting the strokes as the clock struck midnight, and feeling as if the dead silence of the house grew almost unbearable. There is perhaps nothing so lonely as to lie awake while others sleep; the darkness of the room oppressed me, it was terrible to open my eyes and see nothing but blackness around me, out of which my imagination would conjure up ghostly figures stealing around my bed. Had I dared I would have begged for a night-light, but I knew full well that such fancies would meet with scant sympathy at Miss Percy's ears. The sound of Cathy's quiet breathing made me feel as though she were miles away, but I was not selfish enough to wake her up to console me in my misery, and after tossing about for hours I would at last fall asleep, to find the unwelcome bell ringing in my ears before I seemed out of my first troubled dream.

I woke up one morning, after a restless night such as this, feeling limp and irritable, and very unable to cope with the world in general. There was a tiresome rule at The Hollies that before we left our rooms we must take each sheet and blanket separately off our beds, fold them, and place them in a neat pile upon a chair.

"It's a stupid custom," said Cathy, grumbling for the hundredth time as she struggled to get the four corners of her coverlet even. "I can't imagine why we shouldn't turn the clothes over the end of the bed as we do at home. They would air just as well, or better. There's the bell ringing now, and I haven't my collar on! Be quick, Phil, let me help you to tie your hair. We must simply fly or we shall both be late."

I had absolutely no time to arrange my bed. I seized the sheets and blankets all together, and, rolling them in one untidy bundle, I flung them upon a chair. I did not even look to see if the room were in order, but, buttoning my dress as I went, I tore down the passage, just in time to slip into the dining-room behind Cathy, as Mrs. Marshall opened the Bible to read prayers. We began lessons immediately after breakfast. The whole school assembled first in the large class-room for call-over, and I had taken my place and was arranging my books in order, giving a last desperate glance at the dates in my history and the troublesome genealogy of the House of Stuart. We rose and curtsied when Miss Percy entered, and she bowed and wished us good-morning, in accordance with the formal etiquette which we practised at The Hollies, but instead of seating herself as usual, she placed a few things which I could not see upon the chair, and advanced a little forward with an air of more than usual gravity upon her face.

"Philippa Seaton," she said impressively, "I feel that I have borne long enough with your careless and shiftless ways. For some time now I have made every effort to help you to cure yourself of many bad habits, but instead of seeing any improvement it appears to me that you allow yourself to neglect even the ordinary rules of the school. This morning I visited your bedroom. I found your bed-clothes in utter confusion upon a chair, your nail-brush evidently unused, your comb left full of hairs upon the dressing-table, a pair of boots, a slipper, and a shoe-horn lying upon the floor, while this bag full of cotton reels was flung under your wash-stand. I am determined that for once I will teach you a lesson, and I shall pin these articles on to your back, in the hope that by showing your disgrace to the whole school I may help you to remember to be more neat and orderly in the future. Come here!"

In much fear and trembling I approached her. She turned to the chair, where (it would have been ludicrous if it had not all been so horribly solemn) my comb, my boots, my slipper, my shoe-horn, and my bag of cottons lay piled in a tragic little heap. She fastened them securely on to my dress with safety-pins, till I looked like a gipsy pedlar or an old clotheswoman, and bade me return to my place. Burning with indignation I sat down. All my pride was wounded and the tears came swimming into my eyes. I felt she had no right to treat me thus. There were certain fair and recognized penalties for neglected duties at which I should not have rebelled, but to be made a laughing-stock for the whole school was out of all proportion to my offence. I could see the amused smile with which Ernestine Salt nudged her companion, and knew how unmercifully she would tease me afterwards, and the thought that I must spend the entire morning with these absurd things dangling on my back was almost more than my spirit could brook. I gulped back my tears sufficiently to answer "present" when my name was called, and sat, fighting with my face and trying not to feel that every girl in the room was looking at me. There was a slight tug at my dress behind, and Cathy cautiously thrust a tiny scrap of paper into my hand. I managed to read it unobserved: "She's the hatefullest thing that ever was," it ran. "But never mind; don't let her think you care." I scrunched up the paper and held up my head. After all, why should I care? I had committed no very desperate sin, and I knew that nearly everyone must be secretly in sympathy with me. I would brave it out, and show Miss Percy that though she might inflict any punishment she chose she was not able to crush my spirit entirely. As to Ernestine Salt, I would defy her, sneer as she might. It was unfortunate for me that my first lesson of the day should be with Miss Percy. With the wretched boots and bobbins sticking into me whenever I attempted to lean back in my seat, I felt in anything but a docile or tractable frame of mind, and, though she certainly would not have allowed it, I do not think she herself was in the best of tempers. She corrected Janet sharply for stooping, reduced Millicent to the very verge of tears, and even found fault with Cathy's beautifully neat and tidy exercise. We were learning the geography of India, a large map of which hung over the black-board, and in the course of the lesson we were each required in turn to indicate the positions of certain rivers and cities of the Punjaub. I was sitting in class next to Ernestine Salt, and as I rose hastily up to step forward and take the pointer, she suddenly put out her foot, as if by chance, exactly at the moment when I passed her. I tripped, made a desperate effort to save myself, caught wildly at the easel, and fell, sending black-board, map, pegs, pointer, and all with a horrible crash on to the floor.

There was dead silence in the room as I picked myself up. Miss Percy raised the fallen easel and the torn map, and looked at me with white lips.

"What is the meaning of this, Philippa Seaton?" she asked.

"I couldn't help it," I answered, rather sullenly I am afraid. "I -- I believe I tripped."

"No other girl has tripped. You are either irredeemably awkward or have caused this accident by deliberate intention. I very much fear it is the latter."

"You've no right to say so!" I burst out defiantly, roused out of all discipline by her tone. "I've told you I couldn't help it, and if you can't believe my word I should like you to take me to Mrs. Marshall."

"You shall certainly go to Mrs. Marshall when she is at liberty," replied Miss Percy in freezing tones. "But in the meantime I am not going to interrupt the lesson on your behalf. You will stand there by the door, holding the broken pointer in your hand, till the class is over."

I do not think Miss Percy was altogether happy at that moment, but I am sure she was not so miserable as I. I knew well I had done wrong to answer her so rudely, and the sense of my own shortcomings, added to the feeling of hot wrath against her injustice and unkindness, made it the most horribly difficult thing in the world to stand there, the target for all eyes. My head ached as if it would burst, and I rested my weary weight first on one foot and then on another. Each minute felt hours to me as the lesson slowly dragged along. I pressed my trembling hands together, and tried with a desperate effort to keep my eyes steadily fixed on the clock over the chimney-piece; but somehow the figures all seemed at once to be mixed together, the room swam before me in a kind of blur, I heard Miss Percy's voice as if it were a very long way off asking me something I could not hear, and then all was utter darkness.

When I came to myself I was lying on the sofa in the library. Mrs. Marshall was bending over me, bathing my head with eau de Cologne, and Miss Buller was fanning me with a palm-leaf screen.

"Are you better, my dear?" asked Mrs. Marshall anxiously. "Don't try to get up. Drink this glass of water and lie down again."

"What happened?" I asked. "How did I come here?"

"You fainted in the class-room, but you must not talk about it now. I wish you to rest for a while, and then Miss Buller shall bring you some beef-tea."

"I don't want any, thank you!" I said, trying to raise myself a little, but my head swam so strangely and I felt so giddy and queer that I was glad to sink back again upon the sofa cushions.

"I think we had better put you to bed," said Mrs. Marshall, adding in an undertone to Miss Buller: "If she is not better by this evening, I shall certainly send for the doctor."

I was not better by the evening; my hands were burning hot, and my head felt so unusually light that I could scarcely recognize the many people who seemed to come in and out of my room. I knew that when I asked for water Miss Buller was always ready with the glass in her hand, I thought once that Cathy was sobbing quietly behind the curtain of my bed, and I am certain that Mrs. Marshall never left me all night.

"It is a decided case of nervous breakdown, due to overwork," I heard the doctor saying. "You must keep her very quiet, and I will see her again in the morning."

There were no more lessons for me that term. As soon as I was well enough to travel Aunt Agatha took me herself for a fortnight to Brighton, where the restful uneventful days and the invigorating sea-breezes soon brought back the roses to my cheeks, and gave me untroubled sleep and peaceful dreams at night. I think this episode, and something which the doctor had said, must have caused Mrs. Marshall seriously to reconsider the rules of the school and the hours of our work. She was a sensible woman, most conscientious over our well-being, and ever ready to adopt new ideas if she believed them to be better than the old ones. When I returned to school at the beginning of the next term, I found that our time-table was completely changed. The hours of work were considerably relaxed, and instead of the stupid walks up and down the high-road, we were taken almost daily rambles over the hills or in the beautiful woods by the river. Miss Percy had mysteriously disappeared, and her place was filled by a new teacher who was fond of natural history, and who encouraged us to find specimens of stones, leaves, or flowers, explaining them with so much enthusiasm that the stupidest girl could not fail to be interested. The new scheme answered well; the extra time given to outdoor recreation was not wasted, for we went back to our books with fresh zeal; and I think we really got through as much work as we had done before, if not in the actual number of pages learnt, at any rate in the amount we remembered afterwards.



Chapter X

A Picnic And An Adventure

"Beneath the trees we'll have one day Of frolicsome employment, And birds shall sing and winds shall blow To help us to enjoyment."


The changed conditions at The Hollies, added to my long Christmas holiday, had completely brought me back to my usual health and high spirits, and I soon found the ordinary work of the class to be well within my capacities. Now that Miss Percy's continual nagging was removed I felt a different girl, and began to enjoy thoroughly my school-life once more. Miss Hope, our new mistress, was one of those bright sunny souls who seem able to bring the very best out of all those who are near them. She made few rules, trusting much to our sense of honour and good feeling, and so well did we respond to her kindness that there was soon quite a different tone in the class, for the thought of grieving her would deter us from wrong-doing far more easily than all Miss Percy's threats of punishment. She had no favourites, but I think that Cathy and I, as being more interested than the others in the botany and natural history, which were her special subjects, came in for an extra share of her affection, and I know we both worshipped her with that depth of devotion which school-girls are ever ready to offer to a teacher whom they really respect and love.

As the summer came on, with the long light days, we were taken out more frequently for expeditions over the delightful Derbyshire moors. These Saturday-afternoon rambles were looked forward to throughout the whole week, and we would return from them with such red cheeks and hearty appetites that I think Mrs. Marshall was amply satisfied with the result of her new regulations. We all felt it a decided innovation when she proposed a picnic instead of the usual mild garden-party with which we had been accustomed to celebrate her birthday on the first of June.

"It's to be a real, genuine, grown-up kind of picnic too," said Janet. "Not just going for a walk and taking milk and biscuits with you. There are to be five wagonettes, and we're to drive all the way to Redburn and have tea at a farm on the side of the scar."

"There's a glorious little wood there," said Cathy, "where lilies-of-the-valley grow wild. Miss Hope says she believes they'll just be in flower. It will be perfectly delightful if we find them."

"Mrs. Thompson at the farm makes the most splendid girdle-cakes," put in Millicent. "I know, because I went there once before when Mother took her Sunday-school treat, and they were absolutely delicious. You eat them hot out of the oven, with loads of honey."

"I hope it will be fine to-morrow," I said. "I suppose we shall go another day if it rains, but a thing never seems quite the same if it is put off."

"Fine? Of course it will be fine!" said Janet. "The sky is as clear as it can be, and the moon is new, and the little soldier is standing at his door in the barometer in my bedroom, and the cattle are grazing uphill, and the pimpernel is out by the gate, and Miss Buller's hair is in curl, and the midges are biting horribly, so if you can prophesy rain after that, Miss Philippa, you don't know the English climate, that's all I can say."

"I never prophesy till I know," I replied, laughing. "But I think after such a list of good omens the weather could hardly, for shame, disappoint us, though I can't give the English climate much of a character, after all."

Janet was right, for the first of June proved to be a glorious day, bright and clear, with a cloudless sky, and a fresh wind blowing down from the moors. Punctually at half-past one the wagonettes drove up to the door, and with much excitement we packed ourselves into them, Cathy and I, after a scramble with Janet, securing the coveted seats next to our dear Miss Hope. It was an eight-mile drive through the most charming scenery. The white limestone road first followed the river bank amid beautiful woods, green with all the wealth of early summer foliage and literally carpeted with bluebells, while on the far side of the river rose steep cliffs covered from base to summit with oak-trees, the pinky brown of their opening leaves making a rich contrast to the dark pines which interspersed them here and there. Leaving the woods behind us we wound slowly up the steep slope, between rough stone walls or banks of grass and furze, the great bare rolling hills stretched out before us, where the sheep were cropping the short sweet grass that grew between the clumps of sedge and rushes, and the larks were singing loudly and joyfully as they rose from their nests among the heather. Redburn proved to be a quaint little old-world gray-stone village, set in a dip amongst the moors, where it might receive some slight shelter from the bitter north wind which blew from the hills in winter-time. We rattled through its steep cobbled streets, making a brief pause at the church, where some ancient stone coffins and carved choir stalls were to be seen, and then on again, over the mountain-side, till we finally drew up in the farmyard of Ingledew Grange, where Mrs. Thompson, the farmer's wife, in a clean print dress and snowy apron, was waiting to receive us with many smiles and words of welcome.

"I'm fain glad it's turned out a fine day for ye, that I am," she said. "Ye'll be nigh clemmed after your drive, I take it, and more than ready for your teas. I won't be above a few minutes in mashin' the pots, but if ye care to take a turn round the garden whilst the cakes is a-gettin' out of the oven ye can go where ye like."

We certainly agreed with her that the fresh moorland air had given a keen edge to our appetites, and she hastened to finish her preparations, while we prowled about the sweet old garden, where the little June roses hung white over the rustic porch, and the peacocks on the lawn below were spreading their glorious tails to the sunshine.

We had tea at long tables in a great farm-kitchen, the high roof of which had black oak rafters arched like those of a church, while the flagged floor was strewn with the finest white sand. Everything was as neat and clean as constant scrubbing and scouring could make it; the oak furniture shone with polishing, on a fine old dresser was spread out a goodly array of blue willow-pattern china, while the brightest of copper sauce-pans and pewter pots adorned the plain, whitewashed walls.

Millicent had certainly not overstated the quality of the cakes, nor the freshness of the large brown eggs, nor the sweetness of the honey with its delicious flavour of moorland heather, nor the dark barley bread, nor the rich cream which Mrs. Marshall poured into our tea-cups with a lavish hand. It was a real old-fashioned farmhouse tea, and we did justice to it with such ample country appetites, that I think even Mrs. Thompson was satisfied that we had enjoyed ourselves. We dispersed afterwards in little groups for a ramble round the fields, and in the pretty shady wood which lay at the foot of the dell.

"Lilies-of-the-valley?" said Mrs. Thompson, in response to our eager enquiries. "Ay, there's a many of them down in yon clough. We call 'em 'snow-bobs' about here. Ye can pluck till ye're tired if ye've a mind."

"Come along, Phil!" cried Cathy; and we started down the path between the springing corn, running for pure joy of the fresh air and sunshine, and snatching as we passed at the lacy flowers of the wild cornel which hung over the hedgerow like masses of snow. A broad brook flowed through the little glade, and on either side, under the shade of the overhanging trees, grew the lilies-of-the-valley in such sweet profusion that the whole air seemed full of their delicious perfume. We ran here and there half wild with delight, burying our noses in the fragrant blossoms, and picking until our hands were full.

"Aren't they glorious?" said I.

"Simply perfect!" said Cathy.

"I want to sniff them all up!" said Janet, who with a few other girls had followed us.

"The fourth class are coming down the hill," said Ernestine. "They'll have to be quick, or they won't find any left."

"There are plenty on the other side of the water," I said, "if we could only manage to get over. I should like to pick a particularly nice bunch for Mrs. Marshall"; and I looked doubtfully at the trunk of a tree which had been laid across the brook to serve as a rough kind of bridge. There had been some attempt at a handrail, for a long pole swung from two ropes tied to the trees on either side, but it was of such a very shaky and insecure description that it would be barely sufficient to steady one's self by in the crossing.

"It doesn't look at all safe," declared Janet. "You won't catch me trying such a perilous path for all the flowers in the world."

"I think I shall venture," I said, "the lilies look so much finer over there. Only mind you don't shake the pole while I'm crossing; it's unsteady enough as it is."

The round tree-trunk did not make a very firm foothold, and the swinging handrail felt the most insecure of supports when I started on to the bridge. I went along with great caution, one step at a time, trying to balance myself steadily and not to think of the rushing water below.

"Very good! Very good indeed!" called Cathy from the bank.

"Don't hurry. Keep steady. You're half-way over!" cried Janet.

"It looks easy enough, I shall come too," exclaimed Ernestine. She seized the handrail as if to follow me, but the sudden touch on the shaking pole was too much for my frail balance -- the rail swayed violently and swung away out of my clutching grasp, my foot slipped, and with a shriek of terror I found myself flung into the stream below. Luckily it was neither deep nor dangerous, but even half a yard of water is quite enough to get very wet in, and I was a moist and draggled object by the time I had struggled back to dry land.

"It's all your fault, Ernestine!" I cried wrathfully as I regained the bank. "I told you not to shake the handrail, and you knew it would upset me!"

"You're the meanest thing in the world, Ernestine Salt!" declared Cathy, her cheeks crimson with indignation as she tried to wring the water from my dripping skirts. "Don't speak to me; I never intend to be friends with you again."

"You did it on purpose," began Janet. "I know you did. You're always playing sneaking tricks on Philippa when you think no one will find you out."

"You needn't think you're going to stay here with us," said Blanche Greenwood, hotly. "Because we don't want you. We didn't ask you to come, and you may go away and walk by yourself."

"I've no wish to stay with you, I'm sure," replied Ernestine with equal temper. "I would rather have your room than your company. I've picked all the lilies I want, so you're welcome to any that are left, so far as I'm concerned, if that's why you wish to get rid of me."

And with this parting shot, she took her flowers and walked slowly away in the opposite direction to that in which we had come, by a small path that led from the wood up on to the moor beyond.

"You're terribly wet, Phil; your boots are simply squelching with water. I don't know what Mrs. Marshall will say!" said Cathy, as she hurried me back to the farm as fast as possible, to be dried.

Somewhat to my relief, neither Mrs. Marshall nor any of the teachers was there. Like ourselves they were all trying to make the best of the fine afternoon out-of-doors.

"Deary me! Who'd have thought of you falling into that bit of a brook?" said Mrs. Thompson, aghast, as I walked into the kitchen in my moist skirts. "We must get you out of those wet things, honey. I've some clothes of my Lizzie's as would fit you while your own is at the fire."

Lizzie's skirt was decidedly too short for me, and Lizzie's boots were equally large and roomy; her stockings, moreover, were of thick, home-knitted worsted, very hot and uncomfortable; but I was grateful for anything in the circumstances, and would, I believe, have worn a pair of sabots if they had been offered to me.

"We shall just have time for a walk, Cathy, after all," I said. "It can't be very late yet, and we don't start home until six o'clock. Let us go up that path through the glen that led on to the moors."

"Nay! Don't go there!" called out Mrs. Thompson, who happened to overhear my remark just as we left the house. "There's a bull up on yon moor as isn't safe at all. It do run folks sometimes. I thought ye had been with the rest when I warned ye all. Keep in our own fields, and ye'll be right enough, but don't go roamin' far away."

"Never mind," said Cathy. "We'll go back to the wood, at any rate, and pick some more lilies, if there are any left."

We wandered slowly down the lane, gathering the dog-violets from the banks, and having an unsuccessful hunt for birds' nests in the hedge. The girls were all gone from the glen, only a few dropped flowers remaining to show where they had been, and Cathy and I sauntered to the little bridge to take a look at the scene of my catastrophe.

"You see how the handrail shakes about," I said, as I swung it out with a touch. "And directly Ernestine took hold of it --  --  Oh, Cathy! I never thought of Ernestine before! Don't you remember she went up the path towards the moors? She can't know that the bull is there, and she's gone quite alone!"

"Let us run after her," said Cathy. "Perhaps, after all, she mayn't have walked very far, and we shall be in time to warn her."

"Quick! quick!" I cried. "Mrs. Thompson said the bull was so dangerous. Oh! we must stop her!"

We raced as fast as my heavy country boots would allow along the narrow path through the wood, and over the stile into the meadow beyond, calling "Ernestine" as we ran, but hearing no reply to our shouts. Among the deep clover and up the steep hill-side we panted, following the plain direction of the path, till, clambering over the irregular steps which led across the high stone wall, we found ourselves on the open moor at last.

"Oh, look! look!" cried Cathy, grasping my arm. "There it is!"

And she pointed as she spoke to the summit of a small hill close by, where, outlined against the blue sky beyond, rose the enormous form of the great black bull, which stood there pawing the ground impatiently, and tossing his giant horns as though he were warning trespassers to beware of venturing upon his domains. Slightly lower down among the furze and the heather, and only about three hundred yards away from us, we could distinguish Ernestine's blue dress, and the flutter of the red ribbon in her hat. She was walking slowly along, stooping every now and then to pick a flower, or pausing to look at the scene around her, and evidently utterly unconscious of the huge monster which was grazing on the hill-side above her. We called wildly to her, but the wind was in the opposite direction, and she could not hear us.

"We must save her, Cathy!" I cried. "Perhaps the bull won't see us. Let us follow her quietly, and tell her to come back before it's too late."

But the bull had seen her already, and with a low roaring noise it began to move slowly down the side of the hill, snuffing the air as it went. Roused at last by the sound, Ernestine turned round. For one moment she stood almost fixed to the spot with horror, then with a wild shriek of fear she flung down her flowers, and ran back as fast as she could in the direction of the stile over the wall.

"Stop! Stop! Don't run! It will be sure to follow you!" shouted Cathy; but even if Ernestine heard her, I doubt if she would have had the self-control to stay her flying footsteps. It was too late, for with a loud bellow the great animal was rushing madly after her down the slope. It seemed impossible that she could reach the wall in time. There was only a moment in which to save her, but I had read in books that a bull always charges blindly, and quick as thought I pulled off my jacket, and dashed forward.

"Run, Ernestine! Run!" I cried. "Run, Cathy! The stile! The stile!"

It was almost upon her, but even as it put down its head to charge, I flung my jacket over its horns, and, taking advantage of the few seconds of delay thus gained, I fled on wings of terror after the others to the stile. How I scrambled over, I can never remember; I know I fell on Cathy and Ernestine at the bottom. We all lay there for a few moments nearly dead with fright, imagining that the bull would leap after us, but the wall was high, and the stile very steep, and though we could hear its angry mutterings within a few feet of us, it was not able to clear so great an obstacle.

"Let us get away!" cried Ernestine. "Oh! it's terrible, terrible to think that dreadful beast is still so near us!"

She made an effort to rise; then, groaning with pain, she sank back on to the ground, and buried her face in her hands.

"I can't walk!" she moaned, "I've broken my foot. Go, girls, and leave me! If I have to die, I must."

"What nonsense!" said Cathy. "You're not going to die yet. I expect you twisted your ankle when you fell. You're quite safe here, for the bull can't leap a six-foot wall, or climb up crooked stone steps. We'll go for help, and Mr. Thompson and one of the men must come to carry you back to the farm."

"You go, Cathy," I said, "and I'll stay with Ernestine. She'd feel dreadfully frightened to be left here all alone, with the bull close by, although it can't get at us now. If you run all the way, you'll very soon be back with help."

Cathy started off at once at a brisk trot, and we watched her as she hurried down the clover-field and the meadow, and disappeared into the wood below.

I turned to Ernestine, who still sat under the wall where she had fallen, white to the lips, and trembling all over with pain.

"I'm afraid your foot's hurting you very much," I said. "Let me take your boot off, and I'll get some water to bathe it for you."

I was obliged to cut both her boot-lace and her stocking with my penknife, for her ankle was already so swollen that she could scarcely bear to have it touched. I soaked my handkerchief in a little pool of water, and bound up the foot as carefully as I could.

"Don't cry!" I said. "They'll soon be here with help, and you can lie on the carriage-seat and keep your foot up all the way home. Does it hurt you very dreadfully?"

"It does hurt, but it isn't that!" sobbed Ernestine. "You've saved my life, Philippa, and -- I've been so horribly nasty to you, ever since you came to school! I meant to shake that handrail to-day, and send you into the brook; it wasn't an accident at all!"

I stroked her hand softly.

"I don't think you'd do it again," I said. "It's all right about the bull. Don't let us talk of it now. I want to put another bandage on your poor foot."

"But I will talk of it!" she said. "I've been most disgustingly mean. I'll be very different to you afterwards, if you'll be friends with me. Will you?"

"Of course I will," I said heartily; and I put my arms round her neck, and kissed her.

Mr. Thompson soon arrived with a couple of strong farm-men, and between them they carried my poor groaning school-mate back to the farm, where Mrs. Marshall was waiting, full of alarm at the chapter of accidents which had happened. It was a painful journey home for Ernestine, and it was many weeks before her sprained ankle would allow her to walk, or take any part in our school games again. I think I was able to make the dull hours she had perforce to spend on her sofa pass a little more brightly for her, and she was grateful to me beyond words.

"No, don't!" I said, when she tried once to stammer out her thanks. "We've forgotten all that old time. It's no use remembering bygones. We're going to start afresh now, and we'll all give you ever such a jolly welcome when you're well enough to come into school again."

And so my last trouble at The Hollies had passed away, for Miss Percy's hard discipline had resolved itself into the genial sway of Miss Hope, and Ernestine Salt, who had been the one stormy element in my class, now wrote herself upon the list of my friends.



Chapter XI

At Marshlands Again

"Each year to ancient friendships adds a ring, As to an oak, and precious more and more, Without deservingness, or help of ours They grow, and, silent, wider spread each year Their unbought ring of shelter or of shade."


I had so many visits to pay to various friends and relations of my father, who took a kindly interest in my welfare, that it was not until the following Easter-time that I was able to accept Mrs. Winstanley's oft-repeated invitation that I should spend a second holiday at Marshlands. How familiar the dear little station looked as Cathy and I turned out our numerous bags and packages upon the platform at Everton! The very porter knew me again, and greeted me with a grin of welcome; and every house, and tree, and bend of the road as we drove home through the village, felt to me like an old friend.

"Well, Miss Humming-bird, you have grown out of all knowledge!" said the squire. "The gray pony is still at your service, and there's a nice light little rod-and-line we could soon teach you to whip the stream with. We'll make a sportswoman of you yet, I declare!"

Mrs. Winstanley welcomed me home equally with Cathy.

"I'm longing to see your Nature Note-Book," she said. "You must have made many additions since last we met. The wild daffodils are out in the Wyngates meadows, the herons are building in the wood by Carnton Fell, and I have found the remains of another stone circle on the moors, so we shall have plenty of objects for our walks."

To revisit all our old haunts was an immense delight. The rose-tree which I had planted by Edward's arbour had grown into quite a large bush, the tempestuous poodle puppies had settled down into sober, steady-going, well-conducted dogs, which regarded with much disfavour the harum-scarum ways of a youthful Skye terrier, which was the latest favourite. Cathy had a fresh pony, a beautiful little chestnut called Selim, which ran with Lady in the new phaeton, and the rock garden which we had made at the end of the shrubbery was flourishing in the most satisfactory manner.

I found the boys much changed. Edward was very tall, and had begun to speak meditatively of Oxford. He still drawled a little, and fussed over his clothes, but he had taken keenly to politics, and aired socialistic theories which he argued hotly with the squire. Dick had grown quite polite, comparatively speaking, and offered to teach me golf, but we had so many other occupations on hand that I never found time to learn. George had got over the stage of keeping white mice in his pockets, and talked mostly about cricket; he was still at his preparatory school, but he was to leave soon for a training-college for the Navy. They were all as full of fun and chaff as ever, and laughed yet over the remembrance of our joke with the burglar.

Marshlands looked beautiful in the spring-time. The cherry orchards were in full blossom, the woods were tinged with the faintest of tender greens, and we found violets in every hedgerow. It was early April, and the distant fells were capped with snow, while the air had enough of a northern chill in it to make quick walking a pleasure. We were close to the lake country, on the borders of that mountain district where crag and moorland, pine-wood and tarn combine to make some of the most glorious scenery in the British Isles. I have always had an extreme love for the hills, whether they were the rocky sierras of my childhood, or the rugged peaks of Cumberland. Once up on the slopes, with the fresh wind blowing on your cheek, and the valley spread out like a map below, you feel as if you had left the cares of the world behind, and were in a different moral as well as physical atmosphere. If it is true that our surroundings really have an effect upon our characters, I think that those who live on a mountain can never be quite so petty and mean-minded as the dwellers in the plain beneath; something in the majesty of those peaks must surely draw them up, and lift their thoughts towards that other world that is higher than ours.

The days were not half long enough for all our delightful projects. Mr. Winstanley had fulfilled his promise of teaching me to fish, and, armed with the light rod-and-line, I industriously and laboriously whipped the stream; but I fear I was anything but a "compleat angler", for very few of my contributions went to fill the baskets of silvery trout which the boys seemed to catch so cleverly.

"I'm afraid a fisherman is something like a poet, 'born, not made'," I sighed, as I watched Dick choose a fresh fly and secure a catch in the very pool where I had tried for half an hour in vain.

"Oh, it's partly practice!" said Dick, "you'll get into it in time. It's rather slow work, though, and I'm jolly savage myself, sometimes, when I can't get a bite, and feel inclined to agree with Dr. Johnson that a fisherman is 'a worm at one end, and a fool at the other'. That old chap knew life! I'll tell you what; if the governor's willing, we'll get him to take us over for a day to Craigdale, and we'll have a boat and try some sea-fishing. I dare say you'll get on better with the flukes and haddock."

Good-natured Mr. Winstanley proved to be more than willing, so one sunny morning we packed ourselves into the phaeton and dog-cart, and started off on the nine-mile drive to the little fishing-village which was our nearest point on the sea-coast. Craigdale seemed to be a mere handful of whitewashed cottages set in the midst of a sandy marsh, where hardy sea-flowers were springing up and blooming on the wind-swept ridges, and terns and sand-pipers were darting here and there at the edge of the waves, in chase of some detached limpet or scuttling crab. We put up the traps at a small inn called the "Mermaid Arms", the sign-board of which was adorned with a most remarkable painting of a sea-maiden with fish's tail, comb and looking-glass, all complete, ready no doubt to bewitch too venturesome sailors to their doom. The stout, bustling landlady readily agreed to provide us with the best she could muster at so short a notice, and in a very brief time she had produced a smoking dish of ham and eggs, which with brown bread and Cumberland cream cheese we thought a fare not at all to be despised. We made quick work of our lunch, however, being anxious to start off in the boat which was waiting for us down by the jetty, where a bluff, jolly old fisherman was ready with bait and sea-lines. Strange to say, it was the first time I had ever been out in a rowing-boat. Although I had paid several visits to the sea-side with Aunt Agatha and my cousins, we had generally kept to the pier and promenade, and had never ventured upon the briny deep in anything of less size than an Isle of Wight steamer. It was a delightful novelty to find myself so close to the waves that I could hold my hand in the rushing water, and could almost catch the long trails of sea-weed and the great jelly-fishes which floated every now and then past our boat. We rowed out a short distance into the bay, and then cast anchor, as our boatmen assured us that it was a good spot to let down the lines, and we should be certain of having plenty of bites. There was a stiff breeze blowing, and the white caps on the distant waves looked like wild sea-horses chasing each other over the foam; the tide was coming in fast, and our boat swayed to and fro like a cork upon the heavy swell.

"Isn't it jolly?" said George; "I like to be 'rocked in the cradle of the deep'. I mean to be a sailor when I grow up; there's no life like 'a life on the ocean wave'. Hullo, Phil! You don't seem as though you were enjoying yourself! Just look at her, Mater! Her face is the colour of a boiled turnip!"

I certainly was not enjoying myself, for the horrible swinging motion had brought on that peculiar complaint which the French call "mal de mer", and I could only gasp out an entreaty to be taken back anywhere so that I might find my feet upon dry land again.

"Bless the child! I didn't think such a little would upset her!" said the squire, whose own family were all excellent sailors. "Wind up the lines, and we'll row back to the jetty and land her. She'll have to amuse herself on the beach as best she can."

"You'll never make a fisherwoman after all!" laughed Dick, as he helped me to jump out on to the narrow landing-place. "I vowed you should catch at least ten flukes this afternoon, and you've given in before you've had a single bite!"

"I don't care if I never see a fish again!" I said. "You're welcome to my share of them all, and can eat them too, if you like. I'm only too glad to be on terra firma once more, and I wouldn't stay in that little wobbling cockle-shell any longer if you were to offer me a five-pound note for every fish I caught."

But though my fishing efforts had turned out such a disastrous failure, I found I got on much better with riding. Sometimes Cathy and I would go out on Selim and Lady, with the squire or one of the boys on Captain, and then I thought nothing could equal the joy of the brisk canter over the moors, with the dogs racing behind us, and the screaming sea-birds flying away in front. It was delightful to feel the quick motion of the pony under me, as we rapidly covered the ground; and I improved so much that Mr. Winstanley declared he would make a horsewoman of me in the end, and that I should follow the hounds next time I came in the hunting season.

Perhaps of all our expeditions I enjoyed our walks the most. To ramble about the lanes and fields in search of nests or wild flowers was to me always an endless pleasure. Finding that I had never picked wild daffodils before, Cathy suggested one morning that we should walk to Wyngates, where they grew so lavishly that the marshy meadows were literally yellow with them. So with our baskets on our arms, and the new Skye terrier for company, we started off in high spirits. Our way led up a steep lane, the sloping banks of which were spangled with primroses and celandine, while the rough-built walls at the top gave a hold to trailing honeysuckle, ivy, and hazel bushes. It was a grand place for birds' nests, and we made very slow progress as we poked about, peering into every likely-looking spot. Cathy, through long experience, was much more clever at discovering them than I, and while she found three thrushes', a wren's, and two chaffinches', my efforts were only rewarded by a solitary hedge-sparrow's. I had had a kodak for my last birthday present, and I was very anxious to take some snap-shots of the young birds in their nests, fired thereto by the beautiful nature photographs I had seen in the illustrated papers. With a good deal of climbing and difficulty I managed to secure various views of Mrs. Thrush at home, Mrs. Chaffinch's nursery, and the five Miss Hedge-sparrows clamouring for a meal. I used a whole spool of films over them, only to find, when with Dick's assistance I developed them afterwards, that my little camera was not intended for such near distances, and my pictures were so hopelessly out of focus that they were utterly spoilt.

"It's an awful sell, and you've wasted a dozen films," said Dick. "I believe you ought to have a special lens for these nature dodges. Your kodak won't take nearer than seven feet off. Never mind, the ones of the Mater and the house and the village are stunning, and you'll get some good snap-shots when we go over Carnton Fell to the sheep-counting."

But to return to our walk. Leaving the lane and the birds' nests behind, we were soon on the open moor, with the brown of last year's heather around us, and the gorse in brilliant patches of gold scenting the air with its faint peachy smell. Innumerable little mountain springs crossed our path, cutting channels through the peat, and overhung with lady-fern and sedges, and here and there among the furze the shoots of the young bracken were springing green. We cut down a deep gorge into the valley, following the course of a swift stream which was descending with much noise to join the river, and found ourselves at last on a kind of rushy marshland, where deep dykes and high banks told a tale of flooded meadows in winter. It might aptly have been called "The Field of the Cloth of Gold", for the daffodils were growing in such endless profusion that one could have picked for a week without stopping. I filled my basket with infinite satisfaction, and sat down on an old poplar stump to wait for Cathy, who thought she had discovered some new snail-shells in the brook.

"What's that house up there?" I asked, pointing to a gray old Tudor building which stood on the side of the crag above, looking down over the valley towards the dim line of the distant sea.

"Oh, that's Wyngates," said Cathy, pulling herself up the bank with her hands full of treasures. "It's such a dear old place! Would you like to go and see it? Nobody lives there now, and I know the care-taker. I always think it is such fun to explore an empty house."

I had not been over an untenanted home before, so I jumped at the opportunity, and we climbed up the hill-side again to a little iron gate which opened through the hedge from the fields. We found ourselves in an old-world garden such as I had never even imagined. The tall yew hedges had been clipped smooth, with here and there a small window cut in them through which the distant landscape appeared like a picture set in a frame. At either end the trees were fashioned into quaint shapes -- peacocks with spreading tails, cocked hats, or ramping lions, all getting a little straggling and untended, but adding a very picturesque feature to the scene. There was a long flagged terrace, with dandelions pushing up between the stones, and roses, grown almost wild, climbing in glorious profusion over the balustrade, while a flight of steps led down to the ladies' pleasaunce, where the narrow grass walks were bordered with box-edgings, and pink daisies and forget-me-nots were trying to struggle through the weeds in the neglected beds. In the centre was a sun-dial with twisted shaft, and an inscription round the capital. We rubbed away the moss which covered the worn letters, and spelt out the words, written in old English characters:

"Nescies + Qua + Hora + Vigila",

which we were not Latin scholars enough at the time to be able to translate, but which I afterwards learnt meant "Thou knowest not at what hour. Watch!" I wondered, as I looked, how many footsteps, in the centuries that had fled, had passed up and down that terraced walk, and how many quaint little maidens as young and gay as we, had come to tell the time by that dial, and had read that same motto, "wrought in dead days by men a long while dead". The blossom from the almond-tree above fell on us like pink snow, and a thrush in the lilac bush was ruffling every feather on his little throat in the rapture of his spring song.

"If I could choose any spot in the world I wished, I think I should come to live here," I said, with a long sigh of content as I looked over the sweet-brier fence down the valley to where in the distance gleamed the bay, a faint gray streak against a patch of yellow sand, with the outline of the fells rising up misty and blue behind. Cathy smiled.

"You haven't seen the house yet," she said. "You couldn't live only in a garden."

"I should like to," I replied. "I'd any time rather have a cottage with a beautiful garden, than the most splendid mansion without one. I think out-of-doors is so much nicer than indoors. Perhaps it's my bringing up. In San Carlos we lived mostly in the verandah and on the terrace."

The house proved to be a quaint old stone manor, not large, and quite unpretentious, the kind of dwelling that was built in days gone by for the younger sons of gentry, who farmed a little land, and rode to hounds. Cathy begged the key from the care-taker at the lodge, and we wandered round the panelled rooms, wondering at the black oak beams of the ceilings, and the delightful ingle-nooks of the wide old-fashioned fireplaces.

"How splendid they would look full of blazing logs!" said Cathy. "These old walls ought to be hung with garlands of holly and mistletoe. It would just be the place for a Christmas party."

One room especially fascinated me. It was a small chamber half-way up the stairs, built above the porch, with a large mullioned window from which one looked out over the garden to the very limit of the horizon. The chimney-piece was richly carved, and panelled with coats of arms, but the central panel was occupied by a small oil-painting of a laughing girl, with lace ruffles and flowered bodice, whose fair hair fell in loose curls over her neck and shoulders. So lifelike was the portrait, that for a moment I felt as if the parted red lips were about to speak, and almost waited for the words, while the bright eyes seemed to look out from the wall as if they were following us round the room. In the extreme right-hand corner of the picture was painted the name: "Philippa Lovell".

"Who is she?" said Cathy, in response to my eager enquiries. "Why, the Lovells were a very old family who lived here in the time of the civil wars. Her father was for the King, but her only brother had declared for Cromwell and the Parliament. They met in battle at Naseby, and both fell, each fighting bravely for his own opinions. So the girl was the last of the race. She was a ward of Charles II, and he married her to one of his favourites, who cared for nothing but her lands and her money. She was miserable and ill at the London court, and at last she got leave to return to Cumberland; but it was too late, for she only came home to die. You can see her monument in the church, next to that of her father and brother; the Lovell coat of arms hangs over them all, and the words 'Sic transit gloria mundi'."

So this was the story of my poor little namesake. Her smiles had indeed soon been changed into tears, and very sad eyes must have looked out from the mullioned window to the distant sea. I felt as if the room were still occupied by her memory, and I closed the door almost reverently as I went out, murmuring to myself those lines from Longfellow: -- 

"We have no title-deeds to house or lands; Owners and occupants of earlier dates From graves forgotten stretch their dusty hands, And hold in mortmain still their old estates".



Chapter XII

The Ignacia

"These are thy wonders, Lord of power, Killing and quickening, bringing down to hell And up to heaven in an hour; Making a chiming of a passing bell."


My long separation from my father was at length drawing to a close. He spoke hopefully of his return to England, and even named the vessel in which he intended to take his passage. "Shall I find my girl much altered, I wonder?" he wrote. "Taller, no doubt, and I hope wiser, but in heart just the same as when she left me, and with as tender a corner as ever for her poor old dad." I made so many plans for Father's return. All my best sketches and collections were put by to show to him, and I toiled hard at music, so that he might not be disappointed with my playing. I thought how I would introduce Cathy to him, and how much he would admire her, and how perhaps we could go and stay somewhere near Marshlands in the holidays, so that he could see all the Winstanleys together. I imagined him coming to our Mid-summer breaking-up party, and how proud and happy I should be to have him there. It was an annual occasion to which the parents and friends of the girls were invited, and I had often felt, with a little pang, when I saw the warm greetings between others, that it seemed hard to have no one there to love me specially above everyone else. At last I was to have my own dear one all to myself, and I counted the days till his return, crossing each off on the calendar when I went to bed at night, and thinking that I was one day nearer to our meeting. Now that his arrival seemed so close, I was full of impatience, and felt that the time would scarcely pass, and I wondered sometimes how I had managed to live through those five long years without him.

He was to sail in the Ignacia, a Spanish vessel bound for London, and the steamer was cabled to have started on her voyage. Each night I thought of Father tossing on the ocean, and each morning when I awoke, I pictured him a little nearer to me than when I had fallen asleep. I was so excited I could scarcely attend to my lessons, and the teachers, knowing my story, did not press me too hard. And so the weeks passed by, and the great day of my happiness drew near.

I was sitting one afternoon at my drawing class. It was early June, and the windows were wide open, letting in the fragrant scent of the lilac and hawthorn from the garden below, and the imperative song of a chaffinch to his mate in the elm-tree close by. Sometimes, in memory of greater events, little incidents make a great impression upon one's mind. I can recall every line of the Italian boy's head which I was copying, and the sound of the scratch of Janet's pencil, as she laboriously shaded a chalk study. I felt unusually restless and disinclined to apply myself to my work. The air was heavy and still, there was a grumble of thunder in the distance, and the silence of the room broken only by an occasional criticism from the master, as he corrected our drawings, grew almost unbearable. Gathering clouds were already darkening the sky, and threatened a storm, and a vague foreboding of evil seemed to come over my mind, dulling the keen edge of my happiness. Does some subtle instinct, as yet neither known nor understood, warn us when those we hold dear are in peril? Does our love set in motion unseen waves of sympathy, so that the heart feels the message which has not yet been told in words? I think so; for when the door opened and Miss Wilton entered, I knew before she spoke that she had come for me. There was an unwonted pity and kindness in her voice as she quietly ordered me to leave my drawing, and come to Mrs. Marshall. With trembling fingers I put away my pencils and obeyed. She took my hand, and led me silently downstairs. There was a sound of voices in the drawing-room, and Aunt Agatha was there, seated on the sofa. She had been crying, and she rose quickly when I entered. Mrs. Marshall put her arm round my neck and kissed me, but said nothing.

"Philippa dear," said my aunt, with more tenderness than I had ever given her credit for, "can you bear me to tell you some very bad news?"

I could not speak. A great fear rose in my heart, and almost choked me. My speechless lips framed the one question: "Father?"

"He is not come yet. He will be a long time coming. Oh! my poor child, he will never come! The Ignacia has gone down with all hands on board."

I would pass over the first outbreak of my grief, for it is so black a remembrance, such a thickness of utter darkness and despair, that the very memory of it hurts. I begged to be allowed to remain at school. Many kind friends wished me to visit them, but I felt that to plunge myself more than ever into my lessons and the coming examinations was the only way to dull the keen edge of the sorrow that was wounding me so sorely. Mrs. Marshall agreed with me, and by keeping my time most fully occupied did me the truest kindness that in the circumstances she was able to perform. A kind of dull passiveness came over me, which they mistook for resignation. They thought I was beginning to forget, but there are some sorrows which never really die, however deeply we may seek to bury them, and every now and then my grief would awaken with renewed force. The summer term dragged on towards its close. How I dreaded the breaking-up party, with all its festivities! I wished I could go away before it, though I did not like to ask to do so. The examinations were over, and I stood high in my class, but my success gave me no pleasure. What was the use of doing well, I thought bitterly, when my father was not there to rejoice over it! I felt so unutterably solitary and alone in the world, and even Cathy's love and the many thoughtful kindnesses of my friends could not make up to me for that greatest of all losses.

The day of the party at last arrived. How different from anything I had planned! I set out my white dress and black sash with a sigh. Cathy, who was watching me with anxious eyes, tried to talk about home, for I was returning to Marshlands with her for part of the holidays, and Janet, too, did her best to give the conversation a hopeful turn.

"This visitor's arriving early," said Millicent, who was leaning out of my window, looking down the drive, as a cab drew up at the front-door. "It's a gentleman," she announced, standing back a little behind the curtain, so as not to be seen, "I don't know who he is. One of Mrs. Marshall's friends, I suppose. Do you want to peep, Phil?"

I felt no interest in the guests of the evening, however, and I had not even the curiosity to look out. We heard a slight bustle of arrival downstairs, and I did not give the matter another thought. But a short time afterwards Lucy came running into our bedroom with a look of peculiar excitement on her face.

"You're wanted, Philippa, in the drawing-room," she said. Then, putting her hand over her mouth, as though to stop herself from saying more, she darted suddenly away. It was so unusual, and so utterly unlike Lucy's ordinary behaviour, that I was completely puzzled. I went down to the drawing-room with a beating heart. It somehow made me think of that other time when I had been summoned there. Mrs. Marshall was standing near the window with a newspaper in her hand. She looked strangely moved.

"Philippa," she said slowly, "the newspapers are not always correct, after all. We should be very careful before we believe everything they tell us." I looked full into her eyes, to learn the sequel. "Sometimes," she continued, "they give us good news which is never fulfilled, and sometimes they tell us of bad news which has not really occurred. It occasionally happens that when a ship goes down, all do not perish. A few manage to escape in boats, and are picked up by chance steamers, and then they come home again to those who love them. There was a vessel called the Ignacia --  -- "

But here my patience broke down, and I gasped out: "Oh, Mrs. Marshall, tell me quick! quick! Is he --  -- ?" I did not dare to ask the question outright. My very life seemed to depend upon the reply.

The door of the conservatory suddenly opened, a tall bronzed figure rushed into the room, and the next moment I was clasped close in my father's arms. Mrs. Marshall went out very softly, and left us together.

Father told me his story afterwards. How a terrible storm had driven the Ignacia many hundreds of miles north of her course; how the ship had sprung a leak, and how he and a few others had escaped in one of the boats. What a fearful time they had had tossing for days and days on a rough sea, without food and water; and how, just when they were giving up hope, they had been rescued by a whaling vessel, bound for the north of Greenland, which had been obliged to continue its voyage, and had not touched at any port where he could telegraph until it finally arrived at Glasgow! Then he had come straight to The Hollies, to bring me the good news himself.

Oh, what a breaking-up party it was for me! With what a different heart I put on the white dress (with a pink sash instead of a black one), and stood by Father's side in the reception-room! He kissed Lucy and Mary and my dear Cathy, who was nearly crying for joy, and had a hearty hand-shake for each of my companions.

"I know them all from your letters," he said. "And I should like to thank them for being so good to my little girl. We're very happy and grateful to-night, and not the least part of it is to see so many friends ready to share in our rejoicing."

The visitors soon learned the story, and nearly every one had a kind word for me, even Miss Percy, who had come as a guest, kissed me warmly on the cheek, and wished me joy.

"You won't go back to San Carlos, Father?" I cried, when at last I had him all to myself.

"Never again, my darling. We sha'n't be parted any more. I've resigned the consulate, and sold the plantations, and mean to settle down in Old England now, with you for my little housekeeper in course of time. After all, there's no country like one's own, and whatever attractions one finds abroad, one is always longing for a whiff of one's native air."

As I write these last lines I look out through the mullioned window over the quaint old-world garden to a line of golden sand and a distant streak of silver sea, for my wildest dreams are realized: Father has taken Wyngates, and the deserted house, where Cathy and I wandered on that spring morning, is now my home. The large fireplaces blaze with the most hospitable of log fires; the clipped yew hedges are neatly trimmed; the beds are gay with flowers, and I have planted a border of white lilies round the sun-dial in the ladies' pleasaunce. Philippa Lovell's room is my special sanctum, where I keep my books and my work, and her laughing face smiles down upon me as if she were glad that young life has returned to the old place once more. The Winstanleys are our dearest friends, and very few days pass without a meeting between us. Cathy and I have just left school, and I am settling down in dead earnest to master the mysteries of housekeeping, and to supply to my father that dear place which my mother left empty long ago. We do not want to fritter away our lives in that aimless fashion which girls sometimes do when school-days are over, and we have many plans for our own and the village improvement. Strange to say, Edward, just through college, is here at one with us. He has forgotten his dandy ways, and his drawl, and is the foremost in organizing a Boys' Brigade, or running a reading-room, qualifying, as Dick irreverently puts it, for a "thorough-going out-and-out kind of a parson chap". George is at sea, and, from the accounts of his adventures, the ringleader of a lively crew of harum-scarum middies, whose escapades outrival even the pranks which he and Dick played long ago. His great desire seems to be that a war should break out to give him an opportunity of displaying his courage.

I love Wyngates with my whole heart; no spot on earth seems more beautiful to me, and I would not change its hills and its fresh breezes for all the brightness of southern skies. Our old home and all its associations are not forgotten, however, for Juanita, now married to Pedro, sends us kindly messages from her orange-farm on the sierras, and Tasso, whose devotion to my father led him to follow him over the seas, is with us now, the most faithful of servants and the staunchest of friends.

With those I hold dearest near me, my cup of happiness seems full, and my father says that the little foreign plant which he sent over so long ago to harden in our gray northern clime has taken root, and changed from a tropical blossom into an English rose.

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North Woods Manhunt

By

Paul Hutchens



1


I tell you, when you just know there's going to be some exciting trouble in the next twelve minutes or less, you have to make your red head do some quick clear thinking, if you can.

Not a one of the Sugar Creek Gang knew what was going to happen, but the very minute I heard that outboard motor roaring out on the lake, the sound sounding like it was coming straight toward the shore and the old icehouse we were all in, I said to us, "Quick, Gang! Let's get out of here and get this ransom money back to camp!"

Little Jim's gunny sack had a lot of money in it right that minute, which we'd dug up out of the sawdust in that abandoned old icehouse. The gunny sack was nearly filled with stuffed fish, -- the big and middle-sized northern and wall-eyed pike with thousands and thousands of dollars sewed up inside.

I won't take time right now to tell you all you maybe ought to know about how we happened to find that ransom money buried in the sawdust of that old icehouse, 'cause that'd take too long, and besides you've probably read all about it in the last story about the Sugar Creek Gang, which is called, "Sugar Creek Gang Digs for Treasure." I maybe better tell you, though, that a little St. Paul girl named Marie Ostberg had been kidnapped and the kidnapper had hidden up in the Chippewa forest of northern Minnesota in what is called "The Paul Bunyan Country," where we were camping. Our gang had found the girl in the middle of the night and captured the kidnapper in an old Indian cemetery the next night, and then we had had a very mysterious and exciting time hunting for the ransom money in one of cuckoo-est places in all the world to find money, and at last had found it in this very old icehouse, and, as I told you, the money had been sewed up inside of these great big fish which we'd been digging up and stuffing into the gunny sack.

In maybe another seven minutes we'd have had it all dug up and stuffed into the gunny sack and would have been on our excited way back to camp, but all of a startling sudden we heard that outboard motor roaring in our direction from out on the lake and we knew that unless we stepped on the gas, we wouldn't even get all of us climbed out of the opening and far enough away in the bushes not to be seen.

"What's the sense of being scared?" Dragonfly, the pop-eyed member of our gang, asked me right after I'd ordered us all to get going quick. "The kidnapper's caught and in jail, isn't he?"

"Sure, but Old hook-nosed John Till's running loose up here somewhere," I said -- Old Hook-nose being a very fierce man who was the fierce infidel daddy of one of the members of our gang. He had been in jail a lot of times in his wicked life and was staying in a cabin not more than a quarter of a mile up the shore from where we were right that minute.

Poetry, the barrel-shaped member of the gang, who knew one hundred and one or two poems by heart and was always quoting one, swished around quick, scrambled back across the sawdust we'd been digging in, peeped through a crack between the logs toward the lake.

"Who is it?" I said, and he said in his duck-like squawky voice, "I can't tell, but he looks awful mad."

Well, anybody knows anybody couldn't see well enough that far to see anybody's face well enough to tell whether it had a mad look on it, but if it was John Till who hated us boys anyway, he'd probably be mad and would do savage things to all of us, if he caught us in that icehouse getting the money.

So in another six or seven jiffies we were all scrambling as fast as we could out of that icehouse and out into the open, carrying Little Jim's gunny sack full of fish. We made a dive across an open space to a clump of bushes, where we wouldn't be seen by anybody on the lake.

Circus, the acrobatic member of our gang, was with us, too, and he being the strongest one of us, grabbed up the sack, swung it over his shoulder and loped on ahead of us. "Hurry!" we panted to each other, and didn't stop running until we reached the top of a hill, which we did just as we heard the outboard motor stop. There we all dropped down on the grass, gasping and panting, and tickled that we were safe, but I was feeling pretty bad to think that there were probably a half dozen other fish still buried in the sawdust in that old log icehouse.

"Quick, Poetry, give me your knife," Circus ordered.

"What for?" Poetry said, and at the same time shoved his fat hand in his pocket and pulled out his official boy-scout knife and handed it over to Circus, who quick opened the heavy cutting blade and started ripping open the sewed-up stomach of a big northern pike which he'd just pulled out of the sack.

"There's no sense in carrying home a six pound northern pike with only a quarter of a pound of twenty dollar bills in it," Circus said, and I knew he was right, 'cause it was a long way back to our camp, and if for any reason we had to run fast, we could do it better without having to lug along those great big fish, especially the biggest one.

I didn't bother to watch Circus though, 'cause right that second I started peering through the foliage of some oak undergrowth back toward the lake, just as I saw a man come swishing around the corner of the icehouse and stop in front of the opened door.

"Hey look!" Dragonfly said to us, "he's got a big string of big fish."

And sure enough he had.

Little Jim, who was beside me, holding onto his stick which he always carried with him when we were on a hike or out in the woods, whispered close to my ear and said, "I'll bet he's got a lot more money sewed up in a lot more fish, and is going to bury it in the sawdust where these were."

I happened to have my high-powered binoculars with me so I quick unsnapped the carrying case they were in, zipped them out, raised them to my eyes and right away it seemed like I was only about one-third as far away as I was. I gasped so loud at what I saw -- or rather who I saw -- that my gasp was almost like a yell.

"SH!" Circus said to us, just like he was the leader of our gang, which he wasn't, but I was myself -- that is, I was supposed to be, 'cause our real leader, Big Jim, wasn't with us, but was back at camp with Little Tom Till, the newest member of our gang.

"It's Old Hook-nose, all right," I said, and knew it was. I could see his stoop-shoulders, dark complexion, red hair, bulgy eyes, bushy eyebrows, and his hook nose.

"What if he finds we've dug up part of the fish and run away with them?" Little Jim asked in a half-scared voice.

"Maybe he won't," I said, and hoped he wouldn't.

While I was watching John Till toss his stringer of fish up into the opening and clamber up after them, Circus was slashing open the fish and taking out the ransom money which was folded in nice flat packets of oiled paper like the kind my mom uses in our kitchen back home at Sugar Creek.

We also all helped Circus do what he was doing, all of us maybe more excited than we'd been in a long time, while different ones of us took turns watching Hook-nose do what he was doing.

I knew that in only a few jiffies he would be out of that icehouse again, and probably would go back to the big white boat he'd come to shore in, shove off and row out a few feet, and then there would be a roar of his motor and away he would go swishing out across the sunlit water, his boat making a long widening V behind him. Then we would sneak back and get the rest of the money.

Everything was pretty clear in my mind as to what had been going on the last day or two, and it was that John Till had maybe been what police call an "accomplice" of the real kidnapper and it had been his special job to look after the ransom money. He'd decided that the best way in the world to hide it where nobody would ever think of finding it would be to catch some big fish, cut them open, clean out the entrails, fold the money in packets of oil paper, stuff it inside the fish, and sew it up, like my mother sews up a chicken she's stuffed with dressing just before she slides it into the oven for our dinner. Then he would dig down deep in the sawdust of the icehouse till he came to some ice, lay the fish on it, and cover it up. Nobody would ever think to look inside a fish for money. Even if they accidentally dug up a fish, it'd be covered with wettish sticky sawdust, and they wouldn't see the stitches in its stomach.

Say, while I was thinking that and also watching the shadow of John Till through the door of the icehouse, all of a sudden there was a quick gasp beside me, and I said to Circus, "What on earth?" thinking maybe he'd found something terribly special, but he hadn't. He dropped his knife, leaped to his feet, and said, "You guys stay here! I'll be right back."

"Stop!" I said. "Where you going?" I remembered I was supposed to be the leader, but say, Circus had his own ideas about that. He squirmed out of my grasp, almost tearing his shirt, on account of I had hold of it and didn't want to let go.

The next second there were only four of us left -- barrel-shaped Poetry, kind-faced, swell Little Jim, pop-eyed Dragonfly, and red-haired, fiery-tempered, freckle-faced Bill Collins, which is me. Circus, our acrobat, was streaking out through the bushes as fast as he could go toward the lake and the icehouse, but not getting out in the open where John could see him.

"What on earth?" I thought. I didn't dare yell, or try to stop him by whistling or something, or John Till would have heard me, and who knows what might have happened? I didn't have the slightest idea what Circus was up to until a moment later, when I saw him dart like a scared chipmunk out from some bushes not far from the icehouse and make a dive for the open door.

"Why the crazy goof!" I thought. "He's going to try to -- What was he going to try to do?"

And the next thing I knew, I quick found out. It happened so fast, I didn't even have time to think. But the very minute I saw Circus start to do what he was starting to do, I knew he was going to do it.

SWISH! Wham! A half-dozen fast flying movements, and it was all over. Circus grabbed that icehouse door, swung it shut, lifted the big heavy bar and threw it into place, and Old hook-nosed John Till was locked inside!




2


Circus hadn't any more than slammed that icehouse door shut and dropped the heavy bar into place, locking Old Hook-nose in than there was a loud pounding on the door and a yelling that sounded like there was a madman inside.

What on earth to do next was the question. We were an awful long way from camp, and we five kinda-smallish boys certainly weren't big enough to capture him ourselves. Besides yesterday when we'd first seen him, he'd had a big hunting knife and who knows but he might have a gun too. Anybody as fierce and as mad as John Till maybe was right that minute -- well, you couldn't tell what he might do, if he got a chance.

Circus was coming in our direction now as fast as he could, and when a few jiffies later he came puffing up to us, he exclaimed, "Come on, Gang. Let's run back to camp and get help."

And right that minute I got a bright idea of my own. In fact it had been swishing around in my mind ever since I'd seen Circus wham that door shut, so I said, "Come on, Gang. Follow me and we'll get help in a hurry."

I grabbed up the gunny sack which had the rest of the stuffed fish in it and the packets of the ransom money, and it felt as light as a feather as I started on a fast dash right straight toward the icehouse again.

"Hey, where are you going?" Poetry hissed and yelled to me at the same time.

"Back to camp," I said. "Come on!"

"Camp's in this other direction," Dragonfly called after me.

"Do as I say," I yelled back over my shoulder, and kept on running like a deer straight for the icehouse.

It felt good to realize that all the gang was coming swishing along after me, that I was actually the leader -- for awhile anyway. I had what I thought was a swell idea -- which my pop told me once is what happens to a person when he becomes a leader -- first he gets an idea about something which he thinks is wonderful, and that ought to be done, and right away he starts getting a lot of people to help him do it.

Here's what I'd planned to do:

You see, while Circus was slamming that door and shutting Old Hook-nose inside, and I was watching him with my binoculars, I'd seen John's white boat which was beached there at the lake and had noticed that the outboard motor, which was tilted forward in the stern, had a beautiful black shroud, and was the same kind our camp director had, and which I'd been learning how to run during the past week. It had a powerful seven-horsepower motor and could go terribly fast on a lake. If there was anything I'd rather do than anything else, it was to sit in the stern of a boat, with one hand on the rubber grip of the steering handle, and, facing the prow, go roaring out across the water with fast wind blowing into my freckled face and also feeling the shoreline flash past very fast.

I also knew that the water in many of the big blue-watered lakes up here in the North was kept fresh because the Mississippi river flowed through them, and also flowed from one lake to another. I'd studied the map of the territory and knew that if we could use that boat and motor, we could go roaring up the lake terribly fast, pass -- in three or four minutes -- the old Indian cemetery, and a little later, come to a place where the Mississippi flowed out of this lake into a long narrow channel and into the other very large lake on which we had our tents pitched. Once we got into that other lake we'd race up the shore, and get back to camp in less than half the time it would take us to hike through the woods, carrying a big heavy sack of fish.

We could leave John Till locked up in the icehouse while we were gone, and hurry back with Big Jim and maybe some other help, and before long we'd have John Till really captured. After that, we'd tell the police what we'd done and then we could claim the reward for finding the thousands and thousands of dollars which the little Ostberg girl's daddy had paid to the kidnapper.

In a jiffy almost, I was hurrying past the icehouse with my gunny sack of fish. I stopped for a split-jiffy to listen, but everything was pretty quiet. I noticed that the heavy door was really strong and I didn't see any way John Till could get out. There also was only one place where he could even see out and that was through a crack on the side next to the lake.

In a jiffy all of us were in the boat, and had shoved off and rowed out to deep enough water to make it safe to start the motor without its propeller striking on the bottom.

I was pretty nervous, and also scared and brave at the same time. It wasn't our boat or motor, but we weren't stealing it, but were amateur detectives using the criminal's boat to help get some help to help capture him.

It was a terribly pretty sunshiny day, with only a few scattered white clouds in the sky. In another minute we'd be gone. Poetry was in the middle, on a seat by himself, Dragonfly and Little Jim in one right in front of me, and Circus had a narrow seat up in the prow.

"I don't see why you don't let me run it," Poetry complained. "After all, I taught you how to run it in the first place."

"SH!" I said, "can't you co-operate?" which is a word my pop sometimes uses back at Sugar Creek when he wants me to obey him. "You keep your eye on the gunny sack there between your feet."

I quick opened the gasoline shut-off valve as far as it would turn, being sure first that the air vent on the tank was open, shoved the speed control lever over to where it said "Start," primed the motor, and gave the starter knob a very fast sharp pull, and in a jiffy that powerful motor roared itself to life and our boat went whizzing up the lake. I made a couple of quick other adjustments like I knew how to do, and away we went, the wind blowing hard in our faces or against our backs, depending on which direction we were facing.

Right that second Circus yelled over the tops of the other kids' heads to me, and said, "Hey, Bill. He's yelling and screaming for us to stop."

"Let him yell," I said. "We'll give him something to yell about a little later." I shoved the speed control lever as far to the right as it would go, and our boat really shot forward, Circus's prow raised itself up part way out of the water and we went flying up the shore at a terrific rate of speed.

It had been a wonderful vacation for all of us, I thought, and yet we still had a half-dozen days before we would get into the station wagon and drive the long day and a half back to Sugar Creek. We'd had a lot of fun fishing and swimming and solving mysteries, such as finding the kidnapped little girl, capturing the kidnapper, and digging up the ransom money, a lot of which was right there in the boat with us in the stomachs of the fish we had in the gunny sack. The rest of the money was probably all sewed in the other fish which John Till had with him right that minute while he was locked up in that icehouse jail. Of course we still had to actually capture him.

Thinking that, I said to Poetry as he sat grinning in front of me -- one of his fat hands holding onto the gunwale on one side and the other on the other -- , "I'll bet Big Jim'll want to call the police and let them capture John."

Not a one of us liked the idea very well, and we all said so, although we'd all had enough dangerous experiences for one vacation.

It was Little Jim's newest hobby which helped make this last story of our northern camping trip one we'd never forget as long as we lived.

This is the way his hobby got mixed up with our mystery. Our boat had just rounded a bend and was about to swish past the old Indian cemetery where we'd had so many exciting experiences, and as you maybe know, where we'd caught the kidnapper himself one spooky night, when all of a sudden Little Jim yelled out to us, "Hey, Gang, there's a whiskey bottle floating out there in the water. Let's stop and get it."

He pointed toward the shore where the cemetery was, and sure enough, there in the water was what looked like an upside-down whiskey bottle on the surface of the water.

"We don't have time to stop," I yelled to Little Jim, and didn't even bother to throttle the motor even a little bit. But say, when I saw that little guy's happy face suddenly get a sad expression on it and saw him kinda drop his head, like a friendly little dog does when you scold it, I felt sorry for him, and decided that maybe seventeen seconds lost time wouldn't make any difference. So I shoved the speed control lever of the motor back to "Slow," and shoved the steering handle around so we'd cut a wide circle, and in a jiffy we were putt-putting slowly back toward the floating bottle.

You see, all of the members of the Sugar Creek Gang were almost as interested in Little Jim's new hobby as he was. For about a week he'd been getting all the old empty whiskey bottles he could find, and he -- being an honest-to-goodness Christian boy who hated whiskey on account of it was a terrible enemy of mankind and made so many people in the world so sad and caused so much murder and stuff -- had been putting what is called "a gospel tract" in them and a little note which he scribbled in his own handwriting. A gospel tract, just in case you might never have heard what one is, is a little folder with a printed message on it telling whoever reads it, something important out of the Bible, especially how to be saved and become a Christian. The kinda awkward scribble which Little Jim always tucked into each bottle along with the tract, always said the same thing, which was: "Whoever finds this, please believe that God loves you, and if you're not saved, remember Jesus died on the cross for you, and hurry up and pray to Him and thank Him for doing it, and give your heart to Him quick. If you don't know how to do it, send me your name and address and I'll send you a free book telling you how." Then Little Jim would sign his name which was Jim Foote, and he also gave his Sugar Creek address.

Then he'd cork up the bottle good and tight and toss it out into the lake for somebody to find and read. We'd all been having fun helping him, and we could hardly wait till we got back home to Sugar Creek to see if Little Jim had any mail from anybody who had found one of his notes.

You see, Little Jim had his mind made up that some time maybe when he was grown-up, he was going to be a missionary, but he couldn't wait that long to be one so he was trying to be one now. He being that kind of a swell little guy and also being one of my best friends, I had decided I wasn't going to wait till I was any grown-upper than I was, before doing it, too.

In a jiffy our boat was gliding slowly up alongside the bobbing bottle, and Circus, who was closer to it than Little Jim, reached out his hand and caught hold of it and started to hand it over to Little Jim. Then he let out a yell and said, "Hey, it's got something tied to it!"

And sure enough, it had. I could see there was a piece of heavy fishing line, tied around the bottle's neck, and that something was fastened to the other end away down in the water somewhere.




3


Say, the very second I realized there was something tied to the other end of that fishing line I was afraid it might be some heavy object, and at the rate our boat was traveling, if Circus held onto the bottle, the line might break, so I yelled to him, "Hey, let go! The line might break!" At the same time, I quick shut off the gas to almost nothing and swung the boat around in a half circle, so, in case Circus didn't let go, the line wouldn't have too much strain on it and break, 'cause I was wondering what on earth might be on the other end.

My motor made a couple of smoky coughs right that minute and stopped, which was maybe a good thing on account of we might have broken the line, if it hadn't.

You could have knocked me over with a pine needle when we found out what kind of a message was in that bottle. There wasn't anything on the other end of the very strong fishing line except a great big old-fashioned horseshoe. It was covered with weeds and lake bottom dirt, which meant it had been used as a weight so the waves wouldn't wash the bottle away.

It only took us a few jiffies to read what was in the bottle, because we didn't even have to take out the cork, on account of a piece of paper with black printing on it was rolled up inside, with the words as plain as anything visible right through the glass. Poetry read them out loud to us in his squawky voice and they were:

"Dear Fisherman Friend: This is one of the best places on the lake for Crappie fishing. Try it here Monday through Saturday an hour before and after sundown.... But on Sunday mornings at eleven and Sunday nights at 7:30, come to THE CHURCH OF THE CROSS, Bemidji, Minnesota, where we are fishing for men. We will be pleased to welcome you. Please leave this marker here for others to read, and remember that Christ Jesus came into the world to save sinners, which means 'you, me and anybody else.'"

The Pastor.

"P.S. Tune in the CHURCH OF THE CROSS radio broadcast every afternoon at 4:00 o'clock."

Well, our boat was maybe only a few yards from where we'd first seen the bottle floating, which, as I told you, was not far from the shore, just straight out from the old Indian cemetery, so we took the oars which every motor boat ought to have in it, and rowed a few strokes back to where we thought the bottle had been floating before. Poetry was about to put it carefully back into the water when Dragonfly, whose mother, as you maybe know, believes it's bad luck if a black cat crosses your path or if you break a mirror or walk under a ladder, and also that it is good luck if you find a horseshoe, piped up and said, "Let's tie some other weight on it. I'd like to keep that horseshoe for good luck."

"You're crazy," Poetry squawked. "That'd be stealing, and stealing would mean bad luck."

Just that second there was a long-voiced high-pitched quavering cry of a loon from somewhere on the lake, and Dragonfly who'd been having a hard time getting used to a loon's lonely cry, looked up quick like he had heard a ghost, while at the same time Circus let the horseshoe sink into the lake. A second later, there was the bottle floating on the surface of the water again, lying flat, which meant that the horseshoe was really on the bottom and the line was loose.

Right away, I adjusted the motor for starting, gave a quick sharp pull on the starter knob and away we all went again, racing up the shore toward the Narrows where we knew the river flowed from this lake into the one our camp site was on. In another ten minutes, we'd be there and Big Jim would help us decide what to do about John Till.

It was a wonderful ride and if we hadn't been so excited, we would have enjoyed the scenery like we'd done once before when we were riding through the Narrows. The Narrows was almost a half mile long, and there was a little current but the river was flowing in the same direction we were going, so in only a few minutes we were on our own lake, and the pretty black-shrouded motor was carrying us fast straight for camp.

Poetry yelled something to all of us then, and it was, "You guys remember yesterday afternoon when it rained and we were in Old John's cabin and found that little portable radio and when we turned it on, we heard a Christian program? I'll bet that was the Church of the Cross program."

Then Little Jim, who was sitting beside Dragonfly with one hand holding onto his stick and the other onto the side of the boat and with a tickled grin on his face, piped up and said, "Radio's a good way to fish for men. It's like casting with a terribly long line clear out where the fish really are."

"Old John Till's a fish, all right," Dragonfly said, "only he drinks whiskey instead of water. I hope when we get him captured, he'll have to go to jail the rest of his life."

I noticed that Circus's monkey-looking face had a very serious expression on it for a minute, like what Dragonfly had said had been like a pin sticking him somewhere, and all of a sudden I remembered that Circus's dad had once been a drunkard himself. Even while we were racing along with the oak and white birch and Balm of Gilead and pine trees whizzing past, and our boat cutting a fierce fast V through the water, I was remembering one summer night back at Sugar Creek when there had been a big tent filled with people and a big choir and an evangelist preaching, and nearly all of the members of the Sugar Creek Gang had been saved; and when Circus himself had walked down the grassy aisle to the front to confess the Saviour, all of a sudden Old Dan Browne, Circus's drinking daddy, who had been outside of the tent listening, had come swishing in and running down the aisle with tears in his eyes and voice, crying out loud, "That's my boy! That's my boy!" And that very night God had saved Old Dan Browne clear through, so that he hadn't taken a drop of whiskey or beer since; and from then on he was a good worker and his family had had enough to eat.

Circus must have been thinking the same thing, 'cause when Dragonfly said that about Old hook-nosed John Till's going to jail, he looked across the top of all the heads of the rest of the gang and straight into my eyes. I could see the muscles of his jaw working like he was thinking hard. I also noticed that his fists were doubled up terribly tight, and remembered that he hated whiskey worse than anything else in the world, on account of it had made his mother very unhappy for a long time.

Little Jim called out to all of us then and said, "What about Tom? What'll we tell him?"

"And what would we tell him?" I thought -- that swell little red-haired, grandest little newest member of our gang, who was Old Hook-nose's boy.

Not a one of us knew, but in a little while now, at the rate we were flying, we'd be back in camp where Big Jim and Little Tom Till were, and we'd have to tell them that we had Tom's pop locked up in the old icehouse, and he was probably what police called an accomplice of the actual kidnapper we'd caught last week.

I was terribly disappointed at what Big Jim decided to do as soon as we'd told him, which we did, all by himself, so Tom wouldn't hear it and start feeling terribly sad and have all the rest of his vacation spoiled -- although of course he'd have to find it out sooner or later.

Big Jim had heard our motor and come out to the end of the long dock where the mailbox was, to meet us, wondering maybe who on earth we were at first, coming in with a highpowered motor and a different boat. Little Tom wasn't in camp right then, but was up the shore visiting at a cabin owned by a man named Santa, who especially liked him, and Tom was watching him build a utility boat in his work shop, so we had a chance to tell Big Jim the whole exciting story without Little Tom Till hearing it.

"Let's leave Tom where he is and all of us go back with a rope and tie him up," Dragonfly suggested.

"You're crazy," Circus said. "He might have a gun and might shoot us, and get away, and take all the rest of the ransom money with him."

"What ransom money?" Big Jim wanted to know, and then I remembered that Big Jim didn't know a thing about our having dug in the old icehouse for the money and had found it sewed up inside a lot of fish's stomachs. So, quick we told him, and he frowned at first, then his bright mind started to work and he just took charge of things in a jiffy.

"This is a job for the police," Big Jim told us. "You boys've done your part, and you'll get credit, but there isn't any sense in running any unnecessary risks. Let's get to a phone quick."

We all knew there wasn't any sense in trying to argue Big Jim out of that idea, and it did make good sense, although it's hard on a boy to use good sense all the time, on account of his not being used to it.

The first good sense we used was to quick carry the money down to Santa's cabin and lock it up in his boathouse. The nearest telephone being farther on up the lake at a resort, Santa and Big Jim took Santa's boat and motored terribly fast in that direction, leaving Poetry and Circus and Little Jim and Dragonfly and Tom Till and me standing there by the boathouse to wait till they came back from phoning the police.

I looked into Poetry's bluish eyes and he into mine -- we both feeling pretty sad. It was going to be a little fun watching the police surround the icehouse though, and seeing them capture our criminal. "It'll be fun to watch him come out of that icehouse with his long hairy arms up in the air," Dragonfly said, and Little Tom Till looked up from what he'd been doing, which was tucking the stem of an oxeye daisy through the button hole of his shirt -- that little guy always liking to wear a wild flower of some kind, -- and asked, "Watch who come out of an icehouse -- what icehouse?"

And Dragonfly, being not thinking, but letting the very first thought that came into his head just splash right out of his mouth, said, "Why Old hook-nosed John -- "

But that was as far as his dumb sentence got, for Circus who was quicker than a cat, whirled around and clapped his hand over his mouth just in time to stop him at the word "John."

But it was too late to save Little Tom's feelings. I saw a sad look come into his bluish eyes and both fists double up quick, and I knew he was both sad and mad. He looked like he knew Dragonfly meant his daddy, on account of he had called him "Old hook-nose John -- ," but the part about coming out of an icehouse with his hairy arms up in the air, puzzled him. I saw him swallow hard like there was a lump in his throat, and he said, "You mean my daddy's locked up somewhere? What for? What's he done?"

I'd been calling John Till "Old Hook-nose" myself, when I'd been talking to the rest of the gang and when I thought about him, but somehow right that second, it sort of seemed like we ought to get a more respectable, better name for him.

I knew we had to tell Tom the truth, he having heard Dragonfly say that, but I was mad at Dragonfly for a minute, so I said, "Listen you, Dragonfly Gilbert (which is his last name), you can stop calling him 'Old Hook-nose,' when you've got a nose that turns south at the end, yourself!"

Then because Tom would have to know the truth some time, all of us helped each other tell him the whole story, which you already know. While we were doing it, Tom wouldn't look us in the eye, but was picking blue flowers and tucking them into a little bouquet in his hand. Then he straightened up and looked all around in a quick circle like he was expecting to see the police coming. Also he looked out toward the lake like he was listening for the motor of Santa and Big Jim coming back.

There wasn't any motor sound though, but at that very second, I heard the very saddish sound of a mourning dove from up in a tree somewhere above us, saying, "Coo, coo, coo, coo." Then almost the second the last "coo" was finished, there was a sort of vibrating musical sound about thirty feet above us, and I knew it was the wings of the dove as it flew away or maybe from one tree to another.

Little Jim, who had my binoculars, swished them up to his eyes and looked, just as little red-haired Tom Till said, "If my daddy gets caught, he'll have to go to jail for a terribly long time, and we won't have any daddy, and it'll break my mother's -- "

He suddenly broke off what he was saying, got a tearful expression on his freckled face, and then because maybe he couldn't stand to have any of us see him cry, he turned like a flash and started running back toward camp as fast as he could go, kinda stumbling along though like he had a lot of tears in his eyes that were blinding him and he couldn't see where he was going.




4


Well, when you see one of your best friends running and stumbling along like that, and know there are tears in his eyes and that he has a great big heavy ache in his heart, you sort of get tears in your eyes yourself. All in a quick flash while his red hair was bobbing down that weed-grown path toward camp, I was remembering that the first time I'd ever seen him was when he and his bad big brother Bob belonged to a bunch of barbarian town boys that had come out in the country one afternoon and had been eating up all the strawberries that grew on Strawberry Hill. Our gang had happened onto them while they were doing it, and for some reason we'd gotten into a fierce fist fight. Tom's hard-knuckled fist had whammed me on the nose; and for a dozen fierce fist-flying minutes he and I had been enemies.

But a lot of things had happened after that. Tom and I had made up and he was now one of the best friends I had. The whole gang liked him a lot, and we didn't hold it against him that his big brother Bob was what people called a "juvenile delinquent," and his daddy was a beer- and whiskey-drinking infidel that acted like he hated God and the church and also was too lazy to work for a living.

So when I saw Tom go stumbling away like that, I got a big lump in my throat, and started off after him, not too fast though, 'cause I didn't think he wanted anybody to follow him.

When I got to camp, I heard Tom inside our director's tent moving around doing something I couldn't guess what. It seemed like I was sort of spying on him, and I hated to make him feel worse by looking at his tears, if he was still crying, so I slipped into the other tent and peeped through the nearly closed flaps, and then all of a sudden I saw Tom thrust open the flap of his tent real quick and dive out, and around it, and start on the run up the lake in the other direction, carrying his smallish oldish looking brown suitcase, and I wondered, "What on earth!"

I was so surprised for a minute that I couldn't even move, and it wasn't until after Tom disappeared on the path running as fast as he could with that suitcase flopping along beside him that I realized he was probably so ashamed he was going to try to run away and go back home.

I came to quick life, dived out of my tent, and started after him, yelling, "Hey! Tom! Wait for me. I want to tell you something."

I didn't know what I wanted to tell him, but if he would only wait till I got there I could probably think of something. I certainly didn't want him to go home.

Behind me I could hear the sound of Santa's motor on the lake, and -- well, I darted after Tom Till as fast as my excited legs could carry me.

I was a little longer legged than Tom, and caught up with him in only a short run and grabbed him, and said, "You're a swell guy, Tom. The whole gang likes you."

He dropped his suitcase, pulled loose, and darted around behind the big bole of a Norway pine tree, where he stopped. I could see part of him, and could tell by the way one of his elbows was moving that he was wiping tears out of his eyes, maybe with the back of his hand.

I tried to coax him to go back to camp with me, but he wouldn't. "Everybody hates me," he sobbed, but since he knew I really liked him, I having proved it to him at different times before, he slumped down in the grass and let himself sort of sob and talk at the same time, and also sniffle. He wasn't looking at me but straight ahead in the direction of a little cluster of bright yellow mustard flowers like the kind that grow along the edge of our garden back at Sugar Creek if you let them -- they being very pretty but are pests, and if you give them a chance they will spread in a few years all over a field or fence row.

Seeing those pretty mustard flowers and knowing that Tom was crying on account of his pop, and also on account of his mother, made me think of my own parents and how when I catch a cold, my brown-haired mom makes a mustard plaster and puts it on my chest.

"You're a swell guy," I said to Tom, and felt awful warm inside my heart toward him and wished he was my brother and that I could do something to make him happy.

Tom seemed to remember then that he had a handkerchief in his pocket. He pulled it out and blew his freckled nose and then he just sort of straightened up quick like he'd thought of something important. "Where IS the icehouse?" he asked me, and scrambled to his feet.

I wondered what he had on his mind, on account of his face looked like he'd made up his mind to do something terribly important which he was afraid to do but was going to do anyway. But he wouldn't tell me until I told him I wouldn't tell him where the icehouse was if he didn't tell me, and so he told me, and would you believe it? This is what he said. "I want to get there before the cops do and talk to him about something. I want to tell him something."

I looked at his tearful eyes and his sniffling nose and his freckled face and liked him even better than ever. I thought I ought to ask Big Jim what he thought, he having a lot of bright ideas about things like that.

Right away we found Big Jim who had just come back with Santa from phoning the police, and I was surprised when he said, "Nothing doing. It's up to the police now."

But Tom got a stubborn expression on his face and said, "I've GOT to talk to him. You've GOT to take me there, 'cause after the cops get him I won't have any chance."

We were standing down on the beach at the time. Tom's bare toes were digging themselves into the sand, and he was still sniffling a little and swallowing. "I want to ask him to give up when the police come for him," he said.

"You won't need to ask him that," Dragonfly who had come up just that second, said, "He'll have to give up."

"He might not," Tom said. "He might kill some of the police -- he might even kill himself -- if he's -- if he's been drinking. My daddy's pretty fierce when he's half drunk and mad at the same time."

I looked at Big Jim's face. He was looking down at the boat with the pretty black-shrouded outboard motor attached to the stern, and the muscles of his jaw were working like they do when he's thinking. Barry, our camp director, hadn't come back yet, he having had to be away all night, so Big Jim was still our boss.

"Is that your dad's motor?" Big Jim asked Tom Till, pointing toward it, and Tom said, "I don't know. He always wanted one like that, but I don't think he had enough -- (sniff -- sniff) -- money to buy one."

Just that second we heard a horn blowing out on the lake and knew it was the mail boat coming, which it was; and besides there being a letter for most of the rest of us, there was one in Little Tom Till's mother's handwriting which was addressed to him.

Tom held it in his hands, studying it, then he opened it and read it, while different ones of us read our own letters, only I kept watching him out of the corner of my eyes. Then I saw him quick shuffle over to Big Jim and shove the letter into his hand and say, "Read that!"

Big Jim, who had been reading a letter in a very smooth, pretty handwriting in green ink which I knew was from Sylvia, whose pop was our Sugar Creek minister and who Big Jim thought was extra nice on account of she was, tucked Sylvia's letter inside his shirt pocket and read Tom's mom's letter, and -- well, that was what decided us.

"All right, Gang," Big Jim said to us in a quick authoritative voice, when he'd finished Tom's letter. "Let's get going. We've got to get this letter to John Till before the police get there. Circus, you and Dragonfly run down to the boathouse and wait with Santa. That icehouse is on some new lake-front property he bought two weeks ago, and he'll show the police how to get there."

"I want to go with you," Dragonfly whined.

"You can come with the police, if they'll let you," Big Jim said. "They'll be here as quick as they can."

And so Big Jim, Little Tom Till, Little Jim and Poetry and I got into the big boat, and I let Big Jim run the motor on account of he was going to, anyway. First, we checked to see if we had enough gas, and also we tossed in enough life-preserver pillows for each of us, Little Jim putting on his lifesaver vest just to be still safer, and in a few jiffies we were off, Big Jim running the boat almost as well as I could, and I only had to tell him once what to do, but he had already done it.

I won't take time to tell you much about that fast ride, but we almost flew up the lake, and through the Narrows, swishing under the bridge and into the other lake in only what seemed like a few minutes.

Just after we'd swished under the bridge and out into that other lake the icehouse was on, Little Jim yelled, "Hey! There's a long black car just going across now. I'll bet that's the cops."

I couldn't hear the boards of the bridge or the car's motor, on account of our own motor was making so much noise. It felt good though to be working with the police, and it also felt good to feel that there was really a lot of big strong men in our country who were interested in doing what Pop calls "protecting society from wicked men" -- only with Little Tom there in the boat beside me, being such a swell little guy, it seemed too bad to think of his daddy as a real criminal, but he was anyway! Even while we raced up that other shore past the Indian cemetery and the whiskey bottle which I noticed was still there -- the one that had the printed gospel message in it -- I couldn't help but wonder if maybe nearly every criminal in the world had some relatives such as a brother or a sister or maybe a wife or a boy or girl in his family who felt like Little Tom was feeling right that minute, which was awfully saddish, and for some reason it seemed that maybe it was also a big crime to hurt people's hearts like Tom's was being hurt right that second.

I sort of let my mind fly away like a balloon in the sky for a minute, and was thinking, "What if John Till was my daddy, and I was on my way to an old icehouse where he was locked up, to give him a letter from my swell brown-haired mom, and what if in twenty minutes maybe, he would be arrested for being an accomplice in a kidnapping and might not only have to go to jail for life, but might even have to have what is called 'capital punishment' done to him -- which is being electrocuted or hung." My mind even imagined I could see my swell daddy hanging by his neck on a gallows like I'd seen pictures of, in a newspaper. Then I stopped thinking that, 'cause it was so ridiculous, on account of my pop was always reading the Bible and was kind to Mom and my baby sister, Charlotte Ann, and to everybody, and worked hard and went to church every Sunday; and anybody couldn't be that kind of a daddy and be a criminal at the same time.

Little Jim piped up with a question then that burst my balloon and brought me down to earth, and it was, "How'll we get the letter to your daddy? We don't dare open the door."

Poetry's bright mind thought of a way and it was, "We'll make a ladder out of ourselves and push Tom up, so he can poke the letter through the crack between the logs," which was a good idea.

A little later, we rounded a bend in the lake and Big Jim steered straight toward the beach in front of the old log icehouse, where we'd left John Till only a little less than an hour before. My heart was pounding fast and hard. I was feeling tense inside on account of Tom, wondering what was in the letter and also what Tom wanted to tell his pop.

Big Jim shut off the motor at just the right speed, and we glided up to the shore. After beaching the boat, and tossing the anchor onto the shore, we scrambled out, and right away were sneaking up close to the icehouse.

We moved quietly so we wouldn't be heard, although John Till could have heard our motor when we were coming in, I supposed.

"Sh!" Big Jim said to us, he and Tom leading the way as we crept up closer. I didn't know what would happen next, but in a jiffy I found out, 'cause Big Jim stopped the rest of us and sent Tom on toward the icehouse alone. I peered through the leaves of some wild chokecherry shrubs we were crouching behind. Then I heard Tom's pathetic voice that had a kind of a quaver in it like he was scared, calling out, "DADDY."

We listened to see if there was any answer, but couldn't hear any, then Tom's voice called again, a little louder, real close to the side of the old log house. I had both hands up to my ears, but there wasn't a sound, except right that second I heard a very pretty wren's song that sounded half like a fast mixed-up whistling tune and half like the spring water that trickles out of the rocks not far from the old swimming hole back at Sugar Creek.

Then Tom called still louder, "DADDY! It's ME -- TOM! I've got a letter for you from Mother!"

But say, that icehouse was as quiet as if it had been an extra large gravehouse in an Indian cemetery.

Tom turned around then and looked in our direction with a question mark on his face.

All of us came out into the open and went toward him, not knowing what to think. In a little while the police would be here, and it'd be too late for Tom to tell his daddy what he wanted to tell him or to give him the letter or anything. Right that very second, I heard a fast motor coming on the lake somewhere and wondered if it might be Santa's big boat, bringing the police and Circus and Dragonfly.

Poetry, who had been with me the night before in the middle of the night, when we'd seen John Till wide awake, taking a string of fish down to the lake from his cottage, whispered to us and said, "Maybe he was so tired he went to sleep. Let's all go up and surround the icehouse and yell him awake," which we decided might be a good idea, and right away, we hurried toward where Tom Till was. Poetry and I hurried around to the side where the door was and -- 

Well, you could knocked me over with a puff of wind. There in front of my astonished eyes was that old great big icehouse door, wide open, on its rusty hinges. Our prisoner had escaped!




5


Well, that was that and a terribly disappointing that at that. Poetry and I stood staring at that open icehouse door, wondering what on earth -- and who had opened it and let John Till out and where had he gone, and also was he hiding somewhere close by and might spring out from behind something any minute and knock the living daylights out of one of us?

Big Jim and the rest of the gang came running around right away to where we were, and as soon as we found that our prisoner was really gone, we looked at each other with sad and disappointed eyes.

I looked at Tom who had his mom's letter in his hands, and noticed it was kinda crinkled, like letters get when you squish them up tight in your hands.

"What'll we do?" different ones of us asked the rest of us, and waited for Big Jim to decide what. He looked at Tom, who looked sad and surprised and disappointed, and for a second it seemed like he didn't belong to our gang at all but was a strange boy -- like a little lost duckling that gets hatched out with a nestful of fluffy little chickens in our chicken yard and follows the mother hen around with the chickens but doesn't do what they do or look like they look.

"We've got to find my daddy!" Tom said, and stooped down and picked a small white five-petalled flower which I noticed was growing beside the icehouse on a little plant about five or six inches high. The flower plant had shining green three-parted leaves with little notches in them. Little Jim saw him pick it and stooped down quick and picked one himself, and said, "'Tsa goldthread flower. Goody!" -- which goes to show that even in an exciting time that little guy can be interested in something else. I remembered that he had a flower guide book, and besides having a hobby of putting a gospel message in whiskey bottles, he was also trying, while we were on our vacation, to find as many wild flowers as he could, and write their names in a notebook to show to our teacher that fall when school started at Sugar Creek.

Tom seemed to be thinking. He didn't answer Big Jim at all, but looked down at his goldthread and at the crinkled up letter in his hand, and then began to try to push the goldthread stem through the button in his shirt beside the oxeye daisy that was still there.

I won't have room right at this part of the story to tell you what happened when the police came, which they did pretty quick, except to say that as soon as they believed that we hadn't let John Till out ourselves, they dug around in the icehouse and found a lot of other fish with part of the ransom money in them -- enough, when they added up what we had locked up in Santa's boathouse, to make over $20,000.

But where was the rest of the money? Nobody knew, and nobody knew where John Till had disappeared to. He wasn't in the old cabin which we found out he'd rented from Santa, and was the same cabin we'd seen him in once, and which you know about if you've read the story, "The Sugar Creek Gang Digs for Treasure." Both the cabin and the icehouse belonged to Santa who had bought them from a real-estate man only a few weeks ago.

It was awful hard on Tom to know that even though his daddy was free, the police were still after him, and nobody knew when he'd be caught, or whether he'd try to resist arrest and be shot and maybe killed.

Another thing that made it hard for Tom was the letter from his mother which he let me see, and when I read it I couldn't blame Tom for feeling sad. Part of it said, "I think maybe your father is up in the North Woods somewhere where you boys are camping, Tom. I don't know for sure, but we got a notice from the bank that the interest on our loan is past due, and it has to be paid. If he stops in to visit you, please give him this letter. As you know, I gave him the egg money I'd saved up all winter and summer, and he was going to take it to the bank just before he left. I'm sure he went fishing, because his tackle is gone. But don't worry Tommy boy, we'll make out somehow. The Lord is on our side. You just keep on having good boyish fun and learning all you can in the evening campfire Bible lessons. You and I will keep on praying for your daddy and your brother Bob, that some day they'll both be saved. Our minister called this morning, and he's praying too. And he says God can do things nobody thinks He can...."

There was more in the letter such as that Tom's white rabbit had carrots for breakfast and seemed quite content but was probably lonesome for Tom, and the new potatoes in the garden would make awful good raw-fried potatoes for supper when Tom came home.... It really was a swell letter, the same kind I get from my mom, with scribbling all around the edges, of stuff for a boy to remember not to do and why, and not to catch cold, and be careful not to fall out of the boats -- things like that which always worry a mother, who can't help it on account of she is a mother.

We kept on the lookout for John Till every minute of that day and the next when we took a trip to the headwaters of the Mississippi. Little Jim took notes on that trip so he could show them to our teacher that fall when we got back to Sugar Creek, and one of his notes was:

"The Mississippi river is 2406 miles long from the place where it starts at Itasca Lake, Minnesota, to where it stops at the Gulf of Mexico."

We started out early in the morning in our station wagon to Itasca State Park, where there was a great big blue-watered lake that is 8 miles in circumference, and there, in a pretty shady park, we parked and all of us scrambled out and swished along following each other in a little winding path till we came to the lake, where there was a small stream of water about twelve feet across and about a foot or less deep flowing out of it, making a very pretty noise which sounded like it was half a sigh and the other half a ripple. The sound was also mixed up with the voices of different birds which were singing all around and above us in the bushes and trees.

We all were quiet for awhile, not seeing what we had expected to see when we saw the source of the Mississippi, but it was very interesting anyway.

Little Jim got a mischievous twinkle in his eyes, and then he quick stooped down and in a jiffy had both his shoes and socks off and I knew he was going to wade across, it being shallow and narrow anyway. Right away we all had our shoes and socks off and every single one of us waded clear across the Mississippi river.

"Here we are," I said to us, as most of us stopped out in the middle of the Mississippi river and gathered ourselves into a half-circle with our faces looking toward one of the shores where our camp director had a camera waiting to take our picture.

Standing there, squinting my eyes in the direction of the camera and also in the direction of the sun, I happened to remember a brand new Paul Bunyan story which Poetry had made up once and which you maybe know about if you've read "The Sugar Creek Gang Goes North," and it was, that Old Babe, which is Paul Bunyan's blue Ox, was swimming in the headwaters of the Mississippi river and the blue began to come off in the water, and to make the water blue; and because the Mississippi flows through a lot of the lakes in Minnesota, pretty soon all the lakes became what is called "blue-watered lakes."

Of course it was only a legend -- Paul Bunyan, as you know, being a legendary lumberman who was extra large; and Babe, the blue Ox, being his best friend and went everywhere he went, just like a boy's dog follows a boy around.

Anyway, while we were having our picture taken, I remembered the story Poetry'd told about how the lakes got their blue water, so I looked down quick at Poetry's large feet and at all the seventy different-shaped and different-lengthed toes on the fourteen feet of all seven of us, and tried to think of something funny to say which I did, but which wasn't very, and this is what it was -- "If all the fish in the lakes up here get terribly sick and die before long, it'll be because the barrel-shaped boy in our gang didn't wash his feet before he waded across the Mississippi river."

And that's how it happened that I wished I had brought along a change of clothes, on account of for some reason what I said made Poetry peeved. He quick shoved his shoulder against me, and because I was standing in fast-flowing water half way up to my knees anyway, when I stepped sideways to try to get my balance I stepped on a slippery rock in the river bed, lost my whole balance and the next thing I knew I was sitting down on the bottom of the Mississippi river, the water coming clear up to my stomach.

Right away Barry pointed his camera in our direction and took another picture.

That reminded Poetry of a riddle which he quick asked and was: "Say, gang, what is it that stays in bed all day, spends all its time at the bank and never stops running?"

"A river," Dragonfly said and sneezed twice on account of he is not only allergic to different pollens but to sudden changes of temperature -- the water in that little narrow babbling stream being almost cold.

Well, that was all that happened on that trip, except one thing, and it was that one thing that helped make our next adventure, which was a fishing trip for walleyes, extraordinarily interesting and exciting.

Not having brought along any extra clothes, I had to walk in my wet trousers back to our station wagon, which wasn't any too much fun for me. There they made me undress and lie down where I wouldn't be seen while some of the gang wrung the water out of my trousers and also out of the tail of my shirt. I would have to wait till they dried enough for me to put them on, which meant I had to let the rest of the gang visit a very special curio shop without me, while my clothes were hanging on a limb in the sun. Poetry who was my almost best friend was already sorry I was all wet, and we made up as soon as I found out he was going to stay with me to keep me company.

I gave Little Jim some money out of my bill-fold and told him to pick out something he especially thought my little sister, Charlotte Ann, would like, on account of in a few days we were all going to break camp and drive back to Sugar Creek, and I wanted to take home a few things made by the Indians.

Poetry and I being alone awhile, with me lying under a blanket on the back seat of the station wagon, we talked over all the wonderful experiences of our vacation, and decided it had been the best camping trip we'd had in our lives.

"Only one thing would make it the best we ever could have," he said, and when I said, "What?" he didn't answer for a minute. He was sitting in the open door not far from me and I was lying on my back, wishing the hot sun and the breeze would hurry up and get my clothes a little drier so I could put them on. He had his back to me and I couldn't see his fat face, but his squawky voice had a sort of a far away sound in it like he was thinking of something extra serious.

When he still didn't answer me, I asked him again and he said quietly, "I feel sorry for Tom." Then his voice sort of choked and I guessed that he liked that little red-haired guy just as well as I did. Right that second if anybody had asked me anything, I wouldn't have answered either, 'cause I felt my eyes stinging, and there would have been a tear in my voice, and boys don't like to have anybody see tears in their eyes or hear them in their voices.

Pretty soon though, Poetry spoke again with his back still toward me, "Did you ever read this verse in the Bible?"

If I hadn't been already down, you could have knocked me over with a fish scale when I realized what he was doing. Say, he had taken his little leather New Testament out of his shirt pocket and, looking through it, had found a verse he thought was extra good.

As you maybe know, an official part of the equipment of anybody who belongs to the Sugar Creek Gang, is a small pocket New Testament. We carry one with us nearly all the time, and not only every one of us reads it every day but we aren't ashamed to let anybody know we do it either; but on account of being boys and feeling like nearly all boys do, we didn't talk about the Bible very much except in camp-fire meetings or at Sunday school, and only once in a while when two or three of us were together -- Little Jim and I doing maybe more of it than any of the rest of us, on account of he -- well, he had a keen little mind and thought more about it, I guess, and was always getting such good ideas. Also Little Jim was glad he was alive, which not a boy in the world would be if God hadn't made him, and also if God didn't keep him alive. And there isn't a boy in the world that's dumb enough to want to be dead, which is why a boy ought to be glad to love God and to be kind to Him, which Little Jim always was.

Anyway, when Poetry asked me if I had ever read "this verse," I said, "What verse?" and he read it to me, with his back still turned. It was out of the book of Matthew, chapter 18, and was the nineteenth verse, and said, "If two of you shall agree on earth as touching any thing that they shall ask, it shall be done for them of my Father which is in heaven."

It made me feel good inside to even think about the Bible, especially since I knew both of us believed what we were talking about. I just lay there, looking through the station wagon window up at the pretty branches of a pine tree that grew not very far away. I was also listening to the gurgling of the water close by and felt something kinda warm in my heart, like Poetry and God and I had a secret of some kind. When we finished telling each other what we thought the verse meant, we had made up our minds that we were going to stick together until Little Tom's daddy was saved.

"Let's shake on it," Poetry said, and swung around, and shoved his fat hand in my direction. I grabbed it quick, and said, "Shake."

"Shake," he said again, then we let go, and I felt wonderful inside.

I noticed the branches of the pine tree above me were swaying in the wind, and I knew my clothes were drying pretty fast -- I hoped.

A little later we heard the gang coming. I knew it was the gang because it sounded like a flock of blackbirds gathering in the woods in a Sugar Creek autumn getting ready for migrating to a warmer country; it also sounded like a flock of crows with a few scolding blue jays mixed in with them and maybe a harsh-voiced shrieking kingfisher joining in -- Dragonfly being the rattling-voiced kingfisher, and Circus, the scolding blue jay.

My clothes were dry enough for me to put them on, if while we drove along, I'd sit on the leather seat of the station wagon, which I did, and away we went, back to camp and to the next day's fishing trip.

"Look what I got for Charlotte Ann," Little Jim said to me, and shoved over to me a couple of small rubber balloons. "They cost only ten cents apiece," he said proudly, and handed me my change.

I was a little disappointed, but didn't want to say so, 'cause Little Jim had such a happy grin on his face to think he had saved me money, and also being sure Charlotte Ann would be tickled to see the balloons blown up nice and big, which most babies do, and reach out their hands for them the very minute they see them.

I tucked the two balloons in my shirt pocket beside my New Testament and buttoned the flap, and forgot about them, until the next day when we were on a very special fishing trip for walleyed pike.

Boy oh boy, it was going to be a wonderful trip, I thought, and we were going to fish, not for small fish like blue gills and crappies, which people call "pan" fish, but for big walleyes, to pack and ship home to our folks at Sugar Creek. Also, we were going to keep our eyes open every second to see if we could find any trace of John Till.




6


I was certainly glad our little Indian friend, Snow-in-the-face, was well enough to be our guide on our fishing trip for walleyed pike. As you maybe know, he'd been very sick but almost right away after our gang had called to see him, which we did the very next day after we had come up north, he had started to get better, and now, today, he was coming to our camp to visit us and to guide us to the best fishing waters for walleyed pike, so we could all catch our "limit," which is eight walleyes apiece. Multiplying eight fish by seven boys, which any teacher will tell you you can't do, we'd have fifty-six fish to pack in ice and ship back to Sugar Creek for our parents to see and to help us eat. Boy oh boy, it was going to be fun!

About three o'clock that afternoon, after the gang had all had our rest hour, little Snow-in-the-face and his big Indian brother, Eagle Eye, came putt-putting in a canoe, straight to our shore.

There was a lot of excitement around camp for a while, while all of us finished getting our equipment ready. Our two big fishing boats were equipped with life-preserver pillows, which everybody oughtn't to go on a fishing trip without.

It had been a terribly hot day and the sun up in the sky, as our boats plowed their wet way out across the waves toward an island, poured its yellowish heat down on us something fierce. It also reflected back up into our faces from the water and made me glad I had on a pair of dark glasses to protect my eyes from the extra bright light.

Snow-in-the-face was in the boat I was in, along with Little Jim, Poetry and Dragonfly, and we were following the other boat which had Eagle Eye and Big Jim and Circus and Little Tom Till. Barry had stayed home to write letters and to look after camp.

In a little while our boats neared the pretty pine and spruce-covered island, circled around it to the other side where we anchored in a little cove, not more than thirty yards from each other, in some quiet water.

That swell little reddish-brown-faced Indian boy with his bright black eyes and straight black hair didn't even use a pole, but had a big heavy line which he dropped down over the side of our boat. I was sitting beside him in the middle seat, with Poetry sitting in the stern close to the outboard motor. Dragonfly was in the prow, and Little Jim in front of me in a seat by himself, with his life vest on, which meant he was even safer than the rest of us, on account of if we had our boat upset or fell out, he would be ready to float to shore without having to hold onto a pillow.

In only a few jiffies we all had our hooks baited with live chubs and were waiting for somebody -- either in our boat or in the other one -- to catch the first fish. The very second one of us would get a walleye, we'd know we'd found a school of them, and in a little while we'd all get bites and catch fish at the same time, on account of walleyes stick together like a gang of boys.

"Eagle Eye found this place last year," Snow-in-the-face said. "Fish bite here when they don't any place else on the lake."

But say, after we all had sat there and waited and waited and pulled our lines in and out of the water for an hour and not a one of us had caught a single fish, or even had a nibble, it looked as if having a good guide wasn't any good.

Snow-in-the-face had a pucker on his brown forehead and looked worried.

"Ho hum," I thought, and shifted myself to another uncomfortable position on the hot boat seat I was on -- any position being uncomfortable when the fish don't bite, and the deer flies are swarming around your legs and hands and biting fiercely just like you wish the fish would.

Pretty soon, I looked over at the pretty pine-covered island and wished I could go over there and sit down in the shade for awhile. I was also remembering that that was the very island I'd wanted to explore when I'd first gotten the idea of playing Robinson Crusoe and Treasure Island, and which had got us tangled up in the mystery of the buried treasure, most of which we'd finally found. The rest of it Old John Till probably had somewhere, wherever he was, which nobody knew.

"I'm terribly hot," I said to the rest of us in our boat. "Let's go over to that island and lie down in the shade awhile." The rest of us thought it was a good idea, and so we pulled in our lazy lines and also pulled anchor and rowed over, and in a little while, Poetry and I were strolling along following the shore around to the side where we could look across and see our camp away out across the lake. It was one of the prettiest islands I'd ever seen, and had great big Norway pines and spruce and Tamarack and also ferns and all kinds of wild flowers such as red-flowered wild columbine and white goldthread and, in a boggy place, some pitcher plants, which had queer-looking green leaves that looked like one of the green pitchers Mom has on our sideboard at home -- also the leaves looked like the lips of a French horn that one of the men at Sugar Creek plays in the band on Saturday night....

We'd left Snow-in-the-face and Little Jim and Dragonfly back at the shore in the boat, 'cause Snow-in-the-face had acted like he didn't want to come with us, and Dragonfly had been so lazy and also afraid of smelling wild flowers and having to sneeze a lot -- that being one of the reasons he'd come on this vacation with us, so he could get away from Sugar Creek flowers and timothy hay and ragweed and everything else which would make him sneeze.

"You know what?" Poetry said to me all of a sudden, and when I said, "No, what?" he said, "This would be a good island for John Till to hide on. Maybe when he got out of the icehouse, he came over here."

"But how could he get here? We had his boat."

"He might swim," Poetry said, but it wasn't a good idea because it was pretty far from any other shore over here, so I said, "Of course, he could rent a boat from almost any resort up here," -- which he could.

We were standing right that minute close to a sandy beach and the waves were washing up in a very lazy friendly way, when all of a sudden, Poetry said, "Hey, look, somebody's been here. Somebody's had a boat beached here on the sand," which he had, but it was gone now.

"Boy oh boy!" I said, all of a sudden getting excited, "and here're shoe tracks, going back into the island somewhere."

We decided to follow the tracks, which we did, but didn't find anything interesting. There might be a broken twig trail, though, like the one we'd followed before, and which you know about, maybe, but we couldn't find a thing, so we gave up and went back to Dragonfly and Snow-in-the-face and Little Jim.

"Where you guys been?" Dragonfly wanted to know, and I said, "Oh, looking for buried treasure."

Little Snow-in-the-face got a queer far-away expression on his face, squinted his eyes and said, "Sometimes we see lights out here at night."

And then it was Dragonfly's turn to get a queer far-away expression on his face, which made it seem like he wished he was as far away as his thoughts were, he, as you know, believing in ghosts.

Well, we decided to try fishing some more like the rest of the guys in the other boat were, but who still hadn't caught anything. We rowed out to another place and baited our hooks and tried again.

Another hour passed during which we pulled anchor and tried a half dozen different locations and still not a one of us caught a single fish and we were terribly discouraged.

"You can have one if you want one," Little Jim said.

"How?" I said, and he said, "One of those balloons I bought for you yesterday is a rubber fish. You can blow it up -- maybe it's a walleye."

Well, I still had those two rubber balloons in my shirt pocket, so because I was terribly bored and didn't know what else to do, I pulled out the one that looked like it would be shaped like a fish when it was blown up, and, like the old wolf that ate up the little pigs, I huffed and I puffed and I blew the balloon up into a nice great big long fish that looked like a walleyed pike. For awhile I had something to keep my mind off being bored, on account of if there is anything that is harder to do than anything else, it is to sit on the seat of a boat on a hot day when the fish won't bite.

"If we get one, we'll get twenty," Poetry said. "Walleyes go in schools, you know."

"Yeah," Little Jim piped up and said, "but fish maybe don't have school in August," which reminded me that right after August came September, and generally in the first week of September, the Sugar Creek School started and -- 

I let out a fierce long sigh when I thought of that, not because I didn't need an education but I hated to have to sit down to get one, which is what you have to do in school most of the time -- and the boat seat was getting harder and harder every minute.

The yellowish rubber fish I'd just blown up looked cute though, and was as fat as a butterball. For a jiffy I let it float on the water clear out to the end of the fishing line I had it tied on. "Here, Poetry," I said to the fish, "get out there and float. You're so fat you can't sink," which made the real Poetry in the boat with us pretend to be peeved, and he said to me, "Oh, you go jump in the lake!"

And then -- all of an excited sudden -- Poetry got a big strike. He waited until he was sure it was time to set the hook, which he did at exactly the right time and in a jiffy he landed a very excited walleye; only it wasn't much bigger than a big yellow perch -- hardly big enough to keep.

"O.K., Bill -- hand me the stringer," he ordered me, panting with happiness. Talk about a proud grin on a boy's face -- Poetry really had one.

"What stringer?" I said, and looked all around on the bottom of the boat for one. And -- would you believe it? -- not a one of us had brought along a fish stringer! The other boat was too far away for them to throw one into our boat, so Poetry just sat there with his fish in his fat hand, wondering what to do with it.

"It's too little to keep," Little Jim said. "Let him go back to his mama."

"I wish I knew where his mama is hiding," Dragonfly said, "I'd like to catch her."

"Let him go and he'll find his mama," Snow-in-the-face said, and had the cutest grin on his smallish face, and that tickled me all over 'cause I could see he was as mischievous as any white-faced boy.

"It's probably a little lost child-fish," Little Jim said. "We aren't going to catch any more anyway. Let's let him go home to his parents."

Well, as you know, I had the end of my fish balloon tied air-tight shut, with a piece of old fishing line I'd had in my pocket, and it was still in the water on the opposite side of the boat. It was really cute, that little yellowish rubber fish bobbing along out there on the surface of the water.

And then Poetry yelled across to the other boat, saying, "HEY, YOU GUYS, OVER THERE! WE GOT A FISH BUT DON'T HAVE ANY STRINGER TO PUT HIM ON. WHAT'LL WE DO WITH HIM?"

Circus, being mischievous and having lots of bright ideas anyway, yelled back to us, "IF YOU'LL PUT HIM BACK IN THE WATER AND TELL HIM TO SWIM OVER HERE, WE'LL PUT HIM ON OUR STRINGER!"

And that was what gave Poetry another idea which wasn't so dumb and which turned our discouraged fishing trip into a real one that was wonderful. Poetry yelled back to Circus, "SWELL IDEA, WE'LL SEND HIM OVER, RIGHT AWAY!" Then he got a command in his voice and said to me, "Here, Bill, give me that line," and reached out and took it before I could make up my mind not to let him have it.

"What on earth crazy thing you going to do?" Dragonfly asked, when Poetry held the fish between his knees a minute while with his two fat hands he made a double slip-knot around the walleye's tail; and then almost before anybody could have stopped him if he had wanted to, Poetry released that frisky little walleye into the water sort of like my mother does when she carefully holds an old setting hen and eases her into a coop where there is a nestful of eggs for her to sit on. Poetry said to the fish, as he let go, "Here, Wally, my friend, you go swimming straight for the other boat away over there!"

Boy, that fish certainly had lots of pep. Being out of the water for that smallish jiffy hadn't hurt him a bit, although if you are going to let a fish go free after catching him, you are supposed to be very careful to handle him with wet hands, and release him under the water rather than throw him back, and he'll be more likely to live.

Say, that frisky little walleye made a fierce fast dive straight down into the water, and in a few fast seconds, the yellowish rubber balloon was bobbing up and down like it was a boy's bobber on a fishing line.... And -- would you believe it? -- it started to move right in the direction of that other boat -- kinda slow though, but actually toward it.

Poetry sighed proudly, leaned back, stuck his thumbs in his arm pits and said, "See there, fish understand my language," which made Dragonfly say, "That's 'cause you talk like a fish," which, for Dragonfly, was almost a bright remark.

I could see, though, that the balloon fish was changing its course. It began working its way a little toward the left and out toward deeper water and farther from shore. We all watched it, having fun, and Poetry kept yelling to it to "Turn to the right!" and to "Hurry up!" but pretty soon when it was maybe fifty yards from us it stopped going in one direction and began to move slowly around in a small circle.

"I'll bet he's caught on a snag," Little Snow-in-the-face said in his cute Indian voice, and it seemed like he might be right, because, even though the balloon bobbed around a little, it didn't move any farther away, but just seemed to stay more or less in the same place.

Well, we fished on, all of us hoping for another fish, but not a one of us caught one, so pretty soon we got discouraged again and pulled up anchor. Then Poetry said, "Whyn't we go get him and go home, and everybody go swimming?" which sounded like a good idea. It'd be a lot more fun to do that than to sit on a hard boat seat watching a rubber balloon bobbing on the surface of a lake that didn't have any hungry fish in it.

"Let's troll over," Snow-in-the-face said. "Sometimes when you can't catch fish any other way, they'll bite when you do that."

Dragonfly said it was a good idea too, 'cause there might be a "lost, strayed or stolen" fish all by itself between here and that balloon, so we all left our lines in the water while Snow-in-the-face and Little Jim took the oars and rowed us kinda splashily out toward that nice yellowish balloon which I was going to get and take home to Charlotte Ann.

In a little while we were almost there, and I was getting ready to reach out my hand and get the balloon when quick as a flash I saw Little Jim's line go taut, and his pole bend down clear to the water, while he dropped his oar and quick grabbed his pole and yelled excitedly, "Hey, I've got a fish!" Just as Dragonfly's line did the same thing, and then WHAM! -- my own line went tight and the next thing we knew most of us in our boat found ourselves in the middle of one of the most exciting fishing experiences of our whole lives. We yelled and pulled, and our lines went singing out as our reels unwound; and almost at the same time, Dragonfly and Little Jim and Poetry and I all landed a walleye apiece, and laid them, flopping and splashing water in every direction, in the bottom of the boat.

"WE'VE STRUCK A SCHOOL!" Poetry cried. "MY FISH TOOK US RIGHT TO THEM! HE KNEW EXACTLY WHERE THEY WERE!"




7


Well you aren't supposed to yell like a lot of wild Indians on a warpath when you start catching a lot of fish, on account of you might scare the fish away; so almost right away we all shushed each other, and only made a noise when we caught a fish, which was just about as fast as we could bait our hooks and get our lines into the water again.

We quick anchored right close to where the balloon was, and the other boatful of the rest of the gang came rowing over as quietly as they could, and anchored close by.

Talk about excitement. We'd never had so much fishing fun in our whole lives as we were having right that minute. And then, just like Sugar Creek school getting out and the kids tumbling out the door and all going away from the red brick schoolhouse, our school of walleyes moved on and we stopped getting bites. I knew something was going to happen the minute I saw the yellowish balloon start moving fast out toward deeper water.

"Hey, look!" Dragonfly, who saw it first, said. "Wally acts like he's scared. Look at him go!"

We looked, and sure enough the balloon was bobbing up and down, and even diving clear under. Then it plunked clear under for a long jiffy before bouncing back up and shooting almost a foot into the air, then landed with a kersmack on the water again.

Nobody had had any bites for awhile before that, but we had enough fish for one day, and so Big Jim said, "Let's go back to camp and get supper," which was a good idea. We would come back tomorrow.

"What'll we do with Wally?" Poetry said.

"He's been a swell friend," Dragonfly said. "He ought to have some kind of appreciation."

Then Little Jim piped up good and loud and said, "Let's give him his liberty!"

Well, we had enough larger fish, and Wally really deserved some kind of a reward for helping us catch so many fish to take home to Sugar Creek, so we pulled anchor and rowed out toward where Wally was making the balloon fish bob around in such a lively style. As soon as the boat had eased along side, I, who was closest to it, reached down my hand, caught hold of the balloon, and started to haul Wally in toward the boat, but right away my line went tight like it was fastened onto a log or snag down on the bottom of the lake. I gave a tug, but not too hard 'cause I didn't want the line to scale off any scales from Wally's tail, it being as hard on a fish to lose some of its scales as on a barefoot boy to stump his toe and knock the skin off.

"He's tangled up on something," I said, and gave another small pull and then -- WHAM! There was a fierce wild lunge down there somewhere, and I felt a scared feeling racing up and down my spine. I knew Wally didn't have that much strength. Say, it felt as big as an excited pig running in our barnyard back at Sugar Creek -- or a dog or something.

I had hold of the line as well as the balloon, and the line was cutting into my hands. I couldn't think straight, but didn't dare let loose.

Snow-in-the-face, for the very first time, got excited and yelled something to Eagle Eye in the Indian language, and then to us in English, which was, "SOME GREAT BIG FISH HAS SWALLOWED HIM...." -- which made sense.

I held on, in spite of the line's hurting my hand a little, and then, out there about ten feet, something with a big long ugly snout and with fierce eyes shot up through the waves and almost two feet in the air, and dive-splashed back in again.

There was a fierce, mad boiling of the surface like a bomb had exploded down there in the water somewhere. I was trembling inside like any fisherman trembles when a fierce fast-fighting fish gets away after it's been hooked -- only this one hadn't been hooked with a real hook. He had probably come swimming along down there under the water, looking for an early supper, like a robin hops around in our lawn at Sugar Creek looking for night crawlers, and, seeing Wally swimming lazily around, had decided to eat him, which is what some big fish do to little other fish when they're hungry.

He had probably slowly nosed his fierce ugly long snout up to Wally, and then all of a sudden made a savage rush at him with his mouth open, and had swallowed him whole, and started to swim away with him. That had scared all the other fish, which was why we'd all stopped getting bites at the same time.

Anyway, right after that fierce old fighting fish lunged up out of the water and down in again, he made a dive straight for our boat, shot under it, and pulled so hard that I had to hold on for dear life. If I'd had a long line on a fishing rod with a reel on it, I could have let the reel spin, and like fishermen do when they have a wild walleye or an enormous northern pike on their lines, I could have "played" him until he was tired out, then hauled him in, but with my line only a dozen or more feet long, I was pretty sure I didn't have a chance in the world to land him, -- and the next thing I knew I found out I was right. In a second it seemed, after he dived under our boat, I felt my line go sickeningly slack, and I knew I'd lost him. I couldn't tell though whether he'd broken my line, or whether he'd swallowed backwards and Wally was free again.

While the gang was groaning with disappointment, 'cause they'd seen what had happened, and while I was pulling in the lifeless line to see what was on the other end, I had a sickish feeling in the pit of my stomach like a fisherman gets when he loses a big fish.

In another jiffy I was holding up the end of the line for us to look at. Dragonfly, seeing it, said, "Poetry's slip-knot slipped."

We would have been a terribly sad gang if we hadn't already caught a lot of middle-sized walleyes.

Circus called to us from the other boat and said, "We could have put a lot of kidnapper's ransom money in a fish that big, if we'd caught him."

"There wouldn't have been much room left with Wally already inside of him," Poetry said.

For some reason I was looking at Little Jim when Poetry said that and I noticed a sad expression come on his smallish mouse-like face, and I thought it looked like he had a couple of tears in his eyes.

It had been a wonderful fishing trip and we couldn't afford to cry over a lost northern pike, which is what we all decided the big fish was. So after the other boat had pulled anchor, we started our motors, steered around the island and toward camp, with our caught fish lying in the bottom of the boat.

Little Jim was sitting in the seat in front of me, facing me as we roared along with Poetry running the motor. Different ones of us were talking and yelling to each other about all the different things that had happened, -- all except Little Jim who, I noticed, was extra quiet and his eyes still had that saddish look in them.

Pretty soon I leaned over and half whispered to him, "'Smatter?" and he swallowed, then said, "Nothing."

"There is too," I said, just as he turned his head, gave it a quick shake, and when he looked back in my direction the tears that'd been in his eyes a second before, were gone, which is the way Little Jim gets tears out of his eyes -- he just turns his head away, jerks it real quick, and that shakes the tears out.

Dragonfly, who knew Little Jim had that cute little way of getting tears out without using a handkerchief, so nobody would know he had had tears in the first place, saw Little Jim do that and said to him from behind me, "Don't you know tears are salty? Fresh water fish that live in lakes don't like salt water."

"That's not funny," I said to Dragonfly over my shoulder, and was mad at him for not having more respect for Little Jim's hurt heart. I knew Little Jim's heart was hurt, when he said to me, "That wasn't much of a reward for Wally, after all he did for us."

Then just like it sometimes happens to my mother back at Sugar Creek, when she says something that has a sad thought mixed up with it, Little Jim's eyes got a couple of new tears in them, which he quickly shook out into the lake, and then he said, as he reached his smallish cute hands toward me, "Let me hold the balloon fish a while."

I pushed the yellowish rubber balloon toward him, and the way he took it, made me think of the way my little two-year-old baby sister, Charlotte Ann, would reach out her chubby little hands for it when I got home and showed it to her.

For a minute, while our two boats plowed along through the water, which, with the sunlight shining on the moving waves, looked like a great big lakeful of live silver, my thoughts took a hop, skip and a jump out across the lake to the shore, leaped over the Chippewa forest, and high up over a lot of other lakes, like I was Paul Bunyan himself; and all of a sudden I landed right inside our kitchen at Sugar Creek, where I knew I'd be in just a few days. In my mind's eye, I saw Mom standing by our kitchen stove near the east window which has a green ivy vine trailing across the top of the outside of it. I could smell the smell of raw-fried potatoes frying, and see the steam puffing up from the hooked spout of our kinda oldish teakettle. If, when I came in, I accidently carried in a little mud on my shoes or bare feet, Mom would say like she nearly always does, "Would you like to get the broom, Bill, and sweep out that mud which, a little while ago, came walking in on two feet?" I would know whose two feet she meant, and grin, and right away I'd step to the place where we kept our broom, which is behind the east kitchen door which also has our roller towel rack on it, and I wouldn't any more than get started with the dust pan and broom when Mom would say, "Be careful not to sweep hard, or we'll have dust in our fried potatoes."

While I was doing that, all of a sudden, I'd get tangled up and, turning around, I'd see my swell little sister Charlotte Ann, with her tiny toy broom, sweeping it around awkwardly like girls do when they're just learning how to sweep, which is what Charlotte Ann does at our house. Now that she's learned to walk, she tries to do everything any of the rest of us do. She follows Mom around sweeping when Mom does, washing her hands when Mom does, and when my grayish-brown-haired mom or my reddish-brown-mustached pop sits down to read a book or a magazine she actually gets a book or a magazine and tries to read, nearly always getting the magazine upside down when she does it. In fact, she wants to do everything we do while we are doing it, and sometimes when Mom is getting supper and Charlotte Ann can't see high enough to see what Mom is doing, she gets cross and whines and fusses and pulls at Mom's dress or apron and makes a nuisance out of herself, only she doesn't know she's a nuisance but maybe thinks Mom is making a nuisance of herself, instead, for not letting her help get supper.

Yes sir, I was getting homesick for my folks, and could hardly wait till I got home next week to tell all the exciting adventures we'd had. Also, it'd be fun to watch the mail every day to see if maybe Little Jim would get any letters from anybody who would find his gospel messages which he'd been tossing out into the lake in whiskey bottles.

Thinking that, I remembered John Till and wondered where he was and what he was doing, and all of a sudden I remembered what Poetry and I had been thinking and talking about in the station wagon when we'd been at the source of the Mississippi river, and he had found a Bible verse which said if any two of the Lord's disciples were agreed about something they wanted to pray for, they could pray for it, and the heavenly Father would do it.

Thinking that, I turned around to Poetry who, as you know, was running the motor, and looked at him, and he looked at me. I pointed to my shirt pocket, which had its flap buttoned to keep my New Testament from falling out. His eyes looked where my finger was pointing, and the expression on his mischievous happy-looking face changed to a very sober one. He kinda squinted his eyes like a boy does when he's thinking about something or somebody some place else. He lifted his free hand (the other being on the rubber grip of the motor's handle) and, with his forefinger, pointed to his own shirt pocket. We just looked into each other's eyes a minute, and for some reason I felt fine inside.

Then I swung my eyes around over the lake and in the direction of where the sun was going to set after awhile, and was glad I was alive -- for the same reason Little Jim is glad he is alive.

In a little while, we'd be to shore. There was only one thing about a fishing trip I didn't like and that was having to help clean the fish afterward, but boy oh boy, when you start sinking your teeth into the nice snow-white fish steaks, which restaurants' menus call fillet, you don't mind having had to clean them at all. Yum, yum, crunch, crunch ... boy oh boy! I certainly was hungry, as our boat cut a wide circle and swung up beside the dock in front of our big brown tents. I could see that a fire was already started in the Indian kitchen we'd made and that meant that just the minute we had our fish cleaned Barry'd have them sizzling in the skillet for us.

Tom and I were alone a minute at the end of the dock that night just before we went to bed, and he had both hands clasped around the slender flagpole and was swaying his body forward and backward and sidewise not saying anything for a minute, and neither was I. Then he said, "I wish I could find my daddy."

There was a tear in his voice and I knew he felt pretty terribly awful inside, and because I liked him, I felt the same way for a minute.

"Nobody knows where he is," I said, and Tom surprised me by saying, "Only one Person," and as quick as I realized what he meant, I said, "Yes, that's right. He knows everything in the world at the same time."

The moon shining on the water looked like it nearly always does in the moonlight -- like silver -- also like a field of oats on Pop's farm would look if somebody had painted it white and the wind was blowing.

Santa, who, as you know, had his cabin not very far up the lake from where we were camped, had gone away for the night, and so Big Jim and Circus had been selected to stay all night in his cabin to sort of look after things for him -- they being the biggest members of our gang and Barry giving them permission.

All the rest of the gang were in the tents, maybe undressing, and Tom and I were really alone, when all of a sudden I heard a movement on the shore and a voice calling in a low husky whisper, saying, "Tom! Hey -- Tom!" and I was sure I'd heard the voice before.

I saw the bushes part and a dark form move out in the moonlight, and at the same time Tom let go of the flagpole, and made a dive for the shore, beating it up the dock as fast as he could.

I was so surprised I couldn't move, but felt weak in the knees and sick at the stomach. Tom was there in a flash, and I watched him and somebody, standing side by side, talking in whispers, and then the dark form I'd seen come out of the bushes, dived back again, and a second later I heard footsteps going lickety-sizzle up the lake shore; then Tom started back to me and I met him in the middle of the dock.

"Who was it?" I said, thinking I knew. "Was it your daddy?"

"No," Tom said, "it was my brother Bob. I gave him the letter from Mother, and he's going to give it to Daddy."




8


Can you imagine that! Big Bob Till, Big Jim's worst enemy, and, except for Big Jim, the fiercest fighter in the whole country anywhere maybe! He was what people called a "juvenile delinquent," which means he was a bad boy who didn't like to behave himself and had done things that were against the law.

Maybe I'd better tell you right now, in case you don't know it, that Mr. Foote, Little Jim's daddy, had used his influence back at Sugar Creek to keep Bob from having to go to reform school, and Bob had been what is called "paroled" to him, and Little Jim himself had been glad 'cause he'd rather anybody would be good than to have him be bad and have to be punished for it. But Bob was still not behaving himself, on account of he hadn't been trained at home like most of the rest of us. Even we were having a hard enough time to be even half as good as we thought we were, and we had had training all our boy lives.

When Tom said to me there in the moonlight in the middle of the dock, that he'd given his mom's letter to his brother Bob, and I realized that Bob was up here in the North Woods -- in fact had been standing right over there behind those bushes only a second ago -- you could have knocked me over with a moonbeam, I was so surprised. Of course, he was gone now -- somewhere or other -- but where?

I asked Tom a question that was trying to get out of my mind, and it was, "Where IS your daddy?" and he said, "I don't know, but Bob does, and he'll take Mother's letter to him."

It seemed like the rest of the gang ought to know Bob was up here, and yet for some reason it seemed like Poetry ought to know it first, so the very second I had a chance after I got into my tent a little later, and the lights were out, and Dragonfly had been quieted down from talking and laughing -- in fact, his noisy nose sounded like he was asleep -- I reached out my hand and touched Poetry and said, "You asleep?" and he whispered quietly, "Yes," which meant he wasn't. So I told him about Bob and he said, "That explains a lot of things."

"What, for instance?" I asked, and he said, "It explains who opened the icehouse door and let John Till out." Then Poetry and I decided to get up and go outside where we could talk without being heard.

I was surprised we were able to get up and out without being stopped by Dragonfly's waking up and asking questions or insisting on going along, he not being able to let anybody have any secrets without wanting him to divide them up with him.

A good place to talk without being heard would be down at the dock, we decided, so away we went toward the lake where the waves were sighing and lapping against the shore and dock posts and making the boats rock a little -- one of the boats making a little scraping noise against the dock.

"Where was Bob standing?" Poetry asked, and when I pointed to the bushes he started straight toward them. As you maybe know he wanted to be a detective some day and was always looking for what detectives and the police and the FBI call "clues"; and also Poetry was always finding one, or something he thought was one.

As soon as we were both behind the bushes, where anybody at camp couldn't see us, he turned on his flashlight and shined it all around where Bob and Tom had been standing.

"What're we looking for?" I asked, and he answered like he always does, "A clue."

"What kind of a clue?" I asked, and he replied, "I'll tell you just as soon as I find it."

Well, I certainly didn't expect we'd find anything, but all of a sudden I heard a sound from up the shore like footsteps coming toward us, so I said in a husky whisper, "I think I heard a clue coming from somewhere" -- and then I knew I had heard one for up the path not very far away I saw a flashlight flash on and off in a very fast fleeting flash like a firefly's flash flashing on and off down at Sugar Creek.

We crouched low, hardly daring to breathe, knowing that somebody was coming for sure, and wondering who it was, and what did he want, and was it Bob Till or maybe Old hook-nosed John Till himself, or who?

Right that second, I saw something white lying where my feet had been a jiffy before. It looked like a folded white handkerchief or something, so I stooped down, reached out my hand to touch it, and it was an envelope of some kind.

"Little Tom's mom's letter," I thought. "Bob dropped it, and is coming back to look for it."

Poetry and I kept even quieter than we had been, he not knowing of course, what I'd just found and had tucked into my pajama pocket -- he and I not taking time to dress but were in our pajamas -- I in my green and white striped ones and Poetry in his purple ones.

It was a queer feeling we had, right that second. For some reason we decided to get ourselves out of there, which we did, sneaking back maybe fifteen feet before we decided to stop and wait to see who it was and what he was looking for and why, if we could.

In only a few excited jiffies, whoever it was was right where we ourselves had been, and was flashing his flashlight on and off, all around, right where a little while before I'd picked up the envelope. I could see he wasn't very tall -- not as tall as Big John Till, so I decided it might be Bob again. Poetry had hold of my arm so tight it actually hurt, which showed, even though he was usually calm in a time of excitement, while I was the one that always got all nervous inside, this time he was pretty tense himself.

I certainly didn't know what to do, and would have been afraid to do it even if I had. Besides I wouldn't have had time to do much of anything, for right that jiffy whoever it was, stopped looking for whatever he was looking for, which was maybe the envelope I had in my striped pajama pocket, and I heard his footsteps going on past, and in the direction of Santa's dock, which was several hundred yards farther on.

For a worried jiffy, I remembered the envelope in my pocket and thought that it wasn't mine, which it wasn't, and thought I ought to call out to whoever it was, and say, "Hey, there, mister, whatever you're looking for, I've got it, whatever it is!" but I didn't. A little later, Poetry and I were alone with ourselves, and the only sound there was, was the friendly lapping of the waves against the dock posts and the washing of other waves against the sandy shore. Away out on the lake there was a great big shimmering silver spot of moonlight which was very pretty. Still farther was the shadow of the trees on the little island on the other side of which we had caught our walleye that afternoon and where Wally had lost his life, and right that minute was maybe half digested in the stomach of a great big ugly-snouted northern pike.

I could feel my heart beating with excitement, but there was something else I was feeling too, and it was the envelope I had in my pocket, which I quick took out, and whispered for Poetry to turn on his light, which he did, and this is what we saw on the envelope written in pencil, that was kinda smeared like pencil marks on a letter are when a boy has carried it around in his pocket or in his hands awhile. We saw written in a big awkward scrawl, the name Bob Till, but there wasn't anything else, not even an address -- and no postage stamp.

Quick as anything, not stopping to think that that letter was private property and he had no right to open it, Poetry had the inside out of the outside and was unfolding it, and I was holding his trembling flashlight on it to see what it said, and -- would you believe it? -- it was a sheet of white typewriter paper and there wasn't a thing on it, not even a pencil mark.

"'Tsanother invisible-ink map," Poetry said to me, and I remembered quick the other one we'd found which I told you about in another story, and which when we'd warmed it up had turned out to be a map of the territory up here, showing where the little kidnapped girl had been found, and which way the broken twig trails led and we had followed them and finally found the ransom money in the old icehouse.

"And here's a note," Poetry whispered, as a little folded piece of paper with writing on it tumbled out.

That note, which was printed in pencil, said,

"Dear Bob:

Santa's away tonight. Get my boat which is tied to his dock and pick me up at the Indian cemetery at 10 o'clock and we'll get the rest of the ransom money.... If I'm not there, wait till I come.

Your Dad."

Well, when I saw what Poetry's trembling flashlight showed us was written on that unfolded piece of paper, you could have knocked me over with a question mark, I was so surprised. Our mystery had come to life again and we were going to have another exciting adventure before our vacation was over.... Hurrah!... Boy oh boy!

Poetry spoke first, saying excitedly, "I'll bet Bob's going down to get the boat right now! We've got to stop him!"

"Why?" I said, and he said, "Stop him and make him tell us where his dad is. Then we or the police can capture him."

"Bob wouldn't tell us," I said, being sure he wouldn't.

"Well, for goodness' sake, let's do something!" Poetry exclaimed to me, and when I said "What?" he said, "Get the gang and beat Bob to the cemetery!" which made as good sense as anything I could have thought of, especially since right that minute I heard an outboard motor somewhere and guessed that Bob had already started the powerful black-shrouded motor that was on the boat John Till had had, and which the police had left at Santa's dock.

We didn't have time to decide anything right then, though, 'cause almost as quick as a lightning bug can flash his flash on and off, we heard somebody running toward us from the direction of Santa's cottage and, a second later, two forms came puffing out into the moonlight and into our camp -- and it was Big Jim and Circus, who, as you already know, were staying all night in Santa's cabin, just to sort of look after things for him.

I thought of Tom Till, and hated to have him know what was going on, which he would if there was a lot of boy noise and the whole camp should wake up and come scrambling over each other down to the dock in crazy-looking pajamas, talking and wondering "What on earth?"

So Poetry and I shushed Big Jim and Circus and the four of us started to tell each other what we knew.

"Somebody took John Till's boat!" Circus puffed. "Hear him? -- there he goes now!"

About two hundred yards from shore I saw a shadow of a boat out in the moonlight and heard the roar of a powerful motor, and knew we'd have to hurry if we got to the Indian cemetery first.

"Let's step on the gas and get going," Circus said as soon as we'd told them about the note we had found, and Poetry said, "What kind of gas -- outboard motor, or station wagon?"

Big Jim, knowing that most of the Sugar Creek Gang had more bravery than good sense and that we sometimes did things that were dangerous, without thinking first, said, "This is another job for the police," but Poetry spoke up and said, "Let's be policemen ourselves. By the time we could phone them and they could get there, it'd be too late," which it would be, I thought, so we decided we ought to try to get to the cemetery first by driving there as fast as we could in the station wagon.

What to do about Tom, was our first problem, but we wouldn't have much time to try to solve it -- some of us simply had to get going to the cemetery to be there before Bob could get to the Narrows, zip through it, and into that other lake where the cemetery was. It was half past nine right that second, and Bob was supposed to meet his dad there at ten. If only we could get there before either one of them did, and hide somewhere in the bushes. Then maybe we could sneak up on them, and get both of them at once -- 'cause it looked like Bob was in on the business of being a helper to the kidnapper too.

Barry and Little Jim and Tom Till were the only ones left in Barry's tent. Barry must have heard our excited talk, 'cause in a jiffy his tent flap plopped open and out he came and wanted to know what on earth all the excitement was all about. We told him and showed him the note and he also heard Bob's motor on the lake at the same time. We didn't stop to try to figure out why John Till had written to Bob instead of just telling him where to meet him, or came tumbling out of Barry's tent and in our direction, and anything. Right that minute almost, Little Jim and Tom Dragonfly came out of the other tent, and there we all were -- too many -- and some of us too little -- to go on a kidnapper hunt.

I guess I never was so disappointed in my life as I was right that minute, though, 'cause Barry took charge of things quick, and said, "You boys all stay right here, and look after camp. I've a phone call to make -- and I want to see the firewarden a minute."

"Is there a fire somewhere?" Tom Till asked quick, sniffing to see if anything smelled like smoke, and Dragonfly did the same thing, and sneezed just like he had actually smelled something he was allergic to, which he is to nearly everything in the world anyway.

A jiffy later, Barry in the station wagon was riding down the lane toward Santa's boathouse and I knew that in a few jiffies more he'd be pulling in low up a steep hill, swishing along a sandy trail at the top, and driving like mad down a winding road through the forest to the firewarden's house, which you know about if you've read "The Sugar Creek Gang Goes North." There he'd make a terribly fast phone call to the police -- or else let the firewarden's wife do it while he and the firewarden would beat it on to the Indian cemetery. They'd probably stop before they got there though, and sneak carefully up along the lake shore to where Bob's boat would be coming in, and, if they could, they'd capture both Bob and John. I felt terribly disappointed inside, like I'd just blown up a very pretty great big colored balloon, and somebody had stuck a pin into it and it had burst -- not knowing there was going to be more excitement where we were than where Barry and the firewarden would be.




9


The station wagon hadn't any sooner disappeared and the whirring sound of its motor faded away, leaving us all with Barry's orders to go back to bed ringing in our ears, than I remembered the blank sheet of typewriter paper I had in my pocket and which we hadn't bothered to show to Barry but only John Till's note to his boy, Bob.

Little Jim and Tom Till didn't know anything about what was going on, and they, being sleepy anyway, seemed glad to get back to their tent and make a dive back into the sleep from which they had dragged themselves a little while before.

Dragonfly was suspicious, though, and when he noticed Poetry and Big Jim and Circus and me talking together, he got a stubborn expression in his voice and whined a question at us which was, "You guys got a secret of some kind?"

We didn't want him to start any fuss; besides sometimes he wasn't such a dumb person to let in on a secret, so for a little while we left Little Jim and Tom Till alone in their tent and the five of us went into the other tent, lit a lantern, unfolded the piece of typewriter paper and heated it over the hot top of the lantern, and in only a few minutes we were looking at a map of the territory up here -- showing the camp where we were and the place where the little Ostberg girl had been lying, just like the other map we'd found. Also different other places were identified, such as Santa's boathouse, the firewarden's cabin, and the broken twig trail which led off in different directions....

"Both maps are alike," Circus said, and it looked like they were. Poetry traced the faint markings of the new one with his pencil so we could study it better.

"What do you suppose Bob had two maps for?" Dragonfly asked, and Poetry answered by saying, "He maybe had only one at first, but when he lost it, -- the one we found last week -- he or Hook-nose made him another one."

"Yeah," I said, with a questionmark in my voice, "but why draw them in invisible ink?"

"Maybe so nobody would think they were maps."

"But how could Bob himself know the different places if he couldn't see the lines and different marks?" I asked, wondering how.

It was Dragonfly who answered my doubt by saying, "Oh he probably had what they call an 'original' -- and as soon as he'd memorized it, he drew another one in invisible ink and tore the first one up!" His idea made sense, I thought, and said so, and so did Poetry.

Well, we weren't getting anywhere -- and weren't supposed to anyway. It certainly didn't seem fair to us that Barry hadn't let us go with him, but he was camp boss and that was that, and we were supposed to crawl back into our sleeping bags and go to sleep. Imagine that! Right while Barry and the firewarden, and maybe the police, were capturing Old hook-nosed John Till and his son Bob! Imagine it! It was terribly disappointing.

And then all of a sudden Dragonfly gasped and said, "Hey, Gang! Look!" He had the newest map and was holding it up between his dragonfly-like eyes and the light. His voice had contagious excitement in it, so we all looked quick to see what he saw. But it wasn't anything -- only two crude-looking fish away off on the part of the map which was supposed to represent a lake.

"A couple of fish," I said, disgusted with him for getting us excited over nothing. "That's to show you there is a lake there."

"Yeah," he said, still excited, "but look where they are! They're right over there where that island is where we caught our walleye today."

Big Jim answered that by saying, "Maybe they're supposed to locate a good fishing place."

And then Dragonfly got another idea which sent our minds whirling like summer cyclones at Sugar Creek, when he said, "You know what that is? That's where the island is, and that's where John Till has been catching the big fish to put the ransom money in, and that island's where maybe the rest of the money is right this very minute. I'll bet that's where they'll go to get the rest of it, if Barry or the police don't catch 'em first!"

Well, sir, you could have knocked me over with an invisible ink map, when Dragonfly gave us that wonderful idea. It seemed like he was exactly right, and it seemed a shame that I hadn't thought of it first -- in fact, for a minute it almost seemed like I had, because all of a sudden I was remembering what I'd thought in the afternoon when Poetry and I had been exploring that island looking for clues. Also I remembered that that island is where I'd wanted to go to start hunting for the treasure in the first place when I'd thought of playing Robinson Crusoe and his Man Friday and also Treasure Island. I just knew that Dragonfly and I were right, so as quick as a flash I said, "If we really want to capture Bob and Old Hook-nose, we'd better beat it over to that little island, and be hiding there somewhere when they get there, and capture them ourselves."

Big Jim answered me in a tone of voice that sounded like he thought I was only about half bright when he said, "Who wants to get the living daylights knocked out of him in the middle of the night? When you saw him the first time, didn't he have a big hunting knife?"

I remembered he had -- in fact, in my mind's eye, I could still see that wicked looking knife with its five-inch-long blade that looked like it could not only make a quick slice into the stomach of a fish but could do the same thing to a boy. When Big Jim said that to me like that, it seemed like maybe he was right and I was very ignorant for wanting to be brave without using good sense.

"Besides," Big Jim said, "those two silly looking fish out there on the map don't mean a thing. We'd better all get some sleep or we'll be as tired as wrung-out dishrags tomorrow."

Well, that was orders, and a boy is supposed to obey anybody who has a right to be his boss -- such as a schoolteacher or a camp leader or either one of his parents, or somebody he is working for. Big Jim didn't always get obeyed, though, on account of our gang nearly always voted on important things to decide what to do, so right away Poetry, who thought my idea wasn't so bad after all, spoke up and said, "I move we all get into Barry's big boat and go roaring over to that island, beach the boat on the sandy shore of the cove behind some willows and be there waiting when Bob and Hook-nose come -- if they do."

"Second the motion," I said quick, but Big Jim exploded our idea by saying, "It's Barry's orders to go to bed."

It certainly wasn't easy to go to bed when there was so much excitement we'd rather be mixed up in, but orders were orders, so pretty soon I was in my sleeping bag in the same tent with Dragonfly and Poetry -- Big Jim and Circus having decided to go back to Santa's cabin to spend the rest of the night like they'd planned to in the first place.

Pretty soon, in spite of feeling excited and wondering whether anybody would catch Old John Till and his son Bob, I dropped off to sleep -- not even knowing I was going to do it -- as a certain poem says, "No boy knows when he goes to sleep." It seemed like even in my sleep I could hear an outboard motor roaring out on the lake, first coming close to us, then fading away and then a little later coming back again.

Once when I was half awake and half asleep, I heard Poetry turn over beside me and then I heard him whisper, "Bill -- listen, will you? Somebody's out there in a motor boat going back and forth in front of our dock."

It took a jiffy for me to realize where I was, and why, and then I was actually listening to an outboard motor away out on our lake like somebody was doing what Poetry said he was.

A second later, Poetry sat up, scrambled over to the tent flap, worked it open, and in another jiffy I had my red head beside his, and we were both looking out across the moonlit water, and seeing a dark fast-moving boat out there.

"The crazy goof!" Poetry said to me in my left ear, and I said to him in his right one, "He's cutting big wide circles," which is what whoever it was was doing.

It seemed silly for anybody to do what he was doing; so, because it was a crazy night anyway, and so many crazy things had happened on our fishing trip, Poetry and I squeezed our crazy way through the tent flap and went down to the dock to see what on earth anybody was doing out there going round and round like that. And then all of a sudden, Poetry gasped breathily and said, "Hey, there isn't anybody in that boat. It's empty!"

Just that second the boat came out into the middle of a big wide silver path which lakes have on moonlight nights, when you look out across them in the direction of the moon. And sure enough, Poetry was right. I could hardly believe my surprised eyes, but in that silver path was a row boat about the size of the one Bob Till had gone away in, cutting big, terribly fast wide circles, going round and round and round. The motor sounded exactly like the big black shrouded two-cylinder one I knew how to run so well and which Bob had taken from Santa's dock.

It didn't make sense -- a boat out there without anybody in it.

And then, Poetry said something else, which was, "Hey, it's getting closer! The wind is blowing it toward the shore. It gets closer every time it makes a circle!" -- which I noticed it was.

What to do or whether to do anything, was the question. Poetry and I stood there on the dock in our pajamas, not slapping at the mosquitoes, on account of when the wind blows, like it was right that second, mosquitoes' smallish wings can't control their flight, and they stop looking for boys to bite.

Whirr! ... Roar! ... Whizzz! ... and also Plop! ... plop! ... plop! ... -- the motor doing the whirring and the whizzing, and the bottom of the boat doing the plop-plop-plopping on the waves.

"It's empty!" we said to each other, and it looked like it was, for sure.

"Maybe whoever was in it fell out. Maybe it was John Till and he was drunk and fell out and the boat just keeps on running," I said. I knew a motor could do that, and if the steering handle was set, it would maybe stay set, and the motor would keep on going until it ran out of gas, or until it rammed into an island or a shore somewhere.... Then, almost before anything could happen if there had been anything to, that boat straightened out a little, like the motor's steering handle had swung around -- which they do sometimes when nobody holds onto them -- and the boat came roaring straight toward our dock at a terrific rate of speed.... In another half minute maybe it would crash ker-wham-splinter-smash into the end of the dock where we were -- right there by the flagpole. It was coming toward us as straight as a torpedo and almost as fast, I thought, just like this was a war and somebody had shot a torpedo straight for where we were.

And then, a second later while my mind was whirling, not believing it could or would happen, the sharp prow of that big white boat with the fierce racing motor on the other end of it, struck with a crash that jarred and shook the dock, glanced sidewise, swerved up along its edge and ran ker-squash-jam into the sandy shore, while at the same time or just before, the propeller, down in the water, struck the shallow sandy bottom, which made the motor tilt forward.

The motor made a couple of ridiculous-sounding discouraged sneezes and coughs, and stopped. Then almost before the sound of the crash had stopped splitting my ear-drums, I was over near the boat, looking down into it and shining my flashlight into it. There lying in the bottom was a great big quart-sized whiskey bottle, and my imagination told me that maybe John Till had been in the boat and that he had gotten drunk and had fallen out and was out there in the lake somewhere already drowned. My heart sank as I thought of what a hurt heart Little Tom Till would have when he found it out.

The waves of the lake were washing against the dock post and lapping at the shore and the boat, and I knew it was a terribly tense minute. And then Poetry, who was beside me, grabbed my arm like he had just heard something terribly important, and said, "Listen ... SH! ... Listen!"

I listened, and didn't hear anything at first, and then all of a sudden I did, and it was a scared voice calling from somewhere saying, "HELP ... HELP ... HELP...!"




10


I certainly didn't dream that things were going to turn out the way they did when that mad boat came racing toward us and whammed itself into our dock and up onto the shore and turned part way over on its side, and when I heard a voice calling from somewhere, "HELP ... HELP ... HELP!" The first thing I thought of was that somebody, I didn't know who, was out there somewhere drowning and had to have help right away quick. Santa's house was several hundred yards up the shore and any yelling I or any of us could have done for Big Jim and Circus to come and help us, couldn't have been heard by them, and by the time any of us could have run up there and waked them up, it would maybe be too late to save whoever's life needed to be saved.

Quick as anything, I said to Poetry, "We've got to do something or maybe somebody will drown out there!"

But say, I didn't have to tell Poetry to step on the gas to get going. He was the fastest acting barrel-shaped boy you ever saw. In less time than it takes me to write it for you, Poetry had quick picked up two oars that were lying there and tossed them into a row boat that was on the opposite side of the dock, and a jiffy later was unwinding the anchor rope from around the dock post. Then he yelled to me, "Hurry up and get in quick, and get the oars into the oarlocks, and let's row out quick and save him."

Even while we were making a lot of noise, it seemed I could still hear that voice out there calling, "HELP ... HELP ... H-E-L-P!..."

We got the boat's prow headed into the waves, which is what you have to do when you row on a lake -- keep the prow headed toward the oncoming waves, or you'll maybe get your boat filled with water.

Right that minute I heard another yell coming from the direction of the tents, and it was Dragonfly racing toward us in flapping pajamas wanting to know what on earth was going on and why.

I yelled back to him from the boat I was already in, and said, "Hey, you -- Dragonfly! Beat it down to Santa's cabin and tell Big Jim and Circus to step on the gas and get Santa's motor boat and come out to help us! There's somebody drowning out there in the moonlight!"

As quick as anything, Poetry and I were on our way. Our boat had three life-preserver cushions in it -- enough for Poetry and me and whoever was out there, which of course had to be John Till, I thought, on account of the whiskey bottle in the bottom of the boat that had just roared its way up onto our shore.

If our own boat should upset or something, and we were tossed out into the water, we could swim to our cushions and by keeping our bodies down under the water and holding onto the cushions for dear life, we could manage to keep our faces above water, and the cushions would hold us up.

Poetry and I sat in the middle seat, side by side, with Poetry sitting nearer the center than I so our boat would be well balanced, on account of he was almost a whole lot heavier than I was. Each one of us used an oar and we rowed as fast as we could in the direction the call for HELP had come from.

Our oars made a squeaking noise in the locks and the blades made a little splashing sound in the water, and also the waves plopping against the prow of the boat, made it hard for us to hear the call for help, and also hard to tell just which direction to go, but we kept on rowing hard, and I could see the shore getting farther and farther away. For a jiffy I was glad that my parents had taught me how to work on the farm and that I had muscles that sometimes felt as strong as the muscles of the man in a poem Poetry is always quoting, the Village Blacksmith, which goes,

"Under the spreading chestnut tree The village smithy stands, The smith -- a mighty man is he, With large and sinewy hands, And the muscles of his brawny arms Are strong as iron bands."

But even though my arm muscles felt that strong, my knees felt sort of weak as I realized that a man's life was depending on us.... We kept on rowing as hard and as fast as we could, grunting and sweating and hoping, and also doing what any boy with good sense, or even without it, would do at a time like that -- we were praying as hard as anything, too. Anyway I was, and I was asking God to please help us get there quick -- for when a boy is in the middle of such a dangerous excitement as I was in, he will ask God to help him even though he hasn't been a very good boy and isn't sure God will have anything to do with him. I tell you, all of a sudden, I was thinking of Little Tom and his swell mother and it just seemed like it would be terrible for them to lose their daddy, even if he was maybe the meanest man that ever lived at Sugar Creek.

Another reason I was praying with every grunt, was that I knew John Till wasn't a Christian and if he didn't become one before he died, he'd never get to go to heaven, on account of my parents had told me the Bible says that, "Except a man be born again, he cannot see the kingdom of God." Anybody who knows what Pop calls the "ABC's of the Gospel," knows that you can be born again just by letting the Saviour into your heart, but John Till had never done that.

I guess maybe I didn't use any words with my prayer, though, but only some worried thoughts, which I sort of shot up to heaven as quick as I could like I shoot arrows with my bow when I'm back home around Sugar Creek. In fact, for a jiffy it seemed like I was sort of shooting prayer-arrows up to God, and that on the end of each one, instead of a little feather, I had written a note on a strip of paper, and on each note it said, "Please, God -- Heavenly Father, Old John Till's soul is lost, and if he drowns without being saved, it'll be terrible. Help us get to him quick."

Then Poetry interrupted my thoughts saying, "Stop a minute -- LISTEN!"

I let my oar rest a fourth of a jiffy and right away the waves made our boat swerve a little, like it would swing around if we didn't keep on rowing, but I heard a voice not more than fifty feet farther on, and looking quick, I saw something dark in the water, struggling, and the voice with a desperate gasp, said, "Hurry -- I -- HELP...." Then it stopped.

I tell you we hurried and I kept on sending up arrows -- grunting and pulling and wishing. Then without knowing I was going to say it, I said, "O please don't let him drown. 'Cause Poetry and I have got a secret about one of Your Bible verses, that says if two of us agree on something we ask for, You will answer us."

It just seemed like maybe John Till had to be saved, on account of it seemed like that promise in the Bible was especially about him. Then without knowing I was going to say it aloud, I said, "And here comes another arrow with the same thing written on it," and Poetry beside me said, "What arrow? What are you talking about?"

I explained it to him, while we rowed harder, and even though he didn't say much, I knew he was doing the same thing I was -- like my parents had taught me to, when I was little, and which I still liked to do, even though my folks sometimes might wonder if I ever did or not, on account of I was sometimes too mischievous. Also sometimes I wasn't always what they called a "good boy," which is an expression they use when they mean I ought to behave myself.

In another jiffy, we were close to John Till, and I noticed it was really him, and he didn't have any life preserver pillow. He had probably been drunk and had just tumbled out of his boat while it was racing terribly fast, and had been swimming ever since.

I quick grabbed up a cushion in front of my feet and with a wide sweep of my arm tossed it out toward him. My aim was as good as David's had been when he had used his sling shot on the giant that time in the Bible. The pillow landed with a ker-plop right in front of Old John and I saw him make a fierce desperate lunge toward it and grab hold of it with both arms and heard him yell in a sputtering voice something I never dreamed I'd hear from Old John Till's voice that night, and it was, "Thank God, I'm saved!"

Then he quit trying to swim and just lay back on his back, and held onto the cushion and let himself float, with only his face above water with the cushion in front of his chin, which is the way to float, if you ever have to hold onto a life-preserver cushion.

In another jiffy we had our boat there, and Old John was crying and gasping and saying, "Thank God -- Oh thank you, boys, thank you!"

How to get him into the boat was the question, though, for the minute he would try to get in, his heavy weight might tip us over.

But say, in spite of being exhausted and gasping for breath, Old John Till still had good sense, and didn't try to climb in right away, but got his breath first -- besides, in a minute Circus and Big Jim with Dragonfly holding a flashlight to help them see us, came motoring out and in a little while we had John in the boat, and we were all on our way to shore, with John so tired out he just lay his terribly wet self down and sort of shook and sniffled and half cried while we moved along.

I tell you it's a wonderful feeling when you've done something like that. You're glad not only 'cause you helped do it, but if you believe what Poetry and I believed, you feel like you and the Heavenly Father are very good friends -- which is maybe the best feeling a boy ever has.

But say, I'll have to wind up this story quicker than anything, for if it gets very much longer the people who make it into a book for you will want me to cut off the end of it so it won't make too many pages.

Anyway that is the last part of the last story that happened to us on our camping trip, and it was the best vacation we'd had in our whole lives, although I suppose there will be a few more camping adventures before the gang grows up, and if there are and if anything especially interesting happens, I'll see how quick I can write it for you.

As we rowed along toward shore, Old John just lay in the bottom of the boat like a terribly big wet fish that had just been caught, and was so tired out he couldn't move. Pretty soon, Poetry whispered, "D'you s'pose he's pretending to be good -- and that he just said those religious words back there, to fool us, and is maybe playing possum? D'you s'pose when we get to shore, he'll quick make a dive for the bushes and run away?"

I'd seen possums act like that back home -- be terribly lively until they were caught, and then they would do what is called "play possum" -- just roll over on their sides and curl up into a half circle and shut their eyes and act dead until we or the dogs went away a few yards and then they would come to quick life, scramble to their ridiculous looking hands-like feet and run possum-ety sizzle to a tree and climb up it or to a hole in the ground and dive into it.

"I don't know," I said to Poetry, "but he sounded like he meant what he said when he said what he said back there." I wanted to believe it, 'cause I wanted Tom Till to have a brand new daddy like Circus had got when his pop had been saved a couple of years before.

Well, it turned out that I was right. That whiskey bottle we'd seen in the bottom of his boat hadn't had whiskey in it at all, but was one Little Jim had put a gospel tract in, and Old John had found it and read it, and the Lord Himself had used it to do what our Sugar Creek minister calls, "convict him of his sins." On top of that, he had also stopped to read the message in the other whiskey bottle which had been used as a marker for a good crappie-fishing place out in front of the Indian cemetery. Also he had been listening on his portable radio to the radio program of the Church of the Cross. So, after he had accidentally tumbled out of the boat tonight, he'd gotten half scared to death, and all the verses of the Bible and the sermons he had read and listened to, came splashing into his mind; and without stopping to think that he didn't even believe in God, he had prayed to Him to not only save his body from drowning, but to save his soul from being lost.

When we'd rescued him, he had had the other $5,000 of the ransom money in his trousers pocket. It was pretty wet, but as good as gold. And -- do you know what? -- he told us he hadn't been helping the real kidnapper at all, but had only wanted to get the $1,000 reward!

"And now, boys," John's gruff, trembling voice said, as we listened to him explain things, "you'll have to start praying for Bob -- we had a quarrel tonight, and he's gone away somewhere."

"Where?" Tom Till spoke up and asked. All of us were sitting around a camp fire which we'd started quick, to get John warmed up after we'd got some of Barry's dry clothes on him, and a blanket wrapped around him -- most of the rest of us being wrapped in blankets too.

John looked down at his red-haired, freckled-faced, trembling-voiced boy, and said, "I don't know. I -- he thought we ought to keep the $5,000 instead of turning it in. I -- I'm afraid I was too hard on him, maybe. But when we couldn't agree about this $5,000, I took the boat and left him there at the Indian cemetery."

We asked Old John different questions, one of them being, "How'd you know where the ransom money was?" and he said, "I studied the newspapers and the pictures, and found the kidnapper's map in the grave-house of an old Indian chief. I made two copies in invisible ink -- one for myself and the other for Bob, but I lost mine somewhere -- and you boys found it."

"But why, if you only wanted the $1,000 reward, did you bury the money in the fish in the icehouse?" we asked him.

"I didn't," he said, just as Little Tom Till shoved a stick into the fire and about a thousand yellow sparks shot in different directions of up toward the sky. "Old Brains Powers, the kidnapper, buried it there. I'd been digging it up.... I had five thousand dollars already dug up, and was coming back to get the rest of it, but you boys beat me to it. Then when I went into the icehouse, you slammed the door on me and barred it, and I would have stayed there until the police came, but Bob, who had just gotten up here, heard me hollering and let me out."

Poetry spoke up and said, with a doubt in his voice, "If you were only after the money so you could get the reward for finding it, why did you run away?"

"I was afraid the police wouldn't believe my story."

Well, there is the whole mystery untangled for you, and a wonderful camping trip all over for another year.... Boy oh boy! I hope I get to go again next year -- if not to the same place, then up to Canada or somewhere where there will be even more exciting adventures than there were this year.

But before that happens there'll be a whole year full of different things that will happen back at home at Sugar Creek. I just know that something terribly interesting will happen to us before another summer rolls around. In fact, there was a letter from my folks in our mail box at the dock the very day we left camp, saying, "We'll be looking for you, Bill -- and do we ever have interesting news for you! Don't try to guess what it is -- 'cause you can't."

And -- well, all the way home in our station wagon, I did just what my parents told me not to -- I kept trying to guess what the interesting news would be....

<eob>

The Tale Of Ferdinand Frog

By

Arthur Scott Bailey



I

Pretty As A Picture


There was something about Ferdinand Frog that made everybody smile. It may have been his amazingly wide mouth and his queer, bulging eyes, or perhaps it was his sprightly manner -- for one never could tell when Mr. Frog would leap into the air, or turn a somersault backward. Indeed, some of his neighbors claimed that he himself didn't know what he was going to do next -- he was so jumpy.

Anyhow, all the wild folk in Pleasant Valley agreed that Ferdinand Frog was an agreeable person to have around. No matter what happened, he was always cheerful. Nobody ever heard of his losing his temper, though to be sure he was sometimes the means of other peoples losing theirs. But let a body be as angry as he pleased with Mr. Frog, Mr. Frog would continue to smile and smirk.

Of course, such extreme cheerfulness often made angry folk only the more furious, especially when the whole trouble was Ferdinand Frog's own fault. But it made no difference to him what blunder he had made. He was always ready to make another -- and smile at the same time.

Really, he was so good-natured that nobody could feel peevish towards him for long. In fact, he was a great favorite -- especially among the ladies. Whenever he met one of them -- it might be the youngest of the Rabbit sisters, or old Aunt Polly Woodchuck -- he never failed to make the lowest of bows, smile the broadest of smiles, and inquire after her health.

That was Ferdinand Frog -- known far and wide for his elegant manners. Every young lady declared that he wore exquisite clothes, too; and many of them secretly thought him quite good-looking.

But people as old as Aunt Polly Woodchuck seldom take heed of what a person wears. As for Mr. Frog's looks, since Aunt Polly believed that "handsome is as handsome does," she admitted that Ferdinand Frog was -- as she put it -- "purty as a picter."

When Ferdinand Frog heard that, he was so delighted that he hurried straight home and put on his best suit. And then he spent most of a whole afternoon smiling at his reflection in the surface of the Beaver pond, where he was living at the time.

So it is easy to see that Ferdinand Frog was a vain and silly fellow. He was even foolish enough to repeat Aunt Polly's remark to everybody he chanced to meet that night, and the following day as well.

There was no one who could help grinning at Ferdinand Frog's news -- he looked so comical. And old Mr. Crow, who was noted for his rudeness, even burst out with a hoarse haw-haw.

"You're pretty as a picture, eh?" he chuckled. "I suppose Aunt Polly means that you're as pretty as one of the pictures that the circus men have pasted on Farmer Green's barn. . . . I believe --  -- " he added, as he stared at Ferdinand Frog --  -- "I believe I know which one Aunt Polly means."

"Is that so?" cried Mr. Frog, swelling himself up -- through pride -- until it seemed that he must burst. "Oh, which picture is it?"

"It's the one in the upper left-hand corner," old Mr. Crow informed him solemnly. "And if you haven't yet seen it, you should take a good look at it soon."

"I will!" Ferdinand Frog declared. "I'll visit Farmer Green's place this very night!"

And he opened his mouth and smiled so widely that old Mr. Crow couldn't help shuddering -- though he knew well enough that Ferdinand Frog could never swallow anyone as big as he was.



II

The Dangers Of Travel


It was a long way to Farmer Green's from the Beaver pond where Ferdinand Frog made his home. But he felt that he simply must see that picture which Mr. Crow said looked like him. So he started out just before sunset.

One thing, at least, about his journey pleased him: he could make the trip by water -- and he certainly did hate travelling on land.

Luckily the stream that trickled its way below the Beaver dam led straight to Swift River. And everybody who knew anything was aware that Swift River ran right under the bridge not far from the farmhouse.

So Mr. Frog leaped spryly into the brook and struck out downstream.

He was a famous swimmer, having been used to the water from the time he was a tadpole. And now he swam so fast, with the help of the current, that he reached the river by the time the moon was up.

As he looked up at the sky Ferdinand Frog was both glad and sorry that there was a moon that night. The moon would be a good thing, provided he reached the end of his journey, for it would give him a fine clear view of the picture on the barn, which he so much wanted to see. On the other hand, he would have preferred a dark night for a swim in Swift River. There were fish there -- pickerel -- which would rather swallow him than not. And he knew that they were sure to be feeding by the light of the moon.

If Mr. Frog hadn't always looked on the bright side of life no doubt he would have waited a week or two, until there was no moon at all. But he remarked to himself with a grin, as he hurried along, that he had never yet seen the pickerel that was quick enough to catch him, and furthermore, he never expected to.

But those words were hardly out of Ferdinand Frog's mouth when he turned and made for the bank as fast as he could go. He had caught sight of a dark, long-nosed fish lying among some weeds. And he decided suddenly that he would finish his journey by land.

"It would be a shame --  -- " he told himself, as he flopped up the steep bank --  -- "it would be a shame for so handsome a person as I am to be eaten by a fish."

"But you wouldn't object to a bird, would you?" said a voice right in Ferdinand Frog's ear -- or so it seemed to him.

He made no answer -- not even stopping to bow, or say good evening -- but turned a somersault backward and hid himself under the overhanging bank.

It was Solomon Owl who had spoken to him. There was no mistaking the loud, mocking laughter that followed Mr. Frog's hasty retreat.

"Solomon Owl is a great joker," Mr. Frog murmured with a smile. "He was only teasing me. . . . Still, he might be a bit hungry. So I'll stay here out of harm's way for a while, for it would be a shame for so handsome a person as I am to be eaten by an old, rascally bird like Solomon Owl."

One can judge, just by that remark, that Ferdinand Frog was not quite so polite as his neighbors supposed -- when there was no one to hear what he said.



III

Mr. Frog's Double


Mr. Frog waited until it was broad daylight before he left his hiding place beneath the bank of the river. He knew that by that time Solomon Owl must have gone home to his hemlock tree to get his rest. So Ferdinand Frog felt quite safe again.

Having made up his mind that he would finish his journey to Farmer Green's place by land, he started briskly across the cornfield, travelling in a straight line between two rows of young corn.

He had not gone far before a hoarse voice called to him. But this time he was not alarmed.

It was only old Mr. Crow, who seemed greatly pleased to see him.

"Hullo, young fellow!" said Mr. Crow. "If you're on your way to the barn to look at that picture, I'll fly over there myself, because I'd like to see it again."

"Aren't you afraid of meeting Farmer Green?" Ferdinand Frog asked him.

"Afraid?" Mr. Crow snorted. "Certainly not! We're the best of friends. He set up this straw man here, just to keep me company. . . . Besides," he went on, "at this time o' day Farmer Green is inside the barn, milking the cows. And we'll be outside it, looking at the circus pictures."

"We can call to him, if you want to say good morning to him," Ferdinand Frog suggested cheerfully.

"Oh, no!" his companion said quickly. "I wouldn't want to do that -- he's so busy."

Ferdinand Frog smiled. And for some reason old Mr. Crow seemed displeased.

"What's the joke?" he inquired in a surly tone. "Something seems to amuse you. Why are you grinning?"

"It's just a habit I have," Ferdinand Frog explained.

"I'd try to break myself of that habit, if I were you," Mr. Crow advised him. "Some day it will get you into trouble, for you're likely to grin when you oughtn't to. There's a wrong time and a right time for everything, you know."

"Just as there is for planting corn," Mr. Frog chimed in.

"Exactly!" Mr. Crow returned.

"And for eating it!" Mr. Frog added.

But old Mr. Crow only said hastily that he would be at the barn by the time Ferdinand reached it. And without another word he flapped himself away across the field.

"He's a queer one," said Ferdinand Frog to himself. "It seems as if a person couldn't please him, no matter how much a person tried." Then he untied his necktie, and tied it again, because he thought one end of the bow was longer than the other; and that was something he couldn't endure.

Then he resumed his jumping. And after exactly one hundred and thirty-two jumps he reached a corner of Farmer Green's great barn, where he found old Mr. Crow waiting for him.

"Still smiling, I see," the old gentleman observed gruffly. "Maybe you'll laugh out of the other corner of your mouth after you've seen the pretty picture that you look like."

"I hope so! Where is it?" Ferdinand Frog asked him eagerly. "Show me the pretty one!"

"Come with me!" said old Mr. Crow. And he led the way around the barn, stopping before the side that faced the road.

"There!" he cried. "It's in the upper left-hand corner, just as I told you." And he chuckled as loud as he dared -- with Farmer Green inside the building, milking the cows.

As Ferdinand Frog gazed upward a shadow of disappointment came over his face. And for once he did not smile.

"Do I look like that?" he faltered.

"You certainly do," old Mr. Crow assured him. "See those eyes -- don't they bulge just like yours? And look at that mouth! It's fully as wide as yours -- and maybe a trifle wider!"

"The face does look a bit like mine, I'll admit," Ferdinand Frog muttered. "But no one could ever mistake one of us for the other. . . . What's the name of this creature?"

"It's called the hippopotamus," old Mr. Crow replied. "I heard Johnnie Green say so. And he ought to know, if anyone does."



IV

Mr. Crow Loses Something


The picture of the hippopotamus on Farmer Green's barn did not please Ferdinand Frog. But in a few moments he began to smile again.

"You've made a mistake," he told old Mr. Crow with a snicker. "When Aunt Polly Woodchuck said I was as pretty as a picture she never could have had this one in mind."

"Why not?" Mr. Crow inquired. "The eyes and the mouth --  -- "

"Yes! Yes -- I know!" Ferdinand interrupted. "But this creature has a tail! And tails are terribly out of fashion. I haven't worn one since I was a tadpole."

That was enough for old Mr. Crow. He had a tail --  -- or tail feathers, at least. And he at once flew into a terrible rage.

"You've insulted me!" he shouted.

Ferdinand Frog knew then that he had blundered. So he hastened to mend matters.

"There, there!" he said in a soothing tone. "Having a tail is not so bad, after all; for you can always cut it off, if you want to be in style." And he was surprised to find that his remark only made Mr. Crow angrier than ever.

Old Mr. Crow Plays a Joke on Mr. Frog

"Cut off my tail, indeed!" the old gentleman snorted. "I'd be a pretty sight, if I did. Why, I wouldn't part with a single tail-feather, on any account." He continued to scold Ferdinand Frog at the top of his lungs, telling him that he was a silly fellow, and that nobody -- unless it was a few foolish young creatures -- thought he was the least bit handsome.

Now, old Mr. Crow was in such a temper that he forgot that Farmer Green was inside the barn. And he made so much noise that Farmer Green heard him and peeped around the corner of the barn to see what was going on.

A moment later the old shot-gun went off with a terrific roar. Ferdinand Frog saw Mr. Crow spring up and go tearing off towards the woods. And a long, black tail-feather floated slowly down out of the air and settled on the ground near the place where Mr. Crow had been standing.

After shaking his fist in Mr. Crow's direction, Farmer Green disappeared.

"That's a pity," Mr. Frog thought. "Mr. Crow has parted with one of his tail-feathers. And I must find him as soon as I can and tell him how sorry I am."

Then Mr. Frog turned to look at the other pictures, which covered the whole side of the big barn. He beheld many strange creatures -- some with necks of enormous length, some with humps on their backs, and all of them of amazing colors.

But whether they were ringed, streaked or striped, not one of them was -- in Mr. Frog's opinion -- one-half as beautiful as the hippopotamus.

"Even he --  -- " Mr. Frog decided --  -- "even he couldn't be called half as handsome as I am. For once old Mr. Crow certainly was mistaken."

And he began to laugh. And while he was laughing, Farmer Green came out of the barn with a pail of milk in each hand.

Then Ferdinand Frog had a happy thought. Why not ask Farmer Green to shoot off the tail of the hippopotamus? The loss of that ugly tail would improve the creature's looks, and make him appear still more like Mr. Frog himself.

At least, that was Mr. Frog's own opinion.

And he called to Farmer Green and suggested to him that he step out behind the barn and take a shot at the tail of the hippopotamus.

"Try your luck!" Mr. Frog coaxed. "It's plain to see that you need practice, or you'd have made Mr. Crow part with all his tail-feathers, instead of only one." And he laughed harder than ever.

But Farmer Green paid little heed to Ferdinand Frog's wheedling, although he did smile and say:

"I declare, I believe that bull frog's jeering at me because I missed the old crow!"



V

Mr. Frog's Secret Sorrow


Ferdinand Frog always looked so cheerful that no one ever suspected that he had a secret sorrow. But it is true, nevertheless, that something troubled him, though he took great pains not to let a single one of his neighbors know that anything grieved him.

His trouble was simply this: he had never been invited to attend the singing-parties which the Frog family held almost every evening in Cedar Swamp.

Now, Ferdinand Frog loved to sing at night.

Indeed, he liked nothing better than to go to the lake not far from the Beaver dam and practice his songs among the lily pads near the shore. He had a deep, powerful bass voice, which one could hear a mile or more across the water on a still evening.

Often he dressed himself with the greatest care and went to the lake alone, where he stayed half the night and sang so loudly that a good many of the wild folk who lived in the neighborhood thought him a great nuisance. Not caring for music, they objected to being forced to listen to Ferdinand Frog's favorite songs.

"Why don't you go over to Cedar Swamp, if you want to make a noise?" one of the Beaver family who was known as Tired Tim asked Mr. Frog one evening. "You have come here for nine nights running; and your racket has upset me so that I haven't done a stroke of work in all this time."

Mr. Frog had puffed himself up and had just opened his mouth to begin a new song. But upon being spoken to so rudely he closed his mouth quickly and swallowed several times. For just a second or two he was speechless, he was so surprised. And then presently he began to giggle.

"I believe you," he said. "I believe that you haven't done a stroke of work for ninety nights." He knew -- as did everybody else -- that Tired Tim was the laziest person for miles around.

"I said nine -- not ninety," Tired Tim corrected him.

"Oh! My mistake!" Mr. Frog replied.

"You haven't answered my question," Tired Tim reminded him with a wide yawn. "I asked you why you didn't attend the singing-parties over in Cedar Swamp. You could croak your head off there and no one would stop you."

But Mr. Frog shook his head. And at the same time, he sighed.

"No!" he said. "I'd rather sing here on the border of the lake. The trouble is, I sing too well for those fellows over in Cedar Swamp."

"Why don't you join them and teach them how to sing, if you know so much about it?" Tired Tim persisted.

"Oh, I've no time for that," Ferdinand Frog answered.

And then it was his companion's turn to snicker.

"You appear to have plenty of time to waste here," he observed. "It's my opinion that there's just one reason why you don't go to the Cedar Swamp singing parties."

"What's that?" Mr. Frog inquired with a slight trace of uneasiness.

"They haven't invited you."

"How did you guess that?" Ferdinand Frog asked him.

He wished, the next moment, that he had not put that question to Tired Tim. For he saw at once that he had given his sad secret away.



VI

Tired Tim Does A Favor


In spite of all Ferdinand Frog's teasing, Tired Tim Beaver refused to explain how he happened to know Mr. Frog's secret.

To tell the truth, he had guessed the reason why Mr. Frog did not attend the Cedar Swamp singing-parties. But he hoped that Ferdinand Frog would think that some of the musical Frog family had been talking to him. And he even hinted to Mr. Frog that maybe it would be possible to get him an invitation to the singing-parties.

"Do you think you could do that?" Ferdinand Frog asked him with, great eagerness.

"I might be able to; but it wouldn't be an easy matter," Tired Tim replied. "And I'd expect you to do something for me, if I went to so much trouble on your account."

"I'll do anything for you, in return for an invitation to the Cedar Swamp singing-parties," Ferdinand Frog declared.

"Very well!" Tired Tim told him. "I'll go right over to the swamp now. And when I tell 'em a few things, I know they'll want you to join 'em."

Ferdinand Frog felt so gay that he stood on his head and waved his feet in the air.

"Let's meet here to-morrow night," he suggested.

But Tired Tim objected to that plan.

"You would be hanging about this place -- and singing -- for four-and-twenty hours," he grumbled. "It will be a great deal better if we meet on the edge of the swamp."

"Just as you wish!" Ferdinand Frog exclaimed. "And since you're going to Cedar Swamp, I'll hop along with you, to keep you company."

"You forget --  -- " said Tired Tim Beaver --  -- "you forget that you haven't been invited yet."

"Have you?" Mr. Frog inquired.

"Certainly!" said Tired Tim. And grinning over his shoulder, he swam away.

Mr. Frog watched his friend from the shore.

"He can't fool me," he muttered. "Tired Tim invited himself. And I've been stupid not to do likewise."

On the following night Ferdinand Frog went to the edge of Cedar Swamp, where he waited somewhat impatiently on a log until Tired Tim Beaver joined him.

"Well!" Mr. Frog cried. "I'm glad to see you and I hope you've brought my invitation."

But Tired Tim wouldn't say yes or no.

"If I succeed in getting you into the Cedar Swamp singing-parties will you promise me that you won't sing any more around the lake, or near our pond, either?" he demanded.

Ferdinand Frog gave his solemn promise.

"Very well, then!" Tired Tim said. "Go along over to the swamp. They're expecting you."

When he heard the good news Ferdinand Frog was so delighted that he leaped into the air and kicked his heels together.

And then forgetting his solemn promise, he began to bellow at the top of his voice:

"To Cedar Swamp I'll haste away; Though first I'll sing a song. My voice I must not waste to-day, So I'll not keep you long. I simply want to let you know I'm much obliged, before I go."

"Don't mention it!" said Tired Tim.

"Don't interrupt me, please!" said Ferdinand Frog. "I haven't finished thanking you yet. That's only the first verse."

"How many more are there?" Tired Tim inquired with a yawn.

"Ninety-nine!" Mr. Frog answered. And he was somewhat surprised -- and puzzled -- when Tired Tim left him suddenly and plunged into the underbrush.



VII

The Singing-Party


Ferdinand Frog lost no time, after Tired Tim left him. He jumped into the swamp and made straight towards the very middle of it, whence he could already hear the chorus of the numerous Frog family; for the singing-party had begun.

Mr. Frog made all haste, not wishing to miss any more of the fun. Now swimming, now leaping from one hummock to another -- or sometimes to an old stump -- he quickly reached the place where the Frog family were enjoying themselves.

"Here he is!" several of the singers exclaimed as soon as Ferdinand Frog's head popped out of the water, in their midst.

He saw at once that they had been expecting him; and he smiled and bowed -- and waited for the company to stop singing and give him a warm greeting with their cold, damp hands. But except for those first few words, no one paid the slightest attention to the newcomer.

In fact, nobody even took the trouble to nod to Ferdinand Frog -- much less to shake hands with him and tell him that he was welcome.

Meanwhile one song followed another with hardly a pause between them. And Mr. Frog found that he did not know the words of even one.

He was so impatient that at last he climbed upon an old fallen tree-trunk, which stuck out of the greenish-black water, and began to roar his favorite song, while he beat time for the other singers. The name of that song was "A Frog on a Log in a Bog"; and Ferdinand Frog thought that he couldn't have chosen another so fitting.

But the rest of the singing-party had other ideas. They turned about and scowled at Mr. Frog as if he had done something most unpleasant.

"Stop! Stop!" several of them cried. And an important-looking fellow near him shouted, "Don't sing that, for pity's sake!"

"Why not?" Ferdinand Frog faltered. "What's the matter with my song? It's my special favorite, which I sing at least fifty times each night, regularly."

"It's old stuff," the other told him with a sneer. "We haven't sung that for a year, at least."

Ferdinand Frog did not try to argue with him. But as soon as he saw another chance he began a different ditty.

Then a loud groan arose. And somebody stopped him again. And Mr. Frog soon learned that they hadn't sung that one for a year and a half.

Though he tried again and again, he had no better luck. But he kept smiling bravely. And finally he asked the company in a loud voice if he "wasn't going to have a chance."

"Certainly!" a number of the singers assured him. "Your chance is coming later. We shan't forget you."

And that made Ferdinand Frog feel better. He told himself that he could wait patiently for a time -- if it wasn't too long.



VIII

The Missing Supper


Ferdinand Frog had begun to feel uneasy again. He was afraid that the singers had forgotten their promise to him. But at last they suddenly started a rousing song which made him take heart again.

They roared out the chorus in a joyful way which left no doubt in his mind that his chance was at hand:

"Now that the concert is ended We'll sit at the banquet and feast. Now that the singing's suspended We'll dine till it's gray in the east."

Mr. Frog only hoped that the company did not expect him to sing to them all the time while they were banqueting.

"They needn't think -- " he murmured under his breath -- "they needn't think I don't like good things to eat as well as they do." But he let no one see that he was worried. That was Ferdinand Frog's way: almost always he managed to smile, no matter how things went.

When the last echoes of the song had died away a great hubbub arose. Everybody crowded around Mr. Frog. And there were cries of "Now! Now!"

He thought, of course, that they wanted to hear him sing. So he started once more to sing his favorite song. But they stopped him quickly.

"We've finished the songs for to-night," they told him. "We're ready for the supper now. . . . Where is it?"

"Supper?" Mr. Frog faltered, as his jaw dropped. "What supper?"

"The supper you're going to give us!" the whole company shouted. "You know -- don't you? -- that we have just made a rule for new members: they're to furnish a banquet."

Ferdinand Frog's eyes seemed to bulge further out of his head than ever.

"I -- I never heard of this before!" he stammered.

"Didn't Tired Tim tell you about our new rule?" somebody inquired. "It was his own idea."

"He never said a word to me about it!" Ferdinand Frog declared with a loud laugh. "And I can't give you a supper, for I haven't one ready."

"Then we'll postpone it until to-morrow night," the company told him hopefully.

"What does your rule say?" Ferdinand Frog rolled his eyes as he put the question to them.

"It says that the banquet must take place the first night the new member is present," a fat gentleman replied.

"Then I can't give you any food to-morrow night," Mr. Frog informed them, "because it would be against the rule."

"Then you can't be a member!" a hundred voices croaked.

"I am one now," Ferdinand Frog replied happily. "And what's more, I don't see how you can keep me out of your singing-parties."

There was silence for a time.

"We've been sold," some one said at last. "We've no rule to prevent this fellow from coming here. And the worst of it is, as everybody knows, his voice is so loud it will spoil all our songs."

Oddly enough, the speaker was the very one who had always objected to inviting Ferdinand Frog to join the singing parties. His own voice had always been the loudest in the whole company. And naturally he did not want anybody with a louder one to come and drown his best notes.

But now he couldn't help himself. And thereafter when the singers met in Cedar Swamp he always turned greener in the face than ever and looked as if he were about to burst, when Ferdinand Frog opened his mouth its widest and let his voice rumble forth into the night.



IX

The Mysterious Stranger


When Ferdinand Frog first came to the Beaver pond to live no one knew anything about him.

He appeared suddenly -- no one knew whence -- and at once made himself very much at home. It was no time at all before he could call every one of the big Beaver family by name. And he acted exactly as if the pond belonged to him, instead of to the Beavers, whose great-grandfathers had dammed the stream many years before.

But the newcomer was so polite that nobody cared to send him away. At the same time, people couldn't help wondering who the stranger was and where he had come from and what his plans for the future were. Whenever two or three Beavers stopped working long enough to enjoy a pleasant chat, they were sure to talk of the mysterious Mr. Frog and tell one another what they thought of him. Many were the tales told about the nimble fellow.

Some said that he had moved all the way from Farmer Green's duck pond, because Johnnie Green had tried to catch him; while others declared that Ferdinand Frog was a famous singer, who had come to that quiet spot in order to rest his voice, which had become harsh from too much use. Indeed, there were so many stories about the stranger that it was hard to know which to believe -- especially after old Mr. Crow informed Brownie Beaver that in his opinion Ferdinand Frog was a slippery fellow. "I shouldn't be surprised --  -- " Mr. Crow had said with a wise wag of his head --  -- "I shouldn't be surprised if his real name was Ferdinand Fraud."

Anyhow, there was one thing that almost all the Beaver colony agreed upon. They were of one opinion as to Mr. Frog's clothes, which they thought must be very fashionable, because they were like no others that had ever been seen before in those parts.

There was one young gentleman, however -- the beau of the village -- who disputed everybody, saying that he believed that Ferdinand Frog must be wearing old clothes that were many years behind the times.

Now, there was one lazy Beaver known as Tired Tim who had nothing better to do than to go straight to Mr. Frog and repeat what he heard.

To Tired Tim's surprise -- for he had expected Mr. Frog to lose his temper -- to his surprise that gentleman appeared much amused by the bit of gossip. He shook with silent laughter for a time, quite as if he were saving his voice to use that evening. And then he said:

"So your young friend thinks I'm not in style, eh? . . . Well, I'll tell you something: he's right, in a way. And in another way he isn't. The reason why I'm not in style is because I always aim to keep five years ahead of everybody else.

"Five years from now and your neighbors will all be wearing clothes like mine."

"Can't we ever catch up with you?" Tired Tim asked him.

"There's only one way you can do that," was Mr. Frog's mysterious answer.

And he would say no more.



X

Catching Up With Mr. Frog


Tired Tim Beaver asked Mr. Frog point-blank how a person might catch up with him in the matter of clothes.

"If you manage to dress in a style that's five years ahead of the times, I should like to know the way to be just as fashionable," Tired Tim said.

But he got no help -- then -- from Mr. Frog. All Ferdinand Frog would say was that he'd be glad to oblige a friend, but he couldn't -- and wouldn't -- be hurried.

And though the unhappy, eager Tim teased and begged him to tell his secret, Mr. Frog only smiled the more cheerfully and said nothing.

It was maddening -- for Tired Tim -- though Mr. Frog seemed to be enjoying himself hugely. And the result was that Tired Tim Beaver returned to the village in the pond in a terrible state of mind. Since he told everyone else what he had learned about Ferdinand Frog and his clothes, it was only a short time before the whole Beaver family was so stirred up that they couldn't do a stroke of work. Ferdinand Frog was in everybody's mouth, so to speak. And at last old Grandaddy Beaver hit upon a plan.

"Why don't you get somebody to make you a suit exactly like Mr. Frog's?" he asked Tired Tim.

So Tired Tim took Grandaddy's advice. That very night he disappeared, to swagger back in a few days in a costume that made him appear almost like Mr. Frog's twin brother -- if one didn't look at his face. And there were some among the villagers who even declared that Tired Tim's mouth seemed wider than it had been, and more like Mr. Frog's.

When they asked Tired Tim if his tailor hadn't stretched his mouth for him he replied no, that he had been smiling a good deal for a day or two, and perhaps that was what made his mouth look different.

Well, the whole Beaver village was delighted with Tired Tim's new suit.

"Wait till Mr. Frog sees you!" people cried. "He'll be so surprised!"

Mr. Frog Liked to Hear Himself Sing

And somebody swam away in great haste to find Mr. Frog and ask him to come to the lower end of the pond, where all the houses were. But when Ferdinand Frog arrived, everybody was disappointed, and especially Tired Tim, who had felt very proud in his gorgeous new clothes. For he saw at once that Mr. Frog was arrayed from head to foot in an entirely new outfit. He looked almost like a rainbow, so brilliant were the colors of his costume.

At the same time Tired Tim put on as brave a front as he could. And drawing near to Mr. Frog, he said:

"What do you think of my new suit?"

Ferdinand Frog looked at him as if he hadn't noticed him before.

"Your suit's all right," he replied, "for one who isn't particular. But it's not far enough ahead of the times for me. . . . I'd hate to be caught wearing it."

It was a bitter blow for Tired Tim Beaver. In fact, he felt more tired than ever; and he sank to the bottom of the pond to rest, where his friends couldn't see him.

As for the other members of the Beaver family, they all went home with a great longing inside them. There wasn't a single one of them that wasn't eager to wear clothes exactly as far ahead of the times as were those of the elegant stranger, Ferdinand Frog.



XI

Ferdinand Frog Is In No Hurry


Although everybody in the Beaver village looked worried, Mr. Frog seemed to be all the more cheerful. He knew well enough that there was hardly one Beaver in the pond that didn't wish and long for clothes which were, like Mr. Frog's, five years ahead of the times.

As day after day passed, not only were the Beavers unable to do a single stroke of work; they were so upset that they could scarcely eat or sleep. And at last the older villagers, such as Grandaddy Beaver, began to see that something would have to be done. There was the dam, which needed mending; and there was the winter's food, which had to be gathered.

So Grandaddy Beaver went to Ferdinand Frog one day and told him that he simply must come to the rescue of the pond folk, and tell them how they might have clothes as far ahead of the times as were his own.

"Why?" Mr. Frog inquired. "What's the trouble?"

"They can't work," Grandaddy Beaver told him. "And there's the dam to be fixed, and tree-tops to be cut and stored for food, because winter's a-coming, and there's no way we can stop it."

"I'll tell you what you and your people can do," Ferdinand Frog replied. "Just bury yourselves in the mud during the winter, as I do, and you'd have no use for a dam, nor for food, either."

But Grandaddy Beaver explained that though such a plan might suit a Frog exceedingly well, for a Beaver it would never do at all.

"You have got us into this scrape," he told Mr. Frog, "so it's only fair that you should help us out of it."

Ferdinand Frog then did a number of things, all of which were intended to let Grandaddy Beaver see that what he asked couldn't be done. Mr. Frog held up his hands with the palms out and rolled his eyes; he shut his great mouth together as if he did not intend to say another word. He looked so determined that Grandaddy Beaver's heart sank.

And then -- when Grandaddy Beaver had almost given up all hope -- then Mr. Frog said suddenly:

"I'll consent to help you, because I see that it's my duty."

"Good!" Grandaddy Beaver cried. "I told people that I knew you'd come to our rescue, for you have such a kind face! . . .

"And now, tell me!" he bade Ferdinand Frog with great eagerness, while he held a hand behind one of his ears, in order to hear more clearly.

But Mr. Frog was not ready to give away his secret.

He winked at Grandaddy Beaver, and poked his fingers into the old gentleman's ribs.

"Not so fast, my lad!" said Mr. Frog, who was certainly many years younger than Grandaddy Beaver. "I'm not prepared to explain everything to you just yet.

"You come to the big rock on the other side of the pond as soon as it's dark to-night; and bring with you everybody who wants to know how to get clothes like mine.

"Now, do exactly as I say," Mr. Frog cautioned Grandaddy, "and everything will be made easy."



XII

A Bad Blunder


When it was almost dark Grandaddy Beaver swam across the pond to the big rock, where Ferdinand Frog had told him to come.

And trooping after Daddy was almost everybody in the village. Not counting the women and children, there were eleven of them. They climbed upon the rock, looking for Mr. Frog. But he was nowhere in sight.

"He'll be here in a minute or two, probably," Grandaddy Beaver said hopefully, for all he looked a bit anxious.

Then somebody spied a neat building near-by, which not one of them had noticed before.

"What's this strange house?" people asked one another. "Is this where Mr. Frog lives?"

But nobody seemed to know the answer to that question.

"It can't be a shop," Grandaddy decided, "for there's no sign on it. And nobody would have a shop without a sign."

Now, the door of the little building was shut and fastened. And the window-shades were pulled carefully down. It certainly looked as if nobody was at home.

But suddenly there came a sound that made the Beaver family jump. It came from the house -- there was no doubt of that.

In fact it came right through the keyhole; and it was like nothing in the world but a sneeze.

A number of people were all ready to jump into the water and swim away, they were so startled.

And then a snicker followed the sneeze. And by that time Grandaddy Beaver and his friends guessed who was inside the building. It was Ferdinand Frog; and he had been watching his callers all the time, through the keyhole, and listening to everything that they said.

A few felt slightly uneasy, as they tried to remember exactly what remarks they had made about Mr. Frog himself.

"Come out!" they all cried, as soon as they had recovered from their surprise. "We want to see you!" And they formed a half-circle in the dooryard.

Presently the door swung out, as if somebody had pushed it open. And there, on the inside of the open door, which was flung back against the outside of the building, they all saw a sign, which said:

Mr. Ferdinand Frog Unfashionable Tailor All The Styles Five Years Ahead Of The Times

People began exclaiming that that was just like Ferdinand Frog -- who was an odd fellow -- to have his sign painted on the inside of his door instead of on the outside.

"It'll be all the style five years from now," he retorted.

So that was Mr. Frog's secret! He was a tailor himself! And there he was, ready to make clothes for all of them!

It was almost too good to be true. But there he stood in the doorway, with a tape around his neck, smiling and bowing.

"You'd better form in line!" he suggested. "You can come in through the front door. I'll measure you. And you can pass out the back way. . . . Don't crowd, please!"

Now, that was just where Mr. Frog made a great blunder. But he didn't find it out till it was too late.



XIII

A Sixty-Inch Meal


Mr. Frog's scheme of measuring the Beaver family for new suits had just one drawback; the Beaver family liked it too well. So pleased were they over the prospect of having "unfashionable" clothes like Mr. Frog's at last that all of them wanted to be measured not once but several times. And each and every one, as soon as Mr. Frog had taken his measurements, went out through the back door and slipped around the little building, to wait again at the foot of the line.

Now, Mr. Frog was a spry worker. He passed his tape around his customers and jotted down figures on flat, black stones as fast as he could make his fingers fly. And if it hadn't been for just one thing Ferdinand Frog would have been quite happy. But beginning with his first customer, he was somewhat troubled; for in the whole company he found not one who had brought his pocket-book with him.

"What's the matter?" he asked Grandaddy Beaver, when the old gentleman's turn came. "Didn't you tell 'em what I said about pocket-books?"

"I certainly did!" Grandaddy replied. "I told them to be sure to leave their pocket-books at home."

Mr. Frog gulped once or twice, as if he were swallowing something unpleasant. And he looked most surprised.

"Why, that's exactly wrong!" he cried.

"Is that so?" Grandaddy Beaver quavered. "Then I must have made a mistake. You know I'm a leetle hard of hearing."

"Never mind!" Ferdinand Frog answered, for he always took his troubles lightly. "Bring 'em when you come to have your clothes fitted and it'll be all right."

So he worked on. But by and by he began to grow uneasy again. And now and then he paused and went to the window, where he peered somewhat anxiously at the Beavers who waited before his door in a long line.

"It's queer!" Mr. Frog exclaimed aloud at last. "Here I've been measuring 'em for an hour and a half; and there's just as many of 'em left. . . . I'll have to stop soon," he continued, "for I'm going to a singing-party to-night. And I don't want to be late."

His customers, however, wouldn't hear of his leaving. The moment Mr. Frog's remarks passed down the line, the Beaver family began to jostle and push one another. They crowded inside the tailor's shop.

And to get rid of them, Mr. Frog worked faster than ever. So great was his haste that he measured everybody wrong; whereas before he had measured them correctly, while merely scratching wrong figures upon the stones.

And finally he stopped suddenly. As Grandaddy Beaver stepped forward to be measured for the fourth time it dawned upon Mr. Frog that he had measured him several times already.

But Ferdinand Frog said nothing at all.

Holding one end of his tape in his mouth, he passed the other end around Grandaddy's plump body.

All at once a cry of dismay came from the customers who were looking on while they waited.

"He's swallowing the tape!" they cried, pointing to Mr. Frog.

It was true. Beneath their horrified gaze the tape-measure disappeared little by little inside Mr. Frog's mouth. And before any of them could come to his senses and seize the end of the yellow strip, it had vanished from view completely.

Of course they saw that the tailor could work no longer that evening. So they filed sadly out of the shop.

"How did it happen?" they asked Mr. Frog, who was already locking his door.

"The tape stuck to my tongue," he explained. "Everything does, you know. But it doesn't matter, because I was hungry. And now I feel better."

So Mr. Frog reached the singing-party in time, after all.



XIV

An Unpleasant Mix-Up


For a long time after he took the measurements of the Beaver family Mr. Frog kept carefully out of sight. Though several of the Beavers visited his shop every day, they always found the door locked and the shades drawn. But from various odd sounds -- such as giggles and titters and snickers -- which they heard by listening at the keyhole, they knew that the tailor was inside.

To all their knocks and calls, however, Mr. Frog made no other response. He was working busily, and he did not want to be interrupted.

At last, to the delight of everybody, a notice appeared one evening upon Mr. Frog's door, which said:

To-Morrow Will Be Fitting-Day

Well, never was such excitement known in the Beaver family -- unless it was when the great freshet came, and almost washed away the dam. And it was lucky there was no freshet upon Mr. Frog's fitting-day, for there would have been no one except the women and children to do any work. Some of the young dandies even spent the night right in front of Mr. Frog's tailor's shop, in order to be among the first to try on their new clothes, which were to be five years ahead of the times.

When Mr. Frog opened his door bright and early the following morning he had to beg his eager customers to keep order.

"There's a suit here for everybody," he announced. "But if you crowd into my shop I may get the garments mixed. And that would be terrible."

So the Beaver gentlemen were as quiet and orderly as they could be. But as for Mr. Frog himself, he jumped around as if he were standing in a hot frying-pan. He hustled his customers into their suits in no time, assuring each one that his garments fitted him perfectly, and asking him please to step out through the back door and wait.

By the time the last Beaver had on his new clothes, and Mr. Frog followed him into the back-yard, the tailor found that there was a frightful uproar outside. There wasn't one of the Beavers who didn't claim that there was something wrong about his new clothes. But whether sleeves, trousers or coat-tails were too short or too long, or whether they were too loose or too tight, Mr. Frog declared that they were exactly as they should be, because they were bound to be in style in five years' time, and nobody -- so he said -- could prove otherwise.

Of course, the Beaver family was far from satisfied. Though they had what they had been wishing for, they couldn't help thinking that they looked very queer -- as, indeed, they did.

But Ferdinand Frog told the crowd that it was only because they weren't used to being dressed in that fashion. He said he certainly was pleased with their appearance and that he had never seen any company that looked the least bit like them.

There was one Beaver, however, who shouted angrily that he knew his suit wasn't fashionable and that he wouldn't accept it.



XV

Everyone Is Happy


Mr. Frog led the angry Beaver around to the front of his shop, while the others followed, and pointed to his sign.

"There!" he said. "Don't you see that I claim to be an unfashionable tailor? You'll have to keep that suit, and pay me for it, too. And so will everybody else."

But the whole Beaver family cried out that they objected. "No one ever pays his tailor," they told Mr. Frog. "It's not the fashionable thing to do."

Even then Ferdinand Frog continued to smile at them. He was such an agreeable chap!

"I know it's not fashionable now," he admitted, "but it will be five years from now. And since it's my way to collect on delivery, I'll thank you to step up one at a time and pay me. . . . And please don't crowd!" he added.

There was really no need of that last warning, because nobody made a move.

Mr. Frog, however, was not dismayed. He leaped suddenly into the air and alighted directly in front of a Beaver known among his friends as Stingy Steve -- the very one to whom Mr. Frog had just shown his sign.

"Pay up, please!" Ferdinand Frog said.

"How much do I owe you?" the uneasy Beaver asked him.

"Sixty!" Mr. Frog told him, with a grin.

Stingy Steve thrust his hand inside the pocket of his new trousers, from which he slowly drew one of Mr. Frog's tape-measures -- of which the tailor had at least a dozen. Mr. Frog was always tucking them away in odd places.

"Here!" Stingy Steve cried. "Here's your pay -- sixty inches, neither more nor less!"

But Ferdinand Frog only laughed and told him that he didn't mean inches. That, he explained, was no pay at all.

"I know," Stingy Steve replied. "I know it's not the fashionable way to pay a bill at present. But it will be five years from now. And what's more, you can't prove that what I say isn't true."

For a few moments Mr. Frog stood there gasping. And pretty soon he noticed that his customers were all busily picking up chips and sticks and pebbles. At first he thought they were going to throw them at him; and he was all ready to jump.

But he soon found that he was mistaken.

"Here! Here's your pay, Mr. Frog!" they began to cry. And to their astonishment Mr. Frog began to laugh.

"I don't want any pay," he declared. "Will you all promise to wear your new clothes if I make them free?"

"Yes! Yes! Yes!" sounded on all sides.

"Then it's a bargain!" Ferdinand Frog shouted. And he leaped into the air and kicked his heels together three times.

After that he turned a back somersault, and then he rolled over and over until he landed with a great splash in the pond.

Deep down on the muddy bottom Mr. Frog laughed as if he could never stop. The Beavers on the bank could neither see nor hear him. And he knew there was no danger of their thinking him impolite, especially when he said:

"They don't even know that I've played a trick on them! And what a terrible sight they are! I've never seen any company that looked the least bit like them."



XVI

Stop That!


On a cool summer's morning Ferdinand Frog was sitting among the reeds near the bank of the pond when a harsh voice suddenly said:

"Stop that!"

Looking up, Mr. Frog saw a huge bird standing on one leg in the water, watching him. The stranger was actually so big that Mr. Frog hadn't noticed him.

To be sure, he had seen what he thought was a stick stuck upright in the muddy bottom of the pond. That was really the stranger's leg; but Mr. Frog hadn't taken the trouble to glance upwards and see what was at the top of it.

Of course, Mr. Frog was frightened as soon as he discovered his mistake, for the bird had a great, long bill. Without being told, Ferdinand Frog knew that that bill could open like a trap -- and seize him, too. But he showed not the least sign that he was even disturbed.

"Stop that, I say!" the stranger repeated, before Mr. Frog had so much as said a word.

"Stop what?" Mr. Frog asked.

"Stop sticking your tongue out at me!" the other commanded.

In spite of his alarm, when he heard that Ferdinand Frog began to laugh.

"I beg your pardon," he said, "but I think you are mistaken. I wasn't sticking my tongue out at you. I was only catching flies." Mr. Frog paid no attention to the sneering laugh that the stranger gave. "You see," he went on, "I'm having my breakfast. And this is how I manage it: I wait here without moving until a fly comes my way. Then I dart my tongue at him as quick as lightning.

"My tongue," Mr. Frog explained, "is fastened at the front of my mouth instead of at the back. So I can often reach a fly when he thinks he's perfectly safe. And furthermore, my tongue is so sticky that if it touches a fly, he can't get away. Then I swallow that one and wait for another."

"A likely story!" the big bird scoffed. "I've been watching you for a long time (Mr. Frog shivered when he heard that!) and I know what I'm talking about. . . . There you go again!" he shrieked angrily, as Ferdinand Frog's tongue flew out and captured another fly so quickly that the stranger couldn't see just what had happened.

"Listen to me a moment!" Mr. Frog said. "Like most people, I have to eat. And when I eat I can't help sticking out my tongue. So I'd suggest that if you don't care to watch me at my breakfast you'd better go away. It certainly isn't my fault that you're standing right in front of me."

But the stranger declined to move.

"If you really meant to be polite," he grumbled, "you'd at least turn your back when you stick out your tongue."

But Mr. Frog never stirred. He was afraid that the moment he turned his back the big bird would pounce upon him.

"It's not necessary for me to turn around now," he explained. "I've finished my breakfast. And I hope you've had yours, too."

Grand-daddy Beaver Appeals to Mr. Frog

"I'm sorry to say that I have," the stranger answered with a sigh, as he looked longingly at plump Mr. Frog. "I couldn't eat another mouthful if it sat right in front of me."

And then Ferdinand Frog felt as if a great weight had been lifted from his mind. He smiled all over his face, to show the stranger that he was glad to see him.

"Ah!" Mr. Frog cried. "Then we can have a friendly chat together. I always like to talk with travellers. . . . What a long, sharp bill you have!"

Now, some people would think that a rude remark. But it seemed to please the stranger immensely.



XVII

A Long, Sharp Bill


Certainly it was an odd remark that Ferdinand Frog made about the stranger's wicked-looking bill. But knowing that its owner had eaten until he had no appetite left for the time being, Mr. Frog forgot his fear. And he couldn't help being curious about the big bird, because he had never seen another like him.

Of course, what Mr. Frog said would have annoyed some people a good deal, for he had just the same as told the stranger that he had a long, sharp nose. But luckily it happened that the newcomer was very vain both of the length and the sharpness of his bill. So he liked Mr. Frog's comment. And he promptly forgot his displeasure over Mr. Frog's tongue.

"Yes!" he said, in response to Ferdinand Frog's speech, "there isn't another bill like mine for twenty miles around -- except my wife's."

"You don't live in this neighborhood, do you?" Mr. Frog inquired.

"My home is beyond the Second Mountain," the stranger informed him.

And Ferdinand Frog was glad to hear that the huge fellow dwelt no nearer.

"What's your name, friend?" Mr. Frog then asked.

"My name --  -- " the giant bird replied -- "my name is G. B. Heron."

"'G. B.'!" Mr. Frog exclaimed, turning a pale green color. "What do those letters stand for? Not Grizzly Bear, I hope!" He had heard of -- but had never seen -- a Grizzly Bear; and for a moment he thought that perhaps he had met one at last.

But the stranger soon set his fresh fears at rest.

"My full name," he told Mr. Frog, "is Great Blue Heron. But plain Mr. Heron will do, when you address me."

"I hope I'll see you sooner the next time we meet," Mr. Frog said. And he resolved that he would keep a sharp eye out for Mr. Heron, so that he might have plenty of time to hide the moment he caught sight of him.

"There's no doubt that we'll meet again," Mr. Heron replied. "I expect to come here to live. And I flew over here to-day to look about a bit. . . . Are there many in your family?"

"No!" Mr. Frog hastened to answer. "There's only myself living in this pond."

"But you must have plenty of relations somewhere," Mr. G. B. Heron insisted. "If I came here to live, and anything happened to you, I'd want to tell your family."

"Well, I have a few relations, to be sure," Mr. Frog admitted. "But they don't amount to much. They're a stringy lot, I can tell you."

Mr. Heron looked at him as if he couldn't quite believe that statement.

"That's odd," he observed. "Now, you're nice and plump."

"Oh, I'm too fat," Ferdinand Frog said. "Aunt Polly Woodchuck tells me that if I get much fatter I'll lose my good looks."

"I don't agree with her," said Mr. Heron. "You look good to me."

And now it was Mr. Frog's turn to be pleased; for he was very vain.

"I'm glad to hear it!" he cried. "And I'll tell you a secret: I've always been quite satisfied with myself until my eyes fell on you. Oh! if I only had such a bill as yours!"

"You like my bill, then?" Mr. Heron asked him.

"Yes!" Ferdinand Frog answered. "And it must be very handy, too."

"What for?" Mr. Heron inquired.

"Why, for making button-holes!" Ferdinand Frog exclaimed.



XVIII

Making Button-Holes


Mr. Heron couldn't help being interested.

"Button-holes in what?" he asked Ferdinand Frog.

"Why, in suits of clothes, of course!" the tailor answered. "If you had a tailor's shop, as I have, you'd find that bill of yours a handy thing to have. When you wanted to make a button-hole in a piece of cloth all you'd need do would be to stick your bill through it."

"I'd like to try that," Mr. Heron remarked.

"Then come right over to my shop," Mr. Frog urged him. "I'll let you make all the button-holes you want."

"Very well!" Mr. Heron agreed. "I'll make button-holes until I get hungry."

"That's a good idea!" Mr. Frog cried. And his new friend smiled, for he thought the tailor must be very stupid. He intended to stay with Mr. Frog until he was hungry enough to eat him. And no one who wasn't dull-witted could have failed to grasp his plan.

Well, they started off together; and they arrived shortly afterward at the tailor's shop.

Observing that Mr. Heron was altogether too big to squeeze inside the tiny building, Mr. Frog entered it, to reappear soon with an armful of cloth.

On this Mr. Frog proceeded to mark a row of dots. And then he hung the cloth upon some reeds.

"There!" he announced. "Can you hit the mark?"

"Certainly I can," Mr. Heron replied. And quick as lightning his sharp bill darted out and made a neat hole exactly where every dot had been.

"Splendid! Perfect!" Mr. Frog exclaimed. And thereupon he brought forth more cloth.

In a surprisingly short time Mr. Heron had made eighty-seven button-holes. But Mr. Frog noticed that beginning with the seventy-seventh button-hole the stranger's aim began to fail. He did not hit the dots quite squarely. And he seemed not to have his mind on his work.

"What's the matter?" Mr. Frog inquired. "Are you getting tired?"

"No -- not tired," Mr. Heron told him.

"Are your eyes troubling you?" the tailor asked him.

"No -- I can see well enough," Mr. Heron replied. "But I'm beginning to feel a bit faint. And I think I've made enough button-holes for one day."

But Mr. Frog said that he had a special suit which he was making for somebody. And he begged Mr. Heron to make the button-holes in that too.

Mr. Heron frowned. But presently he yielded, telling Mr. Frog to hurry, for he had another matter to attend to.

So the tailor leaped into his shop once more. And for a few moments he was very busy, arranging another strip of cloth so that the stranger might make button-holes in it.

When all was ready Mr. Heron stepped up to do his work. He was just about to strike, when he suddenly paused.

"Who's going to have this suit?" he asked the tailor.

"Mr. Fish Hawk," said the tailor. "Do you know him?"

"I should say I did!" Mr. Heron cried. "And he's no friend of mine, I assure you. I only wish he was behind this cloth! I'd run my bill clean through him!"

A cold, cruel glitter came into Mr. Heron's eyes. And when he struck, he struck with all his power, as if he were driving his wicked bill through Mr. Fish Hawk that very moment.

He made only that one thrust. And he did not withdraw his bill, either. Instead he set up a terrible squawking and began to flounder about on the bank of the pond.

"Help! Help!" he cried in a muffled voice.

But Ferdinand Frog only smiled -- and made no move to assist his new acquaintance. The truth of the matter was that he had hidden a block of wood behind the cloth, and Mr. Heron had driven his bill into it so far that he couldn't pull it out.

With a loud chuckle Mr. Frog jumped into the water and swam away. And that very day he moved to Black Creek, without troubling himself to learn how Mr. Heron got himself out of his difficulty.

But the tailor couldn't help thinking what a handy thing it would be to have a bill like Mr. Heron's.

"He can even make button-holes in wood!" Mr. Frog exclaimed.



XIX

The Swimming Teacher


It surprised the wild folk in Pleasant Valley when they learned that Mr. Frog had forsaken the Beaver pond for a new home on the bank of Black Creek.

When his friends asked him why he had moved Mr. Frog told them he had made up his mind that the pond was too damp for the good of his health. Besides, Black Creek was nearer Cedar Swamp, where the Frog family held their singing-parties.

Of course, the real reason for Ferdinand Frog's change of scene was that he was afraid Mr. Heron might return to the Beaver pond some day, to look for him.

And when that happened, Mr. Frog did not care to be there.

In his new home, however, he felt quite at his ease. And he set out at once to make himself agreeable to his neighbors.

The nearest of these were Long Bill Wren and his wife, who at that time chanced to have a family of five growing children.

Mr. Frog took a great interest in the youngsters, who were already big enough to leave their ball-shaped home, which hung among the reeds, and hop about on the bank of the creek -- and even fly a bit now and then.

Quite often Mr. Frog stopped to look at Long Bill's children and tell their parents how handsome they were.

"I suppose -- " he said to their father one day --  -- "I suppose you are going to teach them to swim?"

Long Bill Wren hadn't thought of that. And he said quickly that he was afraid it wouldn't be safe.

But Mr. Frog replied that it certainly wouldn't be safe not to, living as they did so close to the water.

"They're liable to tumble in almost any day," he said. "I suppose you can swim, yourself?"

"No!" Long Bill answered, looking somewhat worried. "I've never learned how."

Mr. Frog appeared greatly surprised by his neighbor's reply.

"Then I'd be glad to teach your children," he offered.

"Swimming is a very simple matter. And when you're young is the time to learn. I began when I was a tadpole. And knowing how to swim has saved my life a good many times."

Naturally the children were eager to have a lesson at once. And Long Bill Wren was about to yield to their teasing, when his wife happened to come flying home.

"What's going on here?" she asked sharply, for she saw that something unusual was afoot.

And when her husband explained Mr. Frog had kindly offered to teach the children to swim she cried, "The idea! I won't have it!"

Long Bill Wren looked uncomfortable. He was afraid his wife had hurt Mr. Frog's feelings.

But Mr. Frog smiled and bowed politely to Mrs. Wren.

"Surely you're not afraid your children will drown in my care?" he cried.

"No!" she told him. "The trouble is I'd be nervous, because one of my young brothers was eaten by a member of your family."

Ferdinand Frog's face fell. But not for long.

"I don't see how that could have come about," he declared. "It must have been an accident."

"Perhaps!" Long Bill's wife replied. "Anyhow, I want no such accidents to happen to my children." And she looked sternly at her new neighbor.

Mr. Frog glanced away uneasily.

"I'm afraid," he observed, "you do not trust me. But I assure you I had no idea of eating any of your little ones. They'd be perfectly safe with me. Why, every one of them is so plump I'd never be able to decide which one to choose first!"

He often wondered, afterward, why Mrs. Wren promptly called all her children into the house.



XX

Disturbing The Neighbors


It was no wonder that Long Bill Wren's wife did not care for Ferdinand Frog, after his blundering remark about her children.

Though her husband often told her that Mr. Frog must have been merely joking, she insisted that he was not a safe person to have in the neighborhood.

"That Mr. Frog certainly is a queer one," she said to her husband one day. "I was watching him this morning. And what do you suppose I saw him do?" Mrs. Wren did not wait for Long Bill to answer her question. "Mr. Frog actually pulled off his own skin!" she cackled nervously.

"Cat-tails and pussy-willows!" Long Bill Wren exclaimed -- which was his way of showing he was surprised. "Mr. Frog must be ill. Maybe I ought to go and tell Aunt Polly Woodchuck, the herb-doctor, and ask her to come over here at once."

His wife, however, shook her head.

"He can't be ill," she said.

"Why not?"

"His appetite is still good," she explained. "I saw Mr. Frog swallow his skin after he had pulled it off. And it didn't seem to disagree with him. He went in swimming right afterwards."

"Ah!" Long Bill exclaimed. "That's a very dangerous thing to do. At least, I've often heard Johnnie Green say that a boy ought not to go in the water sooner than a full hour after he has had a meal."

"There he is now!" Mrs. Wren cried abruptly. "There's Mr. Frog!"

Peeping out of the doorway on one side of his ball-shaped house, Long Bill could see Ferdinand Frog paddling about in Black Creek.

While they were watching him, he sank before their eyes. And after a time they couldn't help feeling uneasy, because their odd neighbor did not show himself again.

"I'm afraid --  -- " Long Bill whispered at last --  -- "I'm afraid he was taken with a cramp, for that's what you get by swimming too soon after a meal -- so Johnnie Green says. . . . I'm glad now that we didn't let Mr. Frog teach our children to swim, because it's easy to see that he's a careless fellow."

So worried were Long Bill and his wife over Mr. Frog's disappearance that they hurried out and told all their neighbors about it. And soon a crowd had gathered upon the bank of the creek, to watch the spot where Mr. Frog had vanished.

They stayed there for a long time. But to their great alarm, their missing friend did not reappear.

"I hope he's safe," old Mr. Turtle piped in his thin, quavering voice. "He's making a new suit for me; and I'd hate to have anything happen to him."

"What's this -- a party?" a voice called suddenly from under the bank. And then Mr. Frog himself, looking fine and fit, hopped up and stood before the company, with a broad grin on his face.

"Where have you been?" they shouted. "We were worried about you."

"Oh, I've been having a mud bath at the bottom of the creek," Mr. Frog told them. "Mud baths, you know, are very healthful. And I advise you all to try one."



XXI

Mud Baths


Though Mr. Frog agreed cheerfully to show his neighbors how to take a mud bath, there wasn't even one of them that accepted his offer.

To be sure, old Mr. Turtle remarked that there was a good deal to be said about mud baths. And then he waddled to the water's edge and swam away.

"You heard what he said," Mr. Frog continued, turning to those who were left. "It's simple enough. All one has to do is to dive down to the bottom of the creek and bury himself snugly in the soft mud."

"How do you breathe?" somebody inquired.

"Oh, that's simple enough," Mr. Frog replied. "You breathe through your skin."

Smiles appeared on the faces of his listeners. And here and there a cough sounded. It was plain that the company had little faith in Mr. Frog's easy explanation.

"Doesn't it hurt your skin to breathe through it?" some one else asked.

"What if it does?" Ferdinand Frog retorted. "When your skin becomes worn, pull it off!"

Everybody laughed heartily at his answer; or at least, everybody except Long Bill Wren and his wife. They exchanged a thoughtful look. For they knew Mr. Frog's ways better than his other neighbors did.

Now, Ferdinand Frog did not mind the laughter at all.

"Of course," he went on, "you can't breathe through your skin quite so well as you can in the regular way. After you have stayed in the mud a while, you'll begin to want a regular breath of fresh air. So then you come up to the top of the water."

"Cat-tails and pussy-willows!" Long Bill Wren cried out. "I'm sure I shall never take a mud bath. They seem to me to be very dangerous."

"Not at all!" Mr. Frog assured him. "They're as safe as standing on your head." And thereupon he stood on his own head, to prove that what he said was true.

Still the company was not moved to take Mr. Frog's advice and try a mud bath. Most of them declared that nothing could induce them to undertake such a risky act. But a few daring ones said that if all the rest would take mud baths, and if they found that they liked them, they themselves would be willing to test them too.

However, nobody took a single step towards the creek. So at last the company scattered, leaving Long Bill Wren and Mr. Frog alone upon the bank.

Meanwhile Long Bill had been thinking deeply. He had begun to wonder whether there might not be some good in a mud bath, in spite of his neighbors' doubts. And now he turned to Ferdinand Frog and began speaking in a hushed voice.

"Don't tell my wife I asked you this question," he said; "but I should like to know if mud baths are good for rheumatism."

"Good for it!" Mr. Frog exclaimed. "Why, they're a sure cure -- and the only one!"



XXII

Learning To Hold His Breath


There on the bank of Black Creek Mr. Frog and Long Bill Wren talked in whispers about mud baths. And in a short time Long Bill announced that he had made up his mind to try one.

"Good!" Mr. Frog cried, as he patted his neighbor on the back. "And now let me give you a bit of advice. Before you dive into the creek you should learn to hold your breath. . . .

"You'd better go home and begin practising at once."

So Long Bill Wren flew into his house and stayed there the rest of that day. But he soon found that all was not as simple as he had hoped. Whenever he was trying to hold his breath his wife was sure to ask him a question. And of course that led to trouble. If he didn't answer her she thought him rude -- and said so, quite frankly, too. While if he did answer her, speaking spoiled his practice.

It was annoying, to say the least. And by the next morning the poor fellow was almost frantic.

He sought out Mr. Frog and explained how hard it was for him to learn to hold his breath.

"If you could only think of some way of making my wife hold hers too!" Long Bill moaned.

But Mr. Frog said at once that nobody could do that, and there was no use in trying.

"Why don't you," he asked, "go off by yourself in Cedar Swamp, and practice there?"

But Long Bill said that he ought not to stay away from home long enough to do that.

"Then there's only one way left for you," Mr. Frog decided. "You must practice at night, when your wife's asleep."

"A good idea!" Long Bill whispered. "I'll try it this very night!"

*    *    *    *    *

Bright and early the next morning Long Bill Wren found Mr. Frog a little way up the creek and told him that his night's practice had been a great success.

"I began holding my breath right after sunset," he said, "and it was so easy that I fell asleep. And I never breathed once all night long, until I awoke at day-break."

The news delighted Mr. Frog.

"Good!" he cried. "And now there's one more thing you must do before you take a mud bath. You must learn to breathe through your skin. . . . Just try right now," he urged his companion.

So Long Bill tried to breathe through his skin, while holding his breath at the same time.

And soon he began to sputter and choke.

"I'm afraid I can't do it," he faltered at last.

Mr. Frog looked somewhat glum -- for a moment.

He pondered in silence. And at length he declared that without doubt there must be something wrong with Long Bill's skin!

"How long have you worn it?" he inquired.

"All my life!" Long Bill told him.

"That's it!" Mr. Frog exclaimed. "It's worn out. You'll have to pull it off and use a fresh one."



XXIII

Mr. Frog Runs Away


It may have been Mr. Frog's words that dismayed Long Bill Wren, or it may have been his manner -- or perhaps both. Anyhow, Long Bill looked frightened.

"Where can I get a fresh skin if I pull off the one I'm wearing?" he wanted to know.

"Why, there's another skin just beneath your old one," Mr. Frog informed him glibly. "Just pull hard and you'll see that I know what I'm talking about."

But Long Bill was puzzled.

"I -- I don't know where to begin," he stammered.

"Maybe you need help," Mr. Frog suggested.

And Long Bill agreed that he did need help -- and a good deal of it, too.

"Well," Mr. Frog said with a giggle, "I'll get old Mr. Turtle to assist me. And between us we'll have your old skin off before you know it."

He began to bellow Mr. Turtle's name at the top of his lungs. And soon the old gentleman's black head popped out of the water. And presently Mr. Turtle waddled up the bank of Black Creek and listened to Ferdinand Frog's directions.

"You take hold of Long Bill's tail," Mr. Frog ordered him, while to the frightened owner of the tail he said cheerfully, "Anything Mr. Turtle takes hold of just has to come. He never lets go until it does."

Now, Long Bill Wren had suddenly made up his mind that he wouldn't take a mud bath, after all. He didn't like the prospect of having his skin pulled off. Suppose Mr. Frog should be mistaken about that second skin, which the tailor claimed lay underneath the old one?

Long Bill believed that with no skin at all he would find his rheumatism much worse than before. And he would certainly be a queer-looking object.

So as old Mr. Turtle crawled slowly towards him, he drew away.

"I'm going to wait --  -- " Long Bill announced.

"Why?" Mr. Frog demanded.

"Going to wait till the weather is warmer," Long Bill faltered.

Of course Mr. Frog was disappointed by having his plans so upset.

And Mr. Turtle was disappointed too.

"My mouth is open," he told Mr. Frog. "I must grab something. And it might as well be you."

But Mr. Frog jumped nimbly out of Mr. Turtle's reach. And a moment later he thrust the free end of a tree-root between Mr. Turtle's jaws.

They closed with a snap. And Mr. Turtle began to pull.

"Come on!" Mr. Frog urged Long Bill Wren. "The tree may fall at any moment. It's safer elsewhere." And without waiting to see what happened, he leaped into Black Creek and swam away.

As for Long Bill Wren, he hurried home. He knew his wife would be wondering where he was, for he had been away from the house in the reeds much longer than his usual ten minutes.

Arriving there, he was not surprised that she asked him a few questions. And he explained to her that he had been on the bank of the creek, watching old Mr. Turtle pulling at the root of a willow.

"And I can tell you that I'm well pleased that it wasn't my tail Mr. Turtle had in his jaws," he said solemnly.

Mrs. Wren shuddered at the mere mention of such an unlucky accident. And then she said: "I hope that dangerous Mr. Frog was not with you."

"I believe he was there for a time," her husband replied. "But he left before I did."

"I wish you would keep away from him," she remarked.

"I'm going to," Long Bill Wren promised. "Although Mr. Frog is our newest neighbor, I shall have nothing more to do with him."

<eob>

Peter And Polly In Winter

By

Rose Lucia



Peter And Polly


Peter Howe is a little boy. Polly is his sister. She is older than Peter.

They live in a white house. The house is on a hill. It is not in the city. It is in the country.

There are no houses close about it. But there are trees and fields around it.

In summer these fields are green. In winter the snow covers them.

The fields and the hills are as white as the house. Then there is fun playing in the snow.

Peter likes to watch the snowflakes. He calls them "white butterflies." But he knows what they are.

His friend, the Story Lady, told him. They are just frozen clouds.

Peter said to her, "I think they are prettier than raindrops. They can sail about in the air, too. Raindrops cannot. I like winter better than summer."

"It will be winter soon, Peter," said the Story Lady. "But many things must happen first.

"The birds must fly away. The leaves must turn red and yellow. Then they will fall and you can rake them into heaps. We will go to the woods for nuts.

"All these things will happen before winter comes."

"Yes," said Peter. "And my grandmother must knit me some thick stockings. And my father must buy me a winter coat. Grandmother must knit some stockings for Wag-wag, too."

"But Wag-wag is a dog, Peter. Dogs do not need stockings."

"My dog does," said Peter. "He needs a coat, too. His hair is short. It will not keep him warm. I shall ask father to buy him a coat."

"Do, Peter," said the Story Lady. "It is good to be kind to dogs. And when Wag-wag wears his coat and stockings, bring him to see me. I will take his picture."




The Birds' Game Of Tag


It is fall. Summer is really over. But it is still warm. Jack Frost has not yet begun his work.

Peter and Polly have been watching the birds. For days they have seen great flocks of them. In the summer there were not so many together.

One day they saw several robins. These were flying from tree to tree.

Peter said, "I know they are having a party. They are playing tag."

"Perhaps they are," said his father. "Perhaps each bird is telling something to the bird he tags."

"What is he telling?" asked Peter.

"I think he is saying, 'Brother bird, don't you know that winter is coming? Soon the snow will be here. What shall we do then?

"'We cannot get food. We shall freeze. Come, let us fly away to the South. It is warm there.'"

"What does brother bird say?" asked Peter.

"I think brother bird says, 'It is a long way to the South. It will take many days and nights to fly there.

"'Are our children's wings yet strong enough? I do not like to go. But I know that we must.'"

"Doesn't he like to go, truly?" asked Peter.

"We do not know, Peter. The robins make their nests here. They lay their blue eggs here. They hatch their little birds here. They never do this in the South.

"Besides, they sing their beautiful songs here. They never sing them in the South. We like to think that they love the North better. But, of course, we do not know."

"How can they find their way back?" asked Polly.

"We do not know that, either, Polly. Many birds fly in the nighttime. Then they rest a part of the day."

"I couldn't find my way in the dark," said Polly.

"But the birds can," said father. "We do not know how. The winter home of some of our birds is thousands of miles from here."

"I like to watch the swallows," said Polly. "They sit in a line on a telephone wire. Then one flies to another wire. In a minute they all fly, too.

"I think that they are talking about going away soon. I hope they will not get lost."

"Yes," said father. "They will soon be gone. But perhaps some of these very birds will come back here next summer."

"I wish we could know them," said Polly.

"We shall have a few birds left this winter," said father. "You know some of them. You know the chick-a-dees and the woodpeckers. And this winter I shall show you others."

"May we hunt for nests and eggs, father?" asked Peter.

"We may hunt, Peter, but we won't find any eggs in winter. We shall find other things. Perhaps we shall find the white-footed mouse. He sometimes makes his home in an old bird's nest."

"Can a mouse climb trees, father? If he lives in a bird's nest, does he lay bird's eggs?"

"He can climb trees, Peter. But he cannot lay eggs. We will see if we can find Mr. White-foot some day.

"But first we will watch the birds fly away and the snow come."




The Stone-Wall Post Office


Around Peter's house is a beautiful field. This is Mr. Howe's hayfield. You can find it on the map in the front of this book.

The children like this field. All the year round, it is a pleasant place.

In the spring they find blue violets here. In the summer they watch the birds that make nests in the tall grass. In the winter they slide here on the crust.

At the farther side of the field, there are some trees. These are butternut trees. In front of the trees is a stone wall.

Peter and Polly like to play by this wall. Sometimes they play that it is a post office.

The holes in the wall are the boxes. There is a box for every one in the village. Peter has more than one box; so has Polly.

The children take turns being the postmaster. If Peter is the postmaster, Polly calls for the mail.

The real post office is in their father's store. So they have often seen Mr. Howe put the mail into the boxes.

They use little sticks for the post cards. Leaves are the letters. Stones are the packages. Sometimes the boxes are full of mail -- especially Peter's and Polly's.

Often they play that it is Christmas time. Then the boxes are full of packages. It is fun to guess what is in each package.

One day Peter said, "There is a knife in this package. I like it. There is a hammer in this package. I will build a house with it.

"There is a game in this package. Will you play it with me, Polly? And, O Polly! There is a pony in this package! That is what I wish for most of all."

"But, Peter, a pony is too big to be in your post-office box. It would not come by mail."

"Then Santa Claus will bring it," said Peter. "If I get it, I do not care how it comes."

One day the children saw that the butternuts were falling.

Polly said, "Let's pick up all we can. We will put them in our post-office boxes. When they are full, we will bring your cart. Then we can take the nuts home. We will crack them next winter."

So they filled the boxes with nuts. The nuts were still green. The children stained their hands with them.

While they were playing with the nuts, they saw two squirrels. These sat in the trees above them. They watched Peter and Polly with their bright eyes, and scolded them a great deal.

"They want our nuts," said Polly. "But we have put them into our post-office boxes. We will keep them."

The next day the children went for their nuts. They took Peter's cart with them. What do you think they found?

Why, they found their boxes empty! The nuts were all gone!

"Some one bad has been here," said Peter.

Polly laughed. "You always say that, Peter. I think it was those squirrels. And I don't care, because they need the nuts to eat this winter."

"I don't care, either," said Peter. "I think we forgot to lock our boxes."

"Perhaps we did," said Polly. "But I guess the squirrels thought the boxes were theirs. When they called for their mail, they found the boxes full. How pleased they must have been! Let's pick up more nuts for them."

So the children again filled the post-office boxes with nuts. Then they went home and left them for the squirrels.




Playing In The Leaves


One day Peter saw something that pleased him. It was a branch of red leaves on a maple tree.

He said to mother, "It will be winter soon."

"Why do you think so, Peter?"

"I have seen red leaves," said Peter.

"But, Peter, a few red leaves do not count. There are red leaves in the summer. You must watch until you see many red, yellow, and brown leaves."

"What makes the leaves red and yellow, mother? Is it magic?" asked Peter. "Can you do it?"

"Perhaps it is a kind of magic, Peter. It is like the clouds turning into snow. I cannot do that."

Then Peter watched for all the trees to turn. At last they were bright with colors.

The maples were red and yellow; the oaks a deep red. The beeches were a bright yellow.

Even the elm trees in front of the house were yellow. Now Polly liked more than ever to swing. The swing took her way up among the yellow leaves.

Then, one day, the leaves began to fall. Down they came, a few at a time. The next day more fell, and the next and the next.

Polly said, "They are prettier than the snowflakes. The snow is white. These have lovely colors. See them flying through the air."

At last most of the trees were bare. The leaves lay on the ground.

Then Peter said, "Oh, the poor trees! They haven't any clothes on. I am so sorry."

Polly said, "The leaves are not clothes. They are children. Now they have gone to bed. The snow is their blanket. When it comes, it will keep them warm. If we leave them alone, they will sleep all winter. I learned it in a poem."

"They cannot go to sleep yet," said Peter. "I shall not let them. I shall wake them up."

"How will you do that?" asked Polly.

"I shall run in them. That will keep them awake. I shall do it now. Come on! See if you can make as much noise as I can."

After a while the children raked the leaves into large heaps. Then they jumped in the heaps. This scattered the leaves. But the children did not care. They raked them up again.

Once Peter jumped where the leaves were not very deep. He came to the ground with a bang. He was surprised. But he was not much hurt.

He said to mother, "My teeth shut with a noise when I went down."

Mother said, "It is lucky that your tongue was not in the way. You would have bitten it badly."

"Come in now, both of you. You must wash your hands and faces. Father will be home soon. You may play in the leaves to-morrow."




How The Leaves Came Down[1]


I'll tell you how the leaves came down. The great Tree to his children said, "You're getting sleepy, Yellow and Brown, Yes, very sleepy, little Red; It is quite time you went to bed."

"Ah!" begged each silly, pouting leaf, "Let us a little longer stay; Dear Father Tree, behold our grief; 'Tis such a very pleasant day We do not want to go away."

So, just for one more merry day To the great Tree the leaflets clung, Frolicked and danced and had their way, Upon the autumn breezes swung, Whispering all their sports among, -- 

"Perhaps the great Tree will forget, And let us stay until the spring, If we all beg and coax and fret." But the great Tree did no such thing; He smiled to hear their whispering.

"Come, children, all to bed," he cried; And ere the leaves could urge their prayer He shook his head, and far and wide, Fluttering and rustling everywhere, Down sped the leaflets through the air.

I saw them; on the ground they lay, Golden and red, a huddled swarm, Waiting till one from far away, White bedclothes heaped upon her arm, Should come to wrap them safe and warm.

The great bare Tree looked down and smiled, "Good night, dear little leaves," he said. And from below, each sleepy child Replied, "Good night," and murmured, "It is so nice to go to bed!"

 -- Susan Coolidge.

[1] Copyright, 1889, by Roberts Brothers.




The Bonfire


The next day father said, "Peter and Polly, will you work for me? I wish to buy your leaves. I will give you a cent for three loads."

"Oh, goody, goody!" said Polly.

"Oh, goody, goody!" said Peter.

"You must put the leaves in a pile in the garden. I will show you where."

"What will you do with them, father?" asked Polly.

"You will see to-night, if you are good workmen."

In the night the wind had blown the leaves about. So the children raked them up once more.

Then they filled the big basket full. They packed in the leaves as hard as they could.

"That is to give good measure," said Polly. "Father always gives good measure at his store. So you and I must, too."

Every time they took a basketful to the garden, Polly made a mark on a piece of paper.

At last the yard was raked clean. They had taken to the garden twenty-nine loads. They had worked nearly all day.

At supper father said, "You are good workmen, chicks. Our yard looks very clean. It is ready for winter.

"You piled the leaves carefully in the garden, too. Now, how much do I owe you?"

"We took twenty-nine loads, father," said Polly. "I wish there had been one more to make thirty."

"Why do you wish that, Polly?"

"Because three goes in thirty better than in twenty-nine."

"Well," said father, "we will call it thirty loads, Polly. I saw you packing the leaves into the basket very hard.

"You are honest workmen to give me such good measure. Now, Polly, three goes in thirty how many times?"

"Ten times, father. So you owe us ten cents. We shall each have five cents."

"Very good, Polly. Here is your money. I have a surprise for you. Put on your coats and come to the garden. Mother will come, too."

In the garden they found father beside the pile of leaves. He had thrown many things upon it.

He said, "I came home early and cleaned up the garden. Now, what shall we do with all this stuff?"

"Burn it, burn it!" shouted both children at once. "A bonfire, a bonfire!"

"Very well," said father. "You may burn it. Here is a match for you, Polly. And here is one for you, Peter. Light your fire."

Polly and Peter lighted the great heap. Soon the red flames were leaping up. They made the garden bright. Farther away from the fire it was very dark.

"Oh, see, see, mother!" cried Polly. "The flames are as pretty as the red and yellow leaves. Have they taken the color from the leaves? How hot they are!"




The Hen That Helped Peter


Peter is a nice little boy. But he can be very naughty. Mother and father know this. Grandmother Howe and Polly know it, too.

You see, Peter always wishes his own way. And you know this is not good for little boys and little girls.

Peter cannot have cake between his meals. He may always have milk to drink. Sometimes he may have bread and jelly, or bread and sugar.

He likes this very much. But he does not like the crusts of the bread. So he used to eat only the soft part. The crusts he threw away.

But at the table he could not throw them away.

Then he put them under the edge of his plate. You know how.

When mother took the plate, there would be a crust on the table. It did not look very well.

One day father said, "Peter, you are a big boy now. You are nearly five years old. You are old enough to eat your crusts.

"I will give you a week in which to learn how. After that, I shall not expect to see any more crusts on the table."

Peter knew that, when his father spoke so, he meant what he said. But the little boy thought he would not eat his crusts until he had to do so.

He said to himself, "In a week I will begin to eat them all up. But now I will still put them under my plate."

So, every day when his plate was taken away, there were the crusts. Peter did not see his father look at them. And his father said nothing more about them.

By and by Peter began to think that his father had forgotten.

So, when the week was over, he said to himself, "I am sure that my father has forgotten. I am going to keep on leaving my crusts."

But his father had not forgotten. He was just waiting to see if Peter would obey.

That noon he saw that Peter had left a crust.

He said, "My son, you have not learned to eat your crusts. And you have not learned to obey. I must teach you."

Then Peter was more naughty still. He said, "I do not like old crust. I will throw old crust away. Then I cannot eat it."

He picked up the crust and jumped down from his chair.

His father called, "Peter!"

But Peter did not stop. He ran to the door and threw the crust out upon the grass.

His father went after him. "You may pick up your crust, Peter," said he.

This time Peter started to obey. He knew that he had been very naughty. But, before he could get to the crust, an old hen ran up. She snatched it in her bill and off she went.

Peter looked at his father. He was not sure what his father would do. He almost wished the hen had not taken the crust.

Father only laughed. He said, "That old hen is a friend of yours, Peter. If it had not been for her, you would have eaten that crust."

"I know it," said Peter. "And, father, I am sorry. I do not like to be naughty. I will be good. I will eat my crusts now to please you."

And after this he did.




The First Ice

"Water now has turned to stone, Stone that I can walk upon."


One morning mother said, "Polly, will you go to the store for me? I need a can of corn. We must have it for dinner."

"May Peter go, too, mother?"

"Oh, yes, Peter may go, if he wishes. Run and find him."

Now Polly and Peter liked to go to the store. It belonged to their father. Sometimes they helped him unpack goods. Sometimes they sat still and watched the customers.

Sometimes he let them play keeping store. Once Polly had really sold some candy to another little girl.

But to-day they could not stay to play. They must get the can of corn for mother, and come home.

They went down the hill. At the railroad tracks they stopped. They looked for a train. They saw none, so they ran across the tracks.

Then they came to the bridge. You can find it on the map in the front of this book.

They stopped to look over the rail at the water, far below.

"O Polly!" said Peter. "What is on the water?"

"Why, it is ice, Peter. The top of the water is frozen. See, the ice goes nearly across the river."

"Ice, ice!" shouted Peter. "Now winter is almost here. The leaves have gone. The ice has come. Let's run and tell father."

The children ran to the store.

"Father, father," called Peter, "we have seen ice!"

"So have I," said father. "Where did you see it?"

"We saw it from the bridge. The river is frozen at the sides. It is not frozen in the middle."

"Yes," said father. "It freezes first at the edges, because the water flows more slowly there. In the middle it flows faster.

"Every cold night that ice will grow. It will soon cover the middle of the river, too. And at the same time it will grow thicker."

"By and by it will be so thick that we can walk upon it. Then it is time to learn to skate. Perhaps you can learn this winter."

"When the ice is thick enough, men cut it into blocks. What will they do with them?"

"Make houses of them," said Peter.

"O Peter, we are not Eskimos," said Polly. "I know, father. They will put the ice into big ice houses. They will keep it to use in the hot summer. I saw them doing it last winter."

"Right, Polly. That is where our ice comes from in the summer."

"Does all the water in the river freeze, father? Where do the fishes go? Are they in the ice?"

"The ice is lighter than the water, Peter. So it stays on top of the water. The bottom of our river does not freeze. The fishes are there. They do not mind the cold as we do.

"Did you come to the store just to tell me about the ice, chicks?"

"No, father," said Polly. "We came for a can of corn. We saw the ice when we were on the bridge."

"Then here is the corn. Take it to mother and tell her about the ice."

Off went the children. When they came to the bridge, Peter dropped some small stones on the ice. But it did not break.

"It must be thick now, Polly," said he. "I wish we could skate."

"We weigh more than those stones do, Peter. I think the cold will have to make the ice grow more before father will let us. And, anyway, we have no skates."

"Let's tell mother about that, too, Polly. Perhaps she knows where there are some."

So Peter and Polly hurried up the hill to find their mother.




The Three Guesses


"Polly and Peter," said Mr. Howe, "I have something for you. It is something to use in the winter, and not in the summer. You may have three guesses."

"It can't be a sled," said Polly, "for we have sleds."

"It can't be a coat," said Peter, "for we have coats."

"And we have mittens and leggings and overshoes, too," said Polly.

"It might be my pony," said Peter.

"No," said Polly. "It couldn't be, Peter. We can use a pony in the summer. Let's not guess that."

"Is it good to eat, father?" asked Peter. "I am hungry now."

"No, Peter. And there are four of them; two for each of you. They are hard and shiny."

"Guns, guns!" shouted Peter.

"One guess is gone, Peter. What would you do with two guns?"

"Are they for us to wear, father?" asked Polly.

"Yes, Polly, but not all the time. You cannot wear them in the house."

"Then I know what they are, father. If there are two for each of us, that is one for each foot. Can't you guess now, Peter?"

"Rubber boots," shouted Peter.

"I think it is skates, father. And I am glad. I have wished for some ever since we saw the ice."

"You have made a good guess, Polly. Bring me the box that is in the hall."

Out of the box Mr. Howe took two pairs of shining new skates.

"Oh, goody, goody!" cried both children, when they saw what was in the box.

"We will go skating now," said father. "Then we can try them."

At the edge of the river he stopped. He put on the children's skates. Then he put on his own.

"I will show you how to do it," he said. "Then I will help you just a little."

He showed them how to strike out, first with one foot and then with the other. His tracks looked like this:

Then Polly tried, but her tracks looked like this:

"That is not the way, Polly," said her father. "You are skating with your right foot. But you are only pushing with your left. You must skate with both. Watch me again."

Then Peter tried. His tracks looked like this:

The cross marks the place where Peter fell down. But he did not care. He got up and tried again.

Polly was doing better. So her father took hold of her and helped her a little.

He said, "I wish you to learn alone. Then you will be a good skater. If I help you all the time, you will never be able to skate alone."

Polly said, "That is what my teacher tells us. She says, 'I will show you how to do it. And I will help you a little. Then you must try for yourself.'"

"That is good," said father. "You must learn to do things alone. Your teacher and your father will not always be near."

Soon the skates were taken off. "We must not stay too long the first time," said father. "You may come again to-morrow. You may skate every day until the snow comes."

"Oh, may we, father, may we?" cried Peter and Polly, jumping up and down. "And when the snow comes, we can sweep it off the ice."

"Maybe I shall not wish for any snow now," said Peter. "Maybe I like skating better."

"You will get the snow just the same, my son," said father. "So you may as well wish for it. It is sure to come."

"Now, good-by. We have all had a good time. Take my skates home with you and dry them when you dry yours. Then they will not rust. We will bring mother the next time we come."




The First Snowstorm


One morning mother called to Peter, "Wake up, Peter! Look out of your window. Winter has come."

Peter had been dreaming about a big snow man who chased him. He jumped out of bed and said, "You didn't get me that time, old snow man. I woke up too soon."

He ran to the window. The ground was white. The trees were white. The air was full of the white butterflies that Peter likes so well.

"Oh! Oh!" he shouted. "I must go out to play! I must go out to play!"

"Not until you are dressed, Peter," said mother. "Then you must have breakfast. After that you may go out."

At breakfast father said, "It has snowed a foot since dark yesterday. How many inches is that, Polly?"

"It is twelve inches, father. Do you think this snow has come to stay? Or will it melt away?"

"I think that it will stay, Polly. It is time for sleighing."

Peter and Polly put on their coats and caps, their leggings, overshoes, and mittens. Then they were ready to go out.

At first Peter ran about in the yard. He kicked up the snow as he ran. It flew all over him.

"Polly, Polly!" he called. "I am a snow man now. I shall chase you as the one in my dream chased me."

He ran after her. Just as he caught her, she slipped. Down they both went. They were covered from head to foot with snow.

"Now we are both snow men," said Polly. "Let's go and shake the little trees."

These were two fir trees. They were at the side of the house. Polly took hold of the end of a low branch. Peter stood under the tree, while Polly shook it. Down came a shower of snow.

Then Polly stood under the other, while Peter shook that. Down came another shower of snow. Some of this went into Polly's neck. But Polly did not care.

"Now we will show grandmother how white we are," she said.

Grandmother heard them coming. She went out on the piazza.

She said, "I see two snow men. I cannot ask them in. Snow men would melt near the fire. Then they would be nothing but water."

"Oh, yes, grandmother, they would be Peter and Polly," said Peter.

"Why, Peter! Why, Polly! Is this really you? I have no spectacles on, this morning. Where are your sleds?"

"In the barn, in the barn!" shouted Peter. "We could not wait for them."

"See the posts of your fence, grandmother," said Polly. "They all have on tall white caps."

"So they have, Polly. And how clean the snow caps are. How clean the snow makes everything. We are all glad to have it, aren't we?"

"I am, I am!" shouted Peter. "Winter has come, winter has come! Good-by, grandmother. I must go and play."

"Good-by," called grandmother. "Come down to dinner, if mother will let you. We will have sugar on snow."

"She will let us," called Peter. "I know she will. And I will get the pan of snow for the sugar."




The Star Snowflake


All that day Peter and Polly played in the snow. All day Peter's white butterflies fell. Down they came out of the air, softly and silently.

Peter liked to stand and look up into the sky. He liked to feel the soft flakes light upon his face. He liked to see them on his coat sleeve.

Polly said, "Aren't the flakes pretty, Peter? They are little stars. The perfect ones have six points. The Story Lady told me a story about a star snowflake. I will tell it to you.

"Once a little water fairy lived in our brook, back of grandmother's house. One day she was very, very naughty. She did not wish to go up into the air. She did not wish to be part of a cloud. She wished to stay in the brook.

"Her father said, 'You must go. And I shall have you punished for being so naughty. I shall have Jack Frost change you into a snowflake.'

"Jack Frost came one day to change the cloud into snowflakes. He saw how sorry the water fairy was because she had been so naughty.

"So he said, 'You know that I have to make all snowflakes like stars. Some of them are very pretty. I will change you into the prettiest star snowflake that I know.'

"'And when you melt,' said Jack Frost, 'you will be a water fairy again. You will always be good then, won't you?'

"So he changed her into a beautiful star snowflake. I have seen her picture. The Story Lady showed it to me."

"Let's find her," said Peter. "Then let's show her to the Story Lady. That will be better than the picture."

So the children looked and looked. They found many stars. But Polly was not sure that any one of them was the right one.

At last Peter found the most beautiful star of all. "This is the water fairy, this is the water fairy!" he cried.

And Polly said, "It does look like the picture. So let's go and show it to the Story Lady."

Down they went to her house and into the kitchen. There was the Story Lady, washing dishes.

"O Story Lady," said Peter. "I have the water fairy on my arm! She is changed into a star. See her!"

But when the Story Lady looked, there was no star snowflake.

"She has gone," said Peter. "That is too bad." And he looked ready to cry.

"Why, yes, Peter," said the Story Lady. "She has gone. But don't you think that she is happy to be just a water fairy again? She likes that better, you know. You must be glad that you found her and helped her melt."

"I am glad," said Peter. "But it was only a 'Once upon a time' story, wasn't it?"

"Of course it was, Peter. But don't you know that all snowflakes are water fairies? Now run along and play with those that are left."




How Peter Helped Grandmother


Grandmother was getting ready for Thanksgiving. Peter and Polly and father and mother were going to her house on that day.

So grandmother was making mince pies. She was making other things, too. One was fruit cake.

Peter and Polly were down at grandmother's, helping. At least, Polly was helping and Peter was hindering.

He seemed bound to stand just where grandmother wished to walk. He spilled a cup of milk on the table. After he had wiped it up, he upset some flour.

But he did not mean to hinder.

Polly watched her grandmother make the pies. She watched her roll the pie crust thin and trim it to the size of the plate.

She said, "If I had some dough, I am sure I could do that."

Her grandmother gave her some and a little plate. Polly rubbed the plate with melted butter. Then she rolled out the dough and put it on the plate.

"That is very good, Polly. Now we will fill our pies. Here is the mincemeat."

Polly tried to make her little pie look like grandmother's large one.

"Next we must put on the covers," said grandmother. "Roll yours out like mine."

She had Polly stick a knife through her cover in four places. Ask your mother why she did this.

Then she helped Polly put on her cover, for that was quite hard to do. Last of all she showed her how to pinch together the edges.

"Now," said grandmother, "we will bake our pies. What shall you do with yours?"

"I should like to take it home to show mother and father. May I?"

"Why, to be sure. They ought to have a bite of your first pie. Please, Peter, carry this pail of sugar into the pantry for me. I do not need it any more."

The pies were baked brown. As soon as hers was cool enough, Polly carried it up the hill to mother.

"See, mother," she said, "I can cook now. Grandmother let me make a pie. It is for you and father."

"How good it looks, Polly! We will try it for dinner. You have done this well. I see that I must begin to teach you to cook.

"Bread comes first. The next time I sponge bread, you may try. Your first good loaf you may take to grandmother."

"Oh, may I, mother? I want to learn to cook. Then I can cook for you and father. I watched grandmother all the morning. I helped her, too."

"So did I help grandmother," said Peter.

"O Peter, what did you do to help?" asked Polly. "You spilled the milk and then you spilled the flour. That isn't helping much."

"I did help," said Peter. "I helped all the morning. I worked very hard."

"I am sure that you meant to, Peter," said mother. "But tell me what you did."

"Why," said Peter, "why, I carried away the pail of sugar."

Polly laughed, but mother said, "That was kind, Peter. And you know that you always help by being a good boy. So I really think that you are right."




The Snow Man


"Let's make a snow man this morning. Will you, Peter? The snow is just right for big balls."

"Then we will," said Peter. "But let's get Tim to help us."

Tim is Peter's playmate. He lives on a farm. His house is farther up the hill. Look for it on the map in the front of this book.

Soon Tim was down at Peter's. His big dog Collie was with him. Wag-wag and Collie are friends. They often play together.

The three children began to roll snowballs. Polly's grew very large. The boys had to help her with it. They pushed it over and over. At last it was quite near the edge of the bank.

"One more push," said Polly. "Then it will be just right. People can see the man from the road."

But that push was too much. Over the edge of the bank the big ball rolled.

"Oh, stop, stop!" cried Peter. "Do not run away. We will make you into a good snow man."

But the ball did not stop. It rolled against Tim. It knocked him flat. Peter and Polly fell down the bank after it. At last it smashed itself against the fence.

"Never mind," said Polly. "We can make another. Do not let the next one knock you down, Tim."

"Old snowball ran over me," said Tim. "But I do not care. He smashed himself."

Another big ball was made. It was rolled into place. Then smaller ones were lifted on it. These were for the body.

At last the head was ready. Polly stood in a chair. She stuck the head on the body. She made eyes, a nose, and a mouth with small sticks.

She put an old hat on the head. She put a branch under the arm.

Then she said, "We will name you White Giant. You may take care of our house at night. In the daytime you may play with us. Will you, old Giant?"

Polly did not think that the snow man could talk. But just then she heard some one say, "Of course I will play with you, Polly."

"Oh, oh! Has he come alive?" cried Peter. "Can he chase me? I do not wish him to do that." And he ran behind Polly.

"I cannot chase you, Peter," the snow man seemed to say. "I cannot move at all in the daytime. But at night you should see me."

"I saw you the other night in a dream," said Peter. "I did not like you. You chased me."

"I will never do that again, Peter. So you must not be afraid of me."

Just then Tim cried out, "Look, look!" And there behind a tree was Peter's father.

Polly laughed. "I know now that the snow man did not talk," she said. "At first I thought he did. It was you, wasn't it, father?"

"Why do you think so, Polly? You didn't see me. Did it sound like me?"

"No, it did not, father," said Peter. "And I think it was the snow man. I am going to watch him to-night and see."

"Why don't you?" asked father. "I should like to know about it. You tell me when you find out. Where are your mittens, Tim? Aren't your hands cold?"

"I've lost them. And Peter has lost one of his red ones. We can't find them at all."

"Perhaps they are under the snow. The sun will help you find them by and by. Peter, run in and tell mother. She will get some mittens for you and Tim to wear.

"When you come back, bring the old broom. That is better than the branch for your snow man. If you watch to-night, you may see what he does with it."




Peter's Dream


At bedtime Peter said, "I want to sit up. I am going to watch the snow man."

"Why?" asked mother.

"I heard him speak," said Peter. "He said he would not chase me. He said I ought to see him at night. He can move then."

"Very well," said mother. "But you might get into your bed. You can watch him from your window."

"I did not think of that, mother. I will go now."

Soon Peter was in bed. By sitting up, he could see the snow man. His window was wide open. But Peter had on thick night clothes. He did not feel the cold.

The moon was bright. Peter thought of his friend, the Fairy Bird. He wished the Bird would come again and take him to the moon.

All at once he rubbed his eyes. Where was the snow man? He looked again. The snow man was gone!

"Oh, oh!" said Peter to himself. "I've lost him. That's too bad. Now I shall not see anything."

But just then the door opened softly. Peter saw something white coming into his room. It was the snow man!

Peter was so surprised that he nearly jumped out of bed. He was frightened, too. He called, "Oh, dear!"

"Sh, sh, sh!" said the snow man. "You'll wake every one in the house. I came up here to please you. I don't care to see any one else.

"It was hard work climbing the stairs. You children didn't make me very good legs; nor very good arms, either, I must say. I have no feet and no hands.

"My hat came off when I broke myself away from the snow. But, without hands, I couldn't put it back on my head.

"I do wish that you would make me better next time. You can, if you try. But I'm thankful you gave me eyes and a mouth, too. I like to see and I like to talk."

"Don't you like to eat?" asked Peter. "What do you eat? Oh, dear! I'm afraid you eat little boys like me."

The snow man began to shake. Bits of snow dropped on the floor.

"Why, Peter, I believe you are afraid of me. You needn't be. You'll laugh, too, when I tell you what I do eat. Sticks and twigs and leaves that I pick up when you are rolling me.

"Best of all I like mittens. I don't get very many. But I ate yours and Tim's this morning. They were good. I like red ones best. And I had only one red mitten."

Then Peter did laugh. "What queer things to eat," he said. "And how funny you look when you laugh. You shake, but you do not laugh with your mouth."

"Yes," said the snow man. "That's all because of Polly. You see, she made my mouth with a horrid straight stick. I can't bend it at all."

"You make me very cold," said Peter. "You are so white. I want my mother to come and tuck me up."

"I will try," the snow man said. And, with his snowy arms, he tried to pull up the bedclothes. One arm slipped and hit Peter's neck. Peter was so surprised that he screamed.

In just a minute mother ran in. "What is it, dear?" she asked.

Peter could only say, "The snow man, the snow man! He has been up here!"

"He's out in the yard, dear. I can see him. And he has lost his hat. The wind must have blown it off. It has been raining hard. The rain has come in at the window. It is wet on the floor."

"He didn't have his hat up here," said Peter. "He dropped it when he started. He couldn't put it on. And he made those spots on the floor. It was not the rain. Pieces of snow dropped off him when he laughed."

Mother only said, "I'll tuck you up again, Peter. We can see about it in the morning. Now good night."

In the morning the rain had stopped. The children went to look at the snow man. He had grown much smaller in the night. There was a crack near the bottom of his legs.

"He did walk, he did, I know he did!" cried Peter. "That's what made the crack. And, O Polly, look at this!"

Sticking out of the snow man's stomach was the end of a red mitten!




Cutting The Christmas Tree


It was nearly Christmas. Peter could hardly wait for the day to come.

He kept saying, "Mother, will it be Christmas to-morrow? Mother, will it be Christmas to-morrow?"

At last father said, "Do you want Christmas before I get the tree?"

"No," said Peter. "But will you ever get it?"

"I will to-day. You and Polly may go with me. We will choose the prettiest fir tree we can find. Put on your things, and we will start now."

"Oh, goody, goody!" cried Peter, jumping up and down. "Now I know that Christmas is almost here."

"It will be here to-morrow," said father. "Run and tell Polly."

They went through the field back of the house. They climbed over the stone-wall post office. Polly looked into some of the boxes for mail.

She said, "Father, one day Peter told me that he had a pony in his post-office box."

"It must have been a very large box, Polly. We do not have such large ones at the store. Which is it?"

"I don't care if I didn't have it in my box," said Peter. "I think I shall get it on the tree. It will be up in the tiptop."

"Then we must find a strong tree, my boy. Can you see one you like?"

"That one," said Peter.

Father laughed. "That is a strong tree. But it is too tall. We should have to cut a hole in the ceiling to stand it up. Find a smaller one."

"There is a good tree, father. See how pretty it is. It looks like our little firs at home."

"I believe that is just right for us, Polly. I will cut it down. Please hold my coat."

Father swung his ax. He gave three sharp blows. All at once there was a chatter overhead.

In the next tree a gray squirrel was running up a large branch. He was scolding with all his might. His tail was jerking. He looked very cross.

"Well, old fellow," said father, "did I disturb you? I am sorry. Go back to sleep. We will not take your tree."

"His is too bare, isn't it, father? The leaves have all gone. We must have a fir tree for ours. It has queer leaves. But they do not fall off in the winter."

"That is why we call such trees evergreens, Polly. They are always green. Pine trees are evergreens, too. Their needles are longer than fir needles."

"I think that is one of our squirrels," said Peter. "He took our nuts, Polly. I wonder where he put them."

"He thought they were his," said Polly. "He needed them."

Soon father had cut down the fir. He put it over his shoulder. The end dragged on the snow.

"Now we are ready for home," he said. "To-night mother and I will dress this tree. To-morrow you may see it."

"Have you really a dress for it?" asked Peter. "I hope it is red. Who made it?"

"O Peter, how silly you are! Father means dress it up with candy bags and popped corn and presents."

"I know now," said Peter. "Ponies and guns and things."

"See the snow sparkle, children. The sun makes it do that. Look at the blue sky. Doesn't the air feel good to you?"

"It makes me feel like running," said Polly.

"Then run along, chicks. You will get home first. Tell mother that the Christmas tree is really coming. You may pop the corn this afternoon."




The Give-Away Box


When Peter and Polly got home, they ran into the house.

"Mother, mother!" they shouted. "The Christmas tree is coming. Father has it."

"Why, mother," said Polly, "what makes the house smell so sweet? It smells just like the woods."

"It is the green wreaths, Polly. I have them in all the rooms. There is one on the front door, too. These wreaths smell better than the ones that we buy. You may help me make the rest of them. We need more."

So the children went into the kitchen. On a table were pieces of evergreen boughs.

They helped their mother twist the pieces into circles. On each circle she wound many small twigs. When done, the wreaths were firm and thick and green.

"How good it does smell, mother. I like Christmas smells. But see my hands."

"That is the pitch from the greens, Polly. Just rub on a little butter. It will take off the pitch. Then wash your hands in warm water. I will clean up the rest of the greens. When this is done, we will pop our corn."

That was always fun. Polly liked to shake the popper. She liked to see the white kernels of corn hop up and down. She liked the good smell, too.

Soon two large panfuls were popped. Then came another task. The corn must be strung. Polly and Peter both helped. But, of course, mother could string faster than they. She told them stories while they worked.

"When I was a little girl," said mother, "we did not have a Christmas tree. Instead, we hung up our stockings. We hung them near the fireplace. We thought Santa Claus could reach them better there.

"I was the smallest in our family. So my stocking was the smallest. My presents would never go into my stocking. This used to tease me.

"My dear grandmother found it out. One day she said to me, 'I am going to knit you a new red stocking. It is not to wear. It is for you to hang up.'

"And the very next Christmas, what do you think? She had knit me a stocking as long as I was tall! How pleased I was to hang it up!

"Now, children, the Give-away Box is ready. You may choose your things to give away."

On the floor in the dining room there was a large box. It was filled with games, dolls, bags of candy and popped corn, and many other things.

These were for Peter and Polly to give away. They would make other children happy. And that would make Peter and Polly happy, too.

Peter chose a jumping jack for Tim. Polly chose to give him a whistle.

"He cannot whistle with his mouth yet," she said. "Perhaps Collie will come for this whistle."

When Polly was out of the room, Peter chose a present for her. It was the prettiest doll that he had ever seen.

Polly chose a train of cars for Peter. But he did not know that.

"We can give this candlestick to Mrs. White," said Polly. "She gave us back our Jack-o'-lanterns. I think she would like it."

Mother said, "Why don't you give the hot water bag to grandmother? Her bag leaks."

"Oh, we will, we will!" cried both children.

"Farmer Brown is our friend," said Polly. "He showed us his sheep. Mrs. Brown is our friend, too. She gave us a party last summer. The lambs came to it. It was on her steps. Let us give them two wreaths."

"There is my teacher," said Peter. "I will give her these marbles."

Polly said, "Your teacher! You don't go to school, Peter."

"I did one day," said Peter. "I like her. She was good to me. She is my teacher. I don't care what you say."

"Never mind about that, chicks," said mother. "I'm afraid she hasn't a pocket for the marbles. Why not give her the box of handkerchiefs?"

Before long the Give-away Box was empty. The presents were tied up. Every friend in the village had been remembered.

Peter and Polly were tired. They were glad when it was bedtime.

As mother tucked her up, Polly said, "I like the Give-away Box. It is fun. It is as much fun as it is to get things. You gave it to us, mother. You give us everything."

"Father, too," said mother. "And it makes fathers and mothers happy to do that."




Christmas Morning


Early Christmas morning Peter awoke. He heard a noise in mother's room. So he knew that he might get up.

He pushed open the door. "Merry Christmas! Merry Christmas!" he shouted.

"Merry Christmas," said mother, hugging him tightly.

"Merry Christmas," said father, tossing him up into the air. "Did you see Santa Claus last night?"

Just then Polly ran in. "Oh, oh, it is Christmas!" she cried. "Merry Christmas! Merry Christmas! See what I found in my bed."

It was a box of animal crackers. They were all sheep.

"O father! You did it for a joke. You know I do not like mutton."

Peter ran to look in his room. He thought a joke might be there, too.

"See, see!" he shouted. "I have found a letter box. That is not a joke."

"Look inside," said father.

Peter looked. There he saw a very small pony. It was made of cloth. On its back it had a cloth monkey.

"A joke, a joke!" cried Polly. "Your pony came in your letter box after all."

There were to be no more presents until after breakfast. So the children dressed quickly.

It was hard for them to eat anything.

At last Polly said, "I cannot wait another second. I will eat my breakfast with my dinner. Here comes grandmother. Now may we open the door and see the tree?"

"In just a minute," said father. "You say 'Merry Christmas' to grandmother. I have one last thing for the tree. You may come in when I call." And out he ran.

"I wonder what it is," said Polly. "I can hear him coming back through the side door."

Then grandmother came in, and Polly forgot to wonder any more.

At last they heard father shout, "Come!"

Polly opened the door, and the children rushed in.

"Oh! Oh!" said Polly.

"Oh! Oh!" said Peter.

Such a beautiful tree they had never before seen. It was hung with strings of popped corn and red cranberries. It was covered with colored balls and big gold stars. Over it was white, shiny stuff that looked like snow.

It had candy bags and oranges. At the top, there was a doll with wings. And there were many boxes and packages.

"Oh! Oh! Oh!" said both children again.

"Do you like it?" asked mother.

"I never saw anything so pretty," said Polly. "Is that a fairy at the top?"

"I think it is Santa Claus's little girl," said Peter. "I should like to have her for my own."

"Should you rather have that than anything else here?" asked father.

"I think so, father. May I?"

"Walk around the tree and see if you are sure, my son."

Peter did as he was told. He had not taken many steps when he jumped back with a cry.

"What is it? What is it?" he asked.

Polly ran forward, and what do you think she saw?

On the other side of the tree something moved. Polly saw two large eyes, two long ears, a brown head, and then she knew that it was a pony.

"Peter, Peter!" she cried, "here is the pony! It is on the Christmas tree! O Peter, Peter, Peter!"

"Lead her out," said father. "She will come with you. She likes children."

So Polly took hold of the little strap. And the pony walked out into the room after her.

"Her name is Brownie," said father. "She is grandmother's present to you and Peter. She is half yours and half Peter's."

"O grandmother!" cried Polly. "I thank you now, but I will thank you better by and by."

"Which half is mine, grandmother?" asked Peter.

"Half of both halves," said grandmother. "Why?"

"Nothing," said Peter. "I love both her halves. And I love you, too. And I love the tree, and Christmas, and everybody."

"And so you should," said father. "Come now, we will take Brownie to her stable. Then you may get the presents off the tree."




The Snow House


One day there was a heavy snowstorm. At the same time the wind blew. It heaped the snow over the road in front of Polly's house.

The snow was so deep that horses could not walk through. Men had to dig the road out.

Mr. Howe helped to do this. Peter and Polly watched the work. They thought it great fun.

The men threw the snow by the side of the road. Soon the piles were very high. They were twice as high as Polly could reach.

A few days after this Polly said, "I know what we can do."

"What?" asked Peter.

"Let's play Eskimos."

"How do you play it?" asked Peter.

"Well," said Polly, "first we must make a snow house. Then we can think of other things to do."

"We can't," said Peter.

"Can't what?" asked Polly. "Can't think of things to do? I can, if you can't."

"No," said Peter, "we can't make a snow house. We tried. It tumbled down. Don't you remember?"

"I've thought how to do it, Peter. Come on. I will show you."

Polly took Peter to the great pile of snow by the side of the road.

"There is our house," she said. "It is all made for us."

"That isn't any house, Polly. I think I won't play with you to-day. You tease me. I am going to see Tim. Good-by."

"O Peter! Wait, wait! I won't tease. I will tell you about it now. That is our house really and truly. But it is just the outside.

"We must make a hole in the pile for a door. Then we must dig out the inside. Can't we do that, Peter?"

Peter said, "Oh, yes. We can do that. I see about it now. I will help. We can dig very well.

"We dug our cyclone hole last summer. Perhaps we shall find another box with silver dollars in it."

"Perhaps we shall not, too," said Polly. "I don't expect to find things in the snow. People hide their gold and silver in the ground.

"The ground does not melt. Snow does. So it would not hide their gold and silver very long."

"Why doesn't the ground melt, Polly?"

"Well, I don't know. You ask father. Snow melts because it is made of water."

"Butter melts, sugar melts," said Peter. "They are not made of water. I wish to know why the ground does not melt, too. I wish to know now."

"Peter, can't you stop asking questions and go to work? See, first we must dig a path here. Then we will begin our door."

It took a long time to dig the path. But at last it was finished. Then they made a hole. It went straight into the side of the big snow pile. That was for the door.

"Now we must hollow out a place," said Polly. "It will be our room. We must make it large. We shall sleep there and eat there and live there. That is the way the Eskimos do. I read it in a book at school."

"I'd rather live in a house," said Peter. "Let's live in the house and play out here."

"Then we will," said Polly. "It would be cold here anyway. I should think Eskimos would freeze in snow houses. But they do not."

The next day the children scraped out more snow, and the next and the next. At last they had made quite a large room.

It was nearly round. The floor was packed hard. The white walls were smooth. Polly could stand up straight in the middle.

Mother gave them an old rug for the floor.

She said, "Eskimos have fur rugs. You must play that this is bearskin."

Father said, "Do you know what Eskimos call a snow house? It is igloo. Perhaps some day I will try to crawl into your igloo. I should like to see it."

"Oh, do, father. Then we will have a party. It is quite warm inside. But we can make the door bigger for you."

"Never mind about that," said father. "Perhaps I can get a fairy to shrink me. We shall see."




The Fall Of The Igloo


For many days the children played in their igloo. More snow fell. They dug it out of the path. Then they could get to the door.

"It only makes our house taller," said Polly. "It does not hurt the inside. I do not care how much snow comes on top of it."

"You may care some day," said father. "Snow is heavy. After a while it may break down your roof."

"What if we are inside when the roof breaks, Peter? The snow will get down our necks."

"It will do more," said father. "It will bury you."

"Will it hurt us, father?"

"I think not. But you will look like snow men afterward."

One day Tim was playing with Peter and Polly. They were in the igloo. Collie was outside playing with Wag-wag.

Wag-wag could go into the igloo. But the children did not like to have Collie there. He was so large that he took up too much room.

Polly was the mother Eskimo. Peter was the father Eskimo. Tim was the little boy Eskimo.

Mother Eskimo. "I think we need some meat. We need a seal. I can use its skin. I will make boots of it."

Father Eskimo. "I killed a bear yesterday. Use the bearskin for boots."

Mother Eskimo. "Oh, no. That would not make good boots. I need sealskin for them. Besides I wish to use the bearskin to make some trousers. I must have new ones."

"O Polly," said Peter, "women do not wear trousers."

"Eskimo women do, Peter. Now you go and catch me a seal."

Father Eskimo. "But it is cold. I may have to watch many hours for a seal. I must sit very still beside his hole in the ice. If I move, he will not come up there to breathe. Perhaps I shall freeze, sitting so still."

Mother Eskimo. "No, you will not. Do I not make you good fur clothes? Do I not sew them with my good bone needle? They will keep you warm."

Father Eskimo. "Yes, but don't I have to get the fur for them? That is harder than making the clothes."

Mother Eskimo. "I am not so sure that it is. Should you like to scrape the skins to clean them? Should you like to chew them to make them soft?"

Father Eskimo. "No, I should rather hunt than chew skins. So I will go now."

Father Eskimo crawled out of the igloo. He called to the dogs.

"Come here, dogs. You must drag my sledge. I am going out to catch a seal. You must draw it home on the sledge."

The dogs were jumping up and down and playing with each other. They did not know that they were Eskimo dogs.

Peter could not get them. He grew quite cross. He crawled back into the igloo.

"I cannot catch the dogs," he said. "I shall not go hunting. I shall not play Eskimo any more to-day."

Polly started to speak. But instead she screamed. Something was happening. What were the dogs doing? Were they on the top of the igloo?

The roof was breaking. She could see the leg of one dog sticking through. Then something fell on the children.

It was the snow roof. It was also two dogs. Collie and Wag-wag had broken down the igloo.

Father was just coming home. How he laughed when he saw the children and the dogs. He pulled them out from under the snow.

He said, "Aren't you glad you are not real Eskimos? Aren't you glad you live in a strong house? Let's all go in and see what mother is cooking for supper. It will not be seal meat. Tim must come, too."




Pulling Peter's Tooth


Peter had a loose tooth. It was a lower front tooth. It was his first loose tooth. He had always wanted one.

When Polly's teeth became loose, he would feel of his.

He would say, "I wish I could wiggle mine, too. I wish I could pull mine out."

Mother said, "You are not yet old enough to lose your teeth. I am glad that you are not. Why do you wish to have a loose tooth?"

"Because they are nice to wiggle," said Peter. "Because Polly is faster than I am. She has had four. I like the holes in her face, too. She can make a funny noise through them. It is a whistle."

"Your turn will come by and by," said mother. "I suppose you will lose your upper front teeth first."

But it happened one day that Peter fell down. He bumped his nose. He also cut his lip on a tooth.

He must have bumped that tooth quite hard, for it became loose. Peter was much pleased.

"I should let it alone," said mother. "Perhaps it will grow tight again."

But Peter could not seem to let it alone. He wiggled it with his tongue. He wiggled it with his fingers. At last he made it very loose.

Then he said, "Polly, I must pull my tooth."

"Oh, let it come out," said Polly. "Two of mine did."

"No," said Peter. "I shall pull it. You pulled one of yours with your fingers. I shall do that."

But the loose tooth would not come out.

"It will not pull," said Peter. "I shall put a string on it. I shall tie the end of the string to the door. Then I shall shut the door hard. It will pull my tooth. You did that."

"Yes," said Polly. "That was fun. But I know a better way now. I will show it to you."

She took a flatiron. She tied a string to it. She set it on the kitchen table. Then she tied the other end of the string to Peter's loose tooth.

She said, "This string is too short to reach the floor. You push the flatiron off the table. It will fall down and jerk out your tooth."

"Shall I now?" asked Peter.

"Yes, now."

So Peter pushed the flatiron. But Polly had not been right. The string was too long. It reached to the floor.

Down went the flatiron, bang! It landed on the edge of Peter's boot. It landed on the edge of Peter's toe, too. It hurt him, but not much. And the tooth did not come out.

"Oh! Oh!" cried Peter. "It hurt my foot, it hurt my foot! It didn't pull out my tooth at all." And he started to jump up and down.

The very first jump surprised him. Something pulled at his mouth and then seemed to let go.

It was the string around his tooth. He had jumped up far enough to pull the tooth out himself.

How Polly did laugh when she saw this!

Peter cried, "It's out, it's out! We have found a new way! I found it!" And he got down on the floor to pick up his tooth.

"I am going to save it to plant in my garden," he said.

"To plant!" said Polly. "What for?"

"So I shall have more," said Peter.

Then Polly laughed again. She ran to tell mother about Peter's garden.




Driving With Father


One morning father said, "I am going to Large Village to-day. You children may have a ride. You may go as far as Farmer Brown's. I will leave you there."

"Oh, goody, goody!" cried Polly.

"Oh, goody, goody!" cried Peter.

"You are to stay to dinner. I shall have my dinner at Large Village. Run and get ready."

"Oh, oh, oh!" cried both children at once.

Farmer Brown lived two and one half miles away. You must follow the road past Mr. Howe's store to find his house.

Peter and Polly liked to go there. They liked to see his horses, cows, sheep, pigs, and hens.

"We can see the sheep," said Polly. "They will not be in the pasture. The snow has covered the grass. Their wool will be thicker now than it was last summer."

"We can see the pigs," said Peter. "Perhaps they will grunt at us."

They drove to the farm in a low sled. When they were out of the village, Mr. Howe stopped.

"Do you wish to ride on the runners?" he asked.

This was a great treat. Peter and Polly could never "catch rides" on people's sleds. Some of the other children were allowed to do this. But father showed Peter and Polly how they might get hurt.

He said, "If you 'catch rides,' I shall worry. I shall worry all the time. So I ask you not to do it. When you drive with me, you may 'catch rides' all you please."

So, on the way to Farmer Brown's, he drove slowly. And the children jumped on and off the sled at any time they wished. It was fun.

The road followed the river all the way. But the river could not sing now. It was covered with ice.

They passed through thick woods. Many of the trees were cedar. They are evergreens. So they had not lost their leaves.

"Look there," said father, stopping the horse.

On one tree were many little birds. They looked black and gray. They were hopping about from twig to twig. They were calling, "Chick-a-dee, chick-a-dee."

"I know them," said Polly. "They are saying their own names over and over. They are getting their breakfast. Aren't they cold at night, father? Where do they sleep? I wish they would come to our house."

"I hope they sleep in some old hole, Polly. Then they can keep one another warm. Perhaps they rent part of a woodpecker's hole for the winter.

"We must put out some food for the birds to-morrow. Do not let me forget."

At last Mr. Brown's house was in sight. The farmer and his wife came to the door to meet them.

"Well, well," said Mr. Brown, "here are our little friends. Your cheeks are red. You look as if you had been running. Didn't your father give you a ride?"

"Oh, yes," said Polly. "But we have been running behind. We have been catching rides on his sled. He lets us.

"He lets us ride on the runners, too. He does not wish us to do it except on his sled."

"I hope that you mind him," said Mr. Brown.

"We do," said Polly.

"Shall we go out to the barn?" asked the farmer. "Where is Wag-wag? Didn't you bring him? He might have come."

"I didn't know he was invited," said Polly. "Yes, let's go to the barn. Let's see everything you have there. Have you any little lambs?"

"It is not quite time for little lambs yet. But you can see all the sheep. They look fatter than they did last summer. That is because their wool has grown longer. When we get back, it will be dinner time."




The Stag


"There is one hen that goes up into the hay," said Farmer Brown. "I think she lays her eggs there. But I cannot find them."

"Let us go up into the hay to look for them," said Polly.

So the children hunted. The barn was not very cold. Still it was not so nice as in the summer time.

At last Polly nearly tumbled over something. It was the brown hen. She flew away with a loud cackle. Then Polly saw four eggs lying in the hay.

"I've found them, I've found them!" she shouted. She gave Peter two and took two herself. Then they went down to show Mr. Brown.

"You have sharp eyes," he said.

"I used to think I could see better if I had spectacles," said Polly. "I used to think that I should have four eyes then."

"I am going to feed the horses now," said Mr. Brown. "You may come."

While Mr. Brown did this, Peter and Polly looked carefully at each horse. They were hunting for one that they knew.

It was the old brown mare. They had ridden horseback on her last summer. That was when they went with John to hunt for the turtle's eggs.

"There she is, I think," said Polly.

"Are you looking for John's mare? Yes, that is the one," said Farmer Brown. "You will not need her to ride any more. I hear you have a pony of your own."

Then the children told him about their pony. They told him about the Christmas tree.

"Ho, ho!" laughed Farmer Brown. "Who ever heard of a pony on a Christmas tree?"

"But think of a pony in a letter box," said Polly. And Farmer Brown laughed still more.

How warm the cow stable was! Polly said, "How can it be so warm? There is no stove."

"The cows themselves make it warm," said Mr. Brown. "See, here is one just the color of a deer. Isn't she pretty?"

"I guess the deer would be glad, if they had such a nice, warm house," said Polly.

"Yes, the winter is hard for them. It is cold, and food is not easy to find. There are two that sometimes come to our barnyard. I give them grain and hay and salt."

"I wish I could see a deer to-day," said Polly. "Let us go to the barnyard and look."

"We will feed the sheep now, Polly. You can watch for one while I am doing that."

When the sheep were fed, it was dinner time. After dinner Mrs. Brown let the children play on the piazza.

All at once Peter said, "See the pretty cow coming down from the woods. Whose is she? Perhaps she is lost."

"Where, Peter?" asked Polly.

"Coming across the field. Now it is right there near the fence."

"Oh, oh!" cried Polly. "That isn't a cow. I think it is a deer. See its horns."

She called to Mr. Brown. Just as he came out of the house, the deer reached the fence. He walked quite close to it. Then he jumped over it.

"A pretty jump," said Mr. Brown. "The fence is more than four feet high. That is a fine stag. A stag is a father deer, you know."

The stag walked across the road. He jumped another high fence. Then he went off up the railroad track.

"Oh," said Polly, "I wish I could jump like that. He didn't run at all."

"It was a pretty sight," said Mr. Brown. "I am sorry the old fellow did not stop for dinner. I am afraid he will have nothing better than bark and twigs, now."

"It wasn't a cow, was it?" asked Peter.

"Cows can't jump like that, Peter. Though perhaps one did. I have heard of a cow that jumped over the moon. Have you?"

"Yes, I have. But I know she didn't really. Oh, here is father. We will tell him about my pretty cow."




Polly's Bird Party


"Do you remember something, father?" asked Polly.

"What is it, chick?"

"Something you told me not to forget, father."

"Let me think. What was it? Yes, I remember now. We were to put out some food for the birds. Is that it?"

"That is it. So, let us do it now."

"Very well," said father. "We will. But mother must help. She must give us bones."

"Bones!" said Polly. "Birds don't eat bones. But dogs do. If we put out bones, Wag-wag will get them."

"Wag-wag will not get these," said father. "I shall tie them up in the trees. Wag-wag has not learned to climb trees."

"I saw him trying one day," said Polly. "He was after a chipmunk. The chipmunk ran up a tree. Wag-wag put his fore paws on the trunk. He stood up on his hind feet. He tried hard to get up that trunk. He barked and barked."

"What did the chipmunk do?" asked father.

"The chipmunk stopped on a branch over his head. He sat there and chattered. Grandmother said he was laughing.

"She told me he was saying, 'You can't come up, Wag-wag. You can't come up. You don't know how to climb. I am safe!'"

"Perhaps he was saying that," said father. "Now here are the bones."

"Oh, I see," said Polly. "They have meat and fat on them. That is for the birds. They need not try to eat bones."

"Yes, and here is grass seed. Some birds would rather have that. And here is cracked corn, too. It is for the larger birds."

He put the grass seed into small baskets. He did the same with the corn.

"Now we are ready," he said. "You help me carry these things out. I will come back for the stepladder."

Soon father had tied the bones to the trees. He put them on the small branches. He tied them so that the birds could get at them easily. The birds could perch on the branches and peck at the meat.

He said, "I will not tie them to large branches. Some cat might walk out and catch our birds."

Then he fastened up the baskets. He fastened them tightly. They could not swing. The birds could perch upon the edge and eat the seeds and the corn.

"Now our party is ready," said father. "Do you suppose anything will come to it? We will keep food here the rest of the winter."

How Peter and Polly watched the food! It seemed as if the birds would never come. But at last they found it.

The very next morning Polly saw two birds eating there. She did not know what they were. She ran to tell mother.

"See our birds!" she cried. "We have two. What are they, oh, what are they?"

"You know them in the summer," said mother. "Then the father bird is yellow and black. You call them your canaries."

"But they have changed their clothes," said Polly. "They do not look the same. They are not so pretty."

"Many birds change their color," said mother. "Do you dress in the winter just as you do in the summer? How those birds like the seeds!"

"There, there!" cried Polly. "See that big bird. He is after the meat. I know him. He is a blue jay. Don't you frighten away my other birds, Mr. Blue Jay."

It was not long before many birds found the food. Day after day the chick-a-dees feasted. A few crows came. Once a flock of snowbirds stopped at the party. And there were many that Peter and Polly did not know.

One day Polly saw a bird that she liked very much. It was a robin. She was surprised and pleased.

"I did not know that robins were here in cold weather," she said to him. "I like you best of all. You make me think of spring. Peter likes winter best. But I like you and spring. Please come to see me every day."

And the robin did for nearly a month. Then he came no more. Perhaps he grew tired of waiting for spring. Perhaps he flew south to find it. Polly never knew.




The New Sled


"I am going to begin to make something to-day," said father. "The stove is lighted. The workshop is warm. Who will be my helper?"

"I will," said Polly.

"I will," said Peter.

"Very well. You may both help. Come to the shop and guess what we are to make."

The workshop was in Mr. Howe's barn. In it was a large workbench. Tools hung on the walls. A box of tools was near the bench.

On the other side of the shop there was a very low workbench. It had two drawers. In the drawers were tools.

There were two small hammers. There were two small saws. There were two small screw drivers. There were two pots of glue. There were nails, tacks, and screws.

The big bench and the big tools were for Mr. Howe. The little bench and the little tools were for Peter and Polly.

It was not hard to guess what was to be made. Father had laid the pieces of wood together. Any one could tell what they would make.

"It's a sled like your low one," said Polly. "I think it must be for Brownie. It is too small for a big horse."

"That is just what it is, Polly. Grandmother wished to give you a sleigh. But this will be better. If you tip over, you will not fall far.

"I am glad to have you learn to use Brownie in the winter, too. The snow will make a soft cushion, if you fall off your sled."

The parts of the sled had been made for father. He needed only to put them together. This did not take very long.

"Now," said father, "the carpenters have finished their work. We must draw our sled to the blacksmith's shop."

"What for?" asked Peter.

"For the iron runners, my boy. They will make your sled slip easily. The blacksmith has been making them. He says that he will fit them on to-morrow."

So the three took the sled to the blacksmith. On the way Polly rode a little. Then Peter rode a little. Father was the horse.

Once he played that he was running away. He tumbled Polly off into the soft snow. The children thought this great fun.

At the blacksmith's shop they saw the runners. These did not quite fit the wooden runners. Polly felt sorry about this.

But the blacksmith said, "Never you mind, Polly. I can heat them at the forge. That will make them soft. Then I can bend them as I wish.

"You ought to know about this. Haven't you seen me shoe horses? Haven't you seen me make the shoes fit?"

"Yes," said Polly. "But, you see, I forgot about that."

The next afternoon the sled came home. The blacksmith's boy drew it. The iron runners were on. They fitted well.

"Now," said father, "we have another job to begin to-morrow. We must paint the sled. What color shall it be?"

The children talked about it a long time.

At last Polly said, "Peter likes red and I like red. May we paint it red, father?"

"Red is a good color," said father. "We will paint it red. See that your brushes are soft. You must help on the work, you know."

The next day the painting began. Each child had a part to do all alone. Of course, Peter got paint on his hands. And there were large, red spots on his clothes. But they were old, and no one cared.

The first coat of paint dried quickly in the warm room. Then another was put on, and the work was done.

Peter and Polly went to the workshop many times a day to look at the sled. They touched the paint with their fingers. Surely it must be dry.

At last father said, "The paint is hard now. The sled is ready for use. We will harness Brownie to it to-morrow."




Brownie


"Now may we harness Brownie?" asked Polly.

"Now you may," said father.

He drew out the new, red sled. He put on Brownie's little harness. He helped the children harness her to the sled.

They jumped in. Polly had the reins. She said, "Get up, Brownie," and Brownie walked out of the yard.

"First, we will show grandmother," said Polly. "Brownie is grandmother's present. She must see us driving her."

They stopped in front of grandmother's house. Peter went in to call her to the door. Polly held Brownie.

"Well, well," said grandmother, "that is nice. What a pretty sled you have. I like the color."

"We helped to make it," said Polly. "We wished you to see us first. We are going to show the children now. Hear our pretty sleigh bells. Good-by."

Down the hill Brownie trotted. Her bells jingled softly. She went across the railroad track and into the bridge.

Some of the village children were looking over the railing. They were watching men cutting ice.

When they saw Peter and Polly, they cried, "Here comes the pony! See Peter and Polly! Look at the red sled! Give us a ride! Oh, give us a ride!"

"Yes, we will," said Polly. "Come up on the street, where it is smooth. Two of you get in with us. We will take two more by and by."

Polly could drive quite well. She had often driven father's horse, when father took her with him. She let each child hold Brownie's reins.

"Let more ride at once," said one of the girls. "There is room in the sled."

"No," said Polly. "The pony is strong, but she is little. I will not let her drag more than four. And two are enough, going uphill."

So they trotted up and down the street. Sometimes the boys and girls who were not riding ran by Brownie's side. Brownie seemed to enjoy the fun as much as any of them.

At last it was time to go home. The children all patted the pony. This was to thank her for the good time she had given them. Then Peter and Polly drove away, up the hill.

Mother came out of the house. She said, "Do you think you can do an errand for me? Can you drive to the creamery? I wish some buttermilk. Here is a pail for it."

"What fun," said Polly. "Yes, of course, we can do that. You hold the pail, Peter."

Down the hill they trotted again. At the creamery, Polly took the pail. She went inside.

She said, "Have you some buttermilk for me?"

"Plenty," said the creamery man. "Just hold your pail under the faucet."

"See our new pony," said Polly. "See our new sled."

"Are you driving your pony? I saw her the day she came. She is a fine pony. If you tip over going home, come back for more buttermilk."

"Thank you," said Polly. "We have not tipped over yet."

"There always has to be a first time," said the man.

Going up the hill, Polly said, "We are nearly home. Perhaps we shall not tip over to-day. Why does every one think that we shall?"

But, as they turned into their driveway, Polly pulled the wrong rein. Brownie stepped to the side of the road. One of the sled runners struck a bank of snow.

Over went sled, children, and buttermilk. Brownie stopped and looked around. Polly was standing on her head in the soft snow. Peter was covered with buttermilk. No one was hurt.

Polly scrambled up. She pulled Peter to his feet. She said, "Don't cry, Peter. Buttermilk will not hurt you. You like it."

"Yes, I do," said Peter. "But that is inside, not outside. How would you like it down your neck?"

"Well," said Polly, "you get into the sled again. We must go back for more buttermilk. You may drive all the way. Perhaps you won't tip us over."




Dish-Pan Sleds


"Peter and Polly," said mother, "should you like to play a new game?"

"Oh, yes, oh, yes! Tell us fast!" cried both children.

"I cannot tell you," said mother. "But I will show you. Get ready to go out of doors. Here comes Tim. That is good. He may play, too."

"How many can be in this game, mother?"

"Ever so many, Polly. Please take this dish pan. Peter, carry this pan. Tim, here is one for you. Now follow me."

Mrs. Howe went through the open gate into the hayfield. A hard crust was on the top of the snow.

"See, children," she said, "what a fine crust. It holds me up. It is just right for sliding. By and by the sun will make it soft."

"I wish we had our sleds," said Peter. "Let's go back for them."

"You have them with you," said mother. "That is the game."

"I don't see any game," said Peter. "And I don't see any sleds."

"Then I will show you, my son. Bring your big pan here. Put it down on the edge of the hill. Now sit in it. Hold on to the handles. Keep your feet up. You need not steer. You can't run into anything here. Now go."

Mother gave Peter a push. Away he went on the icy crust.

"Mother, mother!" cried Polly, jumping up and down. "Look at Peter, look! I want to go! I want to go!"

"In a minute," said mother. "Watch Peter, first."

Peter's dish-pan sled was not like a real sled. It did not go straight. It turned around and around. First Peter slid backward, then sideways. At last he reached the bottom.

He stood up and looked around. Then he laughed.

"Did you like it, Peter?" called mother.

"I did! I did!" cried Peter. "It felt just like sliding and rolling down hill at the same time. I am going to play this game all the morning. Let's all go now."

"Very well," said mother. "If you bump into one another, it won't hurt you. Get ready."

So the children, in their dish-pan sleds, started down the hill. Polly bumped into Tim. This made him spin around and around. Polly went the rest of the way backward. Near the bottom she fell out.

Just then Wag-wag came running up the field. He was dragging Peter's sled behind him.

He had heard the children and was coming to find them. Perhaps he thought they had forgotten Peter's sled.

"Oh, look, look!" said Polly. "Wag-wag has a sled, too. Let's give him a slide. Come here, Wag-wag. Come here, sir."

But Wag-wag would not come. Instead, he ran up the hill past Mrs. Howe. The children picked up their dish pans and chased him.

"Never mind," said mother. "When he is tired of playing with the sled, he may bring it back. Or you can go after it.

"Now good-by. Slide until the crust is soft. Then come in. Do you like the new game, children?"

"Oh, we do, we do!" they all cried.

"And we like our new sleds, mother. We are going to name them," said Polly.

"I am going to tell my mother not to wash dishes any more. I am going to tell her to give me her dish pan," said Tim.

The children slid for a long time. At last the crust began to be soft. They sank in a little at every step.

"I shall slide once more," Polly said. "Then I shall go home."

"I shall get my sled first," said Peter. "I wish Wag-wag had not left it so far away."

Peter started across the field. Before long, he came to a place where the snow was very soft. He sank into it as far as his legs could go. He could not get to the sled. So he went home feeling quite cross.

Tim's father was in the yard. He had come for Tim. Collie was with him.

Peter said, "Wag-wag is a bad dog. He left my sled out in the field. The snow is soft. I cannot get to it."

Tim said, "My father will send Collie after your sled, Peter. Won't you, father?"

"Oh, will you?" asked Peter. "I shall want to slide in the road after dinner. Dish pans are not good in the road. So I need my sled."

"Why, yes," said Tim's father. "Collie can get it. He will not break through the crust as you do."

He showed Tim's sled to Collie. He put the rope into Collie's mouth. He pointed to the end of the big field. Then he said, "Collie, go bring the sled."

Collie was a wise dog. He understood many things that were said to him. He knew what his master wished him to do now.

He went running over the snow. He found the sled and drew it home.

"Good old Collie," said his master, patting him.

"There," said Tim, "I told you Collie is smarter than Wag-wag. He is, too."

"Maybe he isn't," said Peter. "Maybe Wag-wag was smart to leave my sled there. But anyway I like Collie because he got it for me."




Cat And Copy-Cat


One winter day grandmother had been visiting Mrs. Brown. In the afternoon she started for home. The sun was warm. The snow was packed hard in the road. The walking was good.

Grandmother liked the cold, crisp air. She liked the blue sky, and the hills and fields all white with snow. She liked to hear the chick-a-dees, calling among the trees.

She was halfway home, when she heard a noise behind her. It was, "Meow, meow."

"That sounds like a cat," said grandmother to herself. "But, of course, it is not. No cat would be in these woods in winter."

"Meow, meow," came the sound again.

This time grandmother looked around. What do you think she saw? There, in the road behind her, were two black and white kittens. They were trotting along side by side. They looked just alike.

Grandmother stopped and called, "Kitty, kitty, kitty! Come here, you pretty kitties. Where did you come from? Are you following me?"

As soon as grandmother stopped, the kittens, too, stopped. She went back toward them. When she did this, the kittens turned and ran away. They did not wish to be caught.

Grandmother called to them again. She tried in every way to get near them. But she could not.

At last she said, "Poor kittens! You do not know that I am your friend. I do not like to leave you here in the cold. But I cannot stay any longer. I must go home."

So she walked on up the road. When the kittens saw this, they started after her. She looked back and saw them following. Side by side they came, their little pointed tails straight up.

"Well, I never!" said grandmother to herself. "Now, do you suppose they will follow me home?"

She kept looking back to see. Every time she looked, the kittens were coming. But, if she stopped, they stopped.

Through the village they went. They did not seem afraid. There were no people about. Not a dog was to be seen.

At last they reached grandmother's house.

"Now," said grandmother, "you have followed me to my door. Are you looking for a new home? Did you pick me out to be your mistress? If you really wish to live with me, you may. We shall see."

She unlocked the door and went in. She left the door open. And after her went the two black and white kittens. They ran under the stove at once. Then grandmother shut the door.

In a short time she gave them some warm milk. When they had finished it, they took a walk around the room.

One found grandmother's workbasket. Then he felt sure that he should like his new home. He began to play with the spools.

His brother saw him. He thought he should like a game, too. So he rolled some of the spools out on the floor. But grandmother put the basket away before they did much harm.

Just then the telephone bell rang. The kittens both looked around. One jumped upon the table. From there he jumped to the telephone box.

He put his paw on the bell, which kept ringing. Perhaps he thought it would play with him. Perhaps he did not like the noise.

Then one jumped up into grandmother's lap. She patted it; and soon the other came, too.

"You funny kittens," said grandmother. "You are almost alike. You, sir, have a black spot on this leg. You have not. If you are to be my kittens, I must name you.

"You are so nearly alike, I shall call you Cat and Copy-cat. And, if you are good, you shall always live with me.

"Now I will telephone to Peter and Polly about you."




Polly's Snowshoes


"Peter, I've thought of something. Let's make some snowshoes."

"How do you do it, Polly?"

"I think I know. I saw a pair this morning. They were made of barrel staves. They are not real snowshoes, of course."

"Of course not," said Peter. "Father's snowshoes are not made of barrel staves. Let's go to look at his. Let's make some like them."

"We can't, Peter. But we can make the other kind. Let's see if there is a broken barrel. Then we'll ask mother if we may have four staves."

"My flour barrel is just empty," said mother. "We will roll it outside. I will knock it to pieces. Then you may have your four staves. Please clean them out of doors. If you do not, you will get flour all over the workshop."

When the children took the staves into the workshop, Peter said, "What next?"

"We want four strips of leather next. They are for straps. We will tack one strap on each stave. They will go across the staves. We will tack them at the sides. They must be loose. We shall put our toes under them."

"How will our snowshoes stay on?" asked Peter.

"I'll show you by and by. I must ask mother to cut this leather for me."

When the leather was cut, Polly tacked on the straps. The snowshoes now looked like this:

"I wish to put mine on," said Peter.

So he stuck his toes under the leather straps. He scuffed over the floor. Then he tried to go backward. But he only pulled his feet out of the leather straps.

"They will not stay on. I knew they would not," he said. "I do not like them very well."

"I'm fixing mine so that they will stay on," said Polly. "I will fix yours, too."

To each end of the leather straps Polly had tied a piece of soft rope. Her snowshoes now looked like this:

"Put your toes under the straps, Peter. I will wind the ropes back of your heels. Now they go around your ankles and tie in front. See if the snowshoes will come off now."

Peter scuffed around the room again. The snowshoes held fast. They worked very well when he scuffed. But, if he tried to step, the backs flew up and hit him.

"Father's don't do that," said Peter.

"I know it," said Polly. "There are holes in father's. His toes go down through those holes. You haven't any holes. So your toes push the front of your snowshoes down. Then the backs fly up and hit you. You must scuff, not walk."

"I will," said Peter. "Let's go out of doors and try them. They are good snowshoes now."

So out the children went. There was a little crust. The children walked on it. Their snowshoes held them up.

They called to mother. She must see them. Mother looked through the window. She clapped her hands.

All went well for a few steps. Then the toe of Polly's snowshoe caught. It cut into the crust.

This pulled Polly forward. She fell on her face. Her arms stuck down into the snow. The points of her snowshoes stuck down into the snow, too. At first Polly could not get up.

Then she rolled over on her side. She was almost on her feet again, when Wag-wag dashed up.

He had seen Polly rolling in the snow. He thought it was a game. He wished to play, too.

He took the end of one snowshoe in his teeth. He pulled and pulled. He shook the snowshoe. Then he jumped around Polly and on her.

Polly was laughing so that she could not scold him. She could only say, "Oh, don't, Wag-wag! Don't!"

Mother and Peter were laughing. And perhaps Wag-wag was laughing, too.

At last he stopped playing. Mother came out of the house. She threw a broom to Polly. Polly helped herself up with this.

She said, "These are good snowshoes. They are best when I am on them. They are not so good when I am down. But I think that I can do better than that next time."




The Woods In Winter


"We are going on a picnic to-day, chicks," said Mr. Howe.

"A picnic, father! I thought picnics were in summer."

"So they are, Polly. But why not have a winter picnic, too? I am going into the woods. You may come, if you wish."

"But at picnics we have things to eat. We eat out of doors."

"We shall have things to eat to-day. And we shall eat out of doors, too."

"But, father, we shall be cold!"

"What keeps us warm in the house in winter, Polly?"

"A fire," said Polly. "Oh, now I know, now I know! You will build a fire in the woods. Once you promised me that you would. Goody, goody, goody, goody!" And Polly jumped up and down for joy.

"What shall we eat?" asked Peter. "Just bread and butter?"

"Oh, no," said father. "We shall have bread and butter, of course. But we shall have other things, too. We will cook our dinner."

"Oh, oh, oh!" cried both children.

"Are you glad? I thought you would like it. Now help me get ready. Please get my knapsack, Polly."

In the kitchen, mother was busy spreading bread. She wrapped paper around the slices. She put coffee into a small, cheese-cloth bag. She filled a flat bottle with milk.

Father took six eggs. He rolled them up in paper. He put a jar of bacon into his knapsack. Then the bread, coffee, and eggs were fitted in. The bottle of milk went into his pocket.

"We will take my camp dishes," he said. "I will fasten my hatchet to my belt. Get on your things, and we are ready."

"Let's play that we are Indians," said Polly. "Where are we going, father?"

"Up the wood road on the hill. I must see if all our wood has been cut. We need a little for our furnace, a little for our stove, and a great deal for our fireplaces.

"Let's all keep our eyes wide open to-day. We may see interesting things."

"I think that cooking our dinner will be interesting, father. I almost wish it were dinner time now."

"We will build our fire where our trees have been cut. There we shall find plenty of firewood," said father.

"See those tracks in the snow, children. A rabbit has been here. Yes, this hollow is where he lies. The snow is packed hard. It is a little dirty, too. Perhaps he is near by, watching us."

"Poor rabbit," said Polly. "What a cold bed. The Eskimos have snow beds. But they have fur rugs to cover the snow."

"The rabbit has one between him and the snow, too. Only his rug is on his back. It keeps him warm," said father.

"Look, look!" cried Polly. "Over there by those trees!"

"That's surely a rabbit, Polly. See him jump along. He is nearly as white as the snow. He did not wait for us to call, did he?"

"What big jumps," said Polly. "I think he could beat Wag-wag."

"I am sure that he could, Polly. His hind legs are very long. They are made for jumping. He can take twice as big jumps as he is taking now. But he will not, unless we frighten him."

"Why doesn't he go into a hole in the winter? Why doesn't he sleep until spring comes? The woodchuck does. Why doesn't he?" asked Polly.

"He is not made so that he can. Some animals store up fat on themselves. In the winter they go to sleep.

"Then they seem to live on that fat. For, in the spring, they are always thin and hungry looking.

"You couldn't do that, you know. And the rabbit cannot do it. What are those birds, Peter?"

"Chickadees," said Peter. "I always know them. They cannot fool me. They never say anything but 'chick-a-dee.'"

"Oh, yes, they do, my son. Listen! What is that? There it is again."

"Some one is whistling," said Polly. "Isn't it a pretty whistle?"

"It is just two notes," said father. "Aren't they sweet and clear?"

"It is quite near. But I cannot see any one. Are you doing it, father?" asked Polly. "Why, now I can hear three people."

"Look above you, Polly. You will see who is whistling."

Polly looked. There on a limb of a tree was a chick-a-dee. He was singing those two notes. In the next tree another was singing two other notes.

"So you see, Peter, that they do say something besides 'chick-a-dee.' These two notes are their song. The other is just their talk. Perhaps you can learn to whistle those notes.

"Here is the place where our wood has been cut. Let us look at it."




The Winter Picnic


"Yes," said father, "we shall have plenty of wood. See, this wood with rough bark is maple. This, with smooth bark and lighter spots, is beech. We will not use it in our fireplaces. It might snap sparks out on the floor.

"And here is some beautiful white birch. This is for our fireplaces. Here is yellow birch, too. Yes, there is plenty for next winter."

"If we were really Indians, we could make canoes out of the white birch bark," said Polly.

"Isn't it nice here? The trees are thick all about us. How still it is!"

"It is still in the woods in winter," said father. "I always like it."

"I think it is too bad to cut the trees down, father. Will they grow again?"

"See, Polly," said father. "We have cut down only the largest trees. They were as large as they would ever be. Now the smaller ones will have a better chance to grow.

"I would not cut them all down, unless I planted more. It would not be good for my land to do that.

"This is the spot for our fire. Let us make it now."

He found a place, near a log, where the snow was not deep. He cleared most of it away. There he built the fire. He used pieces of birch bark instead of paper. Small twigs made very good kindling wood.

Peter and Polly pulled birch bark from the logs. They broke up the dry twigs.

With his hatchet, father cut sticks of wood. He laid some of these on the fire. He stuck his kettle irons down into the snow. They looked like this:

Then he lighted the fire.

He filled the coffeepot with snow. He hung it on the hook of the kettle irons. It was quite near the blaze. When the snow had melted, more was put in.

Father said, "It takes much snow to make a coffeepot full of water. When the water boils, we will put in the bag of coffee."

Polly had taken out the camp dishes. She said, "We must have three plates, three cups, three knives and forks and spoons. I will put them on this log. I will put the bread and butter on the log, too."

Father had cut a straight stick. It looked like a cane. He took out the frying pan.

"This stick is my handle," said he. "See where it fits in. Now I shall not need to stand too near the fire. Frying would be hot work, if I had not a long handle. Give me the bacon, Peter."

Soon the bacon was cooking nicely. How good it smelled! Then the eggs were dropped into the pan.

When they were fried, father said, "Dinner is ready. Bring your cups. You are to have a little coffee. It will be mostly milk."

This was a great treat. Peter and Polly did not drink coffee at home. Then father gave them their bacon and eggs.

"Why," said father, "I forgot the sugar for our coffee."

"Mother did not," said Polly. "I saw her put it in, and here it is."

How good everything tasted! They sat on the log near the fire to eat. So they were quite warm.

"This is the best dinner I ever had," said Polly. "Who taught you to cook, father? I forgot all about playing Indians, I have been so busy."

When dinner was over, father picked up the dishes. He wiped them with paper napkins. He put them into their case. Mother would wash them at home.

The fire burned low. He threw some snow on it. This made it safe to leave.

"Now I will show you some tracks," said he. "They were made by the white-footed mouse. See how small they are. That line in the snow is where he dragged his tail.

"He must have gone up into this tree. But I cannot see him anywhere. Perhaps he lives in that old nest up there. He may have watched us eat our dinner."

"Good-by, Mr. White-foot," called Polly. "We are sorry not to see you. We are going home now."

Down the hill through the quiet woods they went. Polly had the big knapsack over her shoulder. It was quite empty now, and not at all heavy. Peter ran ahead.

At the door, Polly said, "Thank you, father, for our good time. It is the best picnic that I ever had."




The Sewing Lesson


"Mother," said Polly one day, "I wish I could sew something real. I am tired of my patchwork. I wish I could make a dress for my doll. She needs a new dress."

"Then you shall try it, Polly. Go to the drawer in the sewing table. You will find a pattern at the back of the drawer. It is for you."

"O mother!" said Polly. "How did you think of it?"

"I knew you would need it soon. Here is the cloth for the dress."

She gave Polly some pretty blue cloth. She said, "Spread it out on the table. Pin the pattern smoothly to the cloth. Be sure to pin it straight. Now cut around the edge."

Polly worked very carefully. At last she said, "See, mother, this is what I have left. There was too much."

Just then Peter came into the room. "What are you doing?" he asked.

"I am cutting out a doll's dress. See my pattern. See my pretty cloth."

"What is this piece for?" asked Peter.

"Nothing," said Polly. "That is left over. I do not need it at all."

"I wish I could have it," said Peter. "I wish I could sew something, too."

"You may have it," said mother. "You may sew something. What do you wish to sew?"

"Let me see, mother. I think I will make me some clothes."

"There is not quite cloth enough for that, Peter. Besides, it would be hard to do. Why not make a bean bag?"

"That would be good," said Peter. "Where are the beans?"

"You shall have them when the bag is finished," said mother.

"But I must have them now. I must sew around them, mustn't I?"

"No, dear. This is the way we do it. First we cut it right. Then we turn the edges. Then we baste them together.

"Here is a little thimble. Here is a large needle. Begin at this corner. Make your stitches as small as you can.

"If they are too far apart, your beans will fall out, by and by. How are you getting on, Polly?"

"I have some of the pieces basted together. May I stop basting and sew a little?"

"If you like. Aren't you glad now that you can sew over and over so nicely?"

Peter and Polly did not finish their work that day. But at last the bean bag was done. Then Peter took it to Tim's house. He wished to show Tim what he had made.

At last the dress, too, was finished. How pleased Polly was! She put it on her doll at once.

She said, "Now I will take her calling. I will show her to the other children. They will all wish to make dresses."

"If they do, we will cut the patterns for them," said mother. "Perhaps we can have a little sewing school. I will be the teacher, and you may be my helper. Should you like that?"

"Oh, I should, I should, mother. You do think of nice things. I will go this minute and tell the other girls."




Fishing Through The Ice


"I wish I could go fishing," said Peter.

"You'll have to wait until summer," said Polly.

"Then I wish it were summer now."

"Why, Peter Howe! When it was summer, you wished for winter. Now it is winter, you would like it to be summer."

"Yes," said Peter. "You see, when I wished for winter, I forgot all about fishing. Anyway it will be summer soon."

"Not very soon," said Polly. "Will it, mother?"

"I will take you fishing," said father.

"How can you?" cried Peter. "Can you make it summer?"

"No, but I can take you fishing just the same. Get ready and we will go. Polly may come, too, if she likes."

"Oh, oh, oh!" shouted Peter. "Where is my fish pole, mother?"

"You will not need it, Peter," said father. "We shall need just our lines, hooks, sinkers, and bait.

"Put an extra pair of mittens in your pocket. You might take the red ones that the snow man liked so well."

They walked up the road. By and by they came to a bridge. At one end they climbed down to the river.

Here they found a path. It took them on to the river. At the end of the path the snow was trodden down. Peter saw two holes in the ice.

"Father," he said, "see those holes. Who made them?"

"The blacksmith and his boy chopped them yesterday. Then they fished through them. You see now why the blacksmith did not shoe Brownie yesterday.

"He knew you would be sorry about that. So he told me to bring you fishing."

"I'd rather do this than anything else," said Peter. "I will thank him for his holes."

"You will not like to do it long," said father. "It is a cold day."

He baited Polly's hook and Peter's hook. He showed them how far into the water to put their lines.

Then he said, "While you are fishing, I will build a little fire. There are plenty of small pieces of wood by the bank. You may warm your fingers at my fire. Perhaps the fish will not bite to-day."

"Did the blacksmith catch any?" asked Polly. "Oh, yes," said father.

"Maybe he caught them all," said Polly. "I haven't had a bite yet. I am getting cold standing here."

"Then come and warm your fingers at my fire," said father.

Just then Peter said, "I feel something!" And he began to pull up his line.

As soon as he pulled, Polly cried, "Oh, I feel something, too. It's a bite, a bite!" And she began to pull up her line.

All at once they both stopped pulling.

"I'm caught," said Polly.

"I'm caught," said Peter. "It won't come any farther. But it jerks. Maybe it isn't caught. Maybe it's a big fish."

Father began to laugh. "I think your big fish is Polly," he said. "Let me see."

He took Peter's line. He told Polly to let hers out slowly. Then he pulled. Surely enough, Peter's hook came up through his hole. Polly's hook came up, too.

Peter and Polly had caught each other! How they laughed at this!

Peter said, "I shall carry my big fish home to mother. She will like it. But she will not cook it. Let us go now to tell her."

"Very well," said father. "Roll up your line. Then warm your hands before we start."

Polly had dropped her hook back into the water. All in a minute she felt a good bite.

"Oh, I have one, I have one!" she cried.

"Pull in!" said father.

Polly pulled. Up through the hole came a beautiful big trout.

"Well, well, well!" said father. "Isn't that a beauty? I wonder how it happened to bite our pork. We must throw it back. It's too bad."

"O father, my fish!" cried Polly. "Why did you? Wasn't it a good fish?"

"Indeed it was, Polly. But back it had to go. We can't keep trout in the winter."

"Then let's go home now," said Polly. "I might catch more. And I should not like to throw them back."

"I'm all ready," said Peter. "I think we have had a good time. You caught a big fish and I caught a big fish and we can't eat either of them."




Making Molasses Candy


It was a wet, rainy day. Peter and Polly had been out in the rain. It did not hurt them.

They had on rubber boots, rubber coats, and rubber caps. Peter's rubber coat was yellow. Polly's was black. They played that they were firemen.

In the afternoon, mother wished them to stay in the house.

She said, "The rain makes the snow wet. It is not nice to play in. We will have a candy party. We will make molasses candy. You may each pull some."

"I should rather do that than play out of doors," said Polly.

"So should I," said Peter.

"Very well, children. Put on your aprons. Now, Polly, get the molasses jug."

Mother measured out the molasses. Then she put it on the stove to boil. Soon she measured out some white sugar. She poured it into the molasses.

"Peter, you may carry away the sugar. That is the way you helped grandmother, you know."

"Now let me stir," said Polly.

"Oh, no," said mother. "We do not stir this candy. I thought you knew better than that."

Soon the molasses boiled. The children liked to watch it. They liked the good smell.

Peter said, "See it bubble up just like our spring."

"It is the steam, trying to get out, that makes the bubbles," said mother. "You know that steam is strong. You have seen it lift the lid of the teakettle.

"Now let us try the candy. Bring a cup, Polly. Bring a cup, Peter. Fill them half full of cold water."

Mother dipped a spoon into the boiling candy. She poured part of the spoonful into Polly's cup, and the rest into Peter's cup.

"Let it stand a minute. Then we will see if the candy is hard enough to pull. After that you may eat it."

This was just what the children wished to do. They were glad because mother had to try the candy again.

At last, it was poured into cake tins. It was set out of doors to cool. There was a big tin for mother, a little tin for Polly, and a little tin for Peter.

Peter and Polly could hardly wait for the candy to cool. They were in such a hurry to begin pulling it. Polly stuck her finger into hers before it was ready. It almost burned her.

A few minutes after this, mother said, "Yours is cool enough now. Mine is not. Wash your hands again. Then you may begin."

What a sticky time there was!

Polly pulled her piece over and over quite well. Soon it began to grow light colored. When it stuck to her hands, she ran out of doors. This cooled the candy.

But Peter could not pull so fast. His piece stuck to both hands. It got between his fingers. Mother scraped it off and he began again.

At last, he dropped part of it on the floor. Mother said, "Let it alone, Peter. I will scrape it up. It is not good to put with yours now."

Peter said, "I guess I do not like to pull candy. I am going to make fly paper of mine. It is sticky enough."

"Yes," said mother. "It is sticky. But you are doing very well."

"Mine is ready to cut up, I think," said Polly.

She laid it on the clean kitchen table. She pulled it out into a long, thin strip. Then she took a pair of clean scissors. She cut the strip into short pieces.

"That is just the way," said mother. "Put it on the buttered plate. You are a good candy maker. Grandmother must have some of this. O Peter! What are you doing?"

Poor Peter had somehow got his hand stuck to his hair.

"I am just trying to get my hand away," said Peter. "But it is stuck."

"I should think it is," said mother. "You must sit quite still until I get my candy ready to cut. Then I will help you."

"O Peter! How funny you look!" laughed Polly. And indeed he did look funny, with his hand held close to his hair.

"But I don't feel funny, Polly. You stop laughing at me."

Mother gently pulled his hair away from the candy. Then she scraped his hands.

"Please save my candy, mother," said Peter.

"I cannot, Peter. It is not clean now."

And Polly said, "You may have mine, Peter. I am sorry I laughed."

Then mother washed Peter's hands. "I must wash your hair, too," she said. "But never mind. It needed washing. You have had fun with your candy, haven't you?"

Peter answered, "Yes, I have, mother. But please do not make it so sticky next time."




Grandmother's Birthday Party


"Here is grandmother. Light the fire, Peter. Light the fire, Polly."

Peter and Polly each took a match. Peter lighted the open fire at the left. Polly lighted it at the right side.

Soon the kindling wood began to crackle. Then the flames leaped high in the fireplace.

Grandmother had come over to supper. She was to spend the evening. It was her birthday. Peter and Polly were to stay up later because of this.

The Story Lady was coming to supper, too. Perhaps, just perhaps, she would tell them a story. She knew stories about everything.

"Here she is now," cried Polly. And the Story Lady walked in at the door with grandmother.

Soon supper was ready. Polly had helped mother set the table. She thought that it looked very pretty.

Grandmother's birthday cake was in the center. On it were a dozen small, colored candles. Polly had helped to put them there.

When mother had shown her the candles, she had said, "Why, mother, grandmother is more than twelve years old.

"She must have a candle for every year. That is what I have."

"I know you do, Polly," mother had said. "But grandmother is sixty years old. We cannot put sixty candles on this cake. It is not large enough.

"So we will count the fives in sixty. Then we will use one for every five years. That makes just twelve."

"Yes," Polly had answered, "I have learned that. Twelve fives make sixty. It is a good way to do. I shall do it when I am sixty years old."

Now the cake was on the table. Just before it was time to cut it, father lighted the candles.

They all watched them burn for a few minutes. The melted wax ran down the sides. They grew shorter and shorter.

"See Nan Etticoat," said Polly. "The longer she stands, the shorter she grows. Do you know that story, grandmother?"

"My grandmother taught me to say Nan Etticoat," said grandmother. "That was many years ago. She told me about making candles, too.

"When she was a little girl, there were no electric lights. There were no gas lights. There were no lamps. Every one used candles.

"Not such pretty, colored ones as these. They were larger and quite rough. How should you like to make them, Polly?"

"Oh, I should like to," said Polly. "May we?"

"Perhaps not," said grandmother. "We do not need to do so. We have other lights.

"But in those old days, people made their own candles. They called it 'dipping candles.' It was a hard task.

"I am sure that they did not light many at once. I am sure that my grandmother did not have candles on her birthday cakes.

"Now, my son, the wax is dripping on the frosting. The candles are nearly burned. If you will put them out, I will cut my birthday cake."

Mr. Howe pinched the lighted ends in his fingers. He did this very quickly.

"Don't they burn your fingers, father?" asked Polly.

"No, indeed, Polly. I do not give them time to burn me. This is better than to blow them out. Then there is smoke. But children must not do it this way."

Grandmother took the knife and cut the cake. She cut it as a pie is cut. Each one had a very fat piece.

"Now we shall see if this cake is as good as it looks," said grandmother. "I am sure that it is, for your mother is a good cook, Polly."

But Polly was not listening. She was looking at something that she had found in her cake.

She poked it with her fork. Then she took it up in her fingers.

"Why, mother," she said, "what a queer thing there is in my cake. How did it get there?"

Just then Peter said, "There is a lump in my piece, too. It is something hard."

Father said, "Clean the cake from your lumps and see what they are. Why, I have a lump myself."

"And so have I," said the Story Lady.

"And so have I," said mother.

"Then," said grandmother, "I am the only one who has no lump. How did you let these lumps fall into your cake, daughter? Can I ever again call you a good cook?" And she laughed at Mrs. Howe.

Just then her fork struck something.

"Dear me!" cried grandmother. "A lump in my piece, too! Now I think they must have been put in the cake on purpose."

"Oh, see, see, grandmother! See what mine is!" And Polly held up a little, white china pig.

"Look at mine!" shouted Peter. He had scraped the cake from his lump. In his hand was a small, white china monkey.

"What is yours, Story Lady? And yours, mother? And yours, father?" asked Polly.

"Mine is a cat," said the Story Lady.

"And here is a kitten to go with her," said mother.

"And here is a naughty dog, to chase your cat and kitten," said father. "Let's put them in a row on the table. Then we can all see them."

"But where is your lump, grandmother?" asked Polly.

Grandmother held out her hand. On it, there lay a beautiful, gold thimble.

"Oh! Oh! Isn't it pretty!" cried Polly. "Who gave it to you?"

"Indeed it is, Polly. I think I know who gave it to me. It was you, my daughter. You knew that I had lost mine.

"I thank you for this. And I thank you for another happy birthday party. Perhaps you may put lumps in your cakes, just on birthdays."

"I will not do it at other times," said mother. "Now let us all go into the other room and sit before the open fire."

"When our bedtime comes we need not go, need we, mother?" asked Polly.

"Not to-night, Polly. You and Peter may sit up a while," said mother.




Around The Open Fire


The open fire was blazing well. "Let me draw the chairs about it," said father. "Then we can all enjoy it."

"We do not need chairs, father," said Polly. "Peter and I will sit on the floor. I will sit next to grandmother."

"I will sit next to mother," said Peter.

"When I was little," said grandmother, "I liked to sit on the floor. I thought it quite soft enough. Now that I am older, I like chairs better."

"If you sit in a chair, it is never in the right place," said Polly. "A floor is always in the right place. It is a big seat, too."

"What a good fireplace this is," said the Story Lady. "It is so large that you can put real logs into it. And it never smokes."

"Just think of long ago, when there were no stoves," said grandmother. "How would it seem now to heat our houses with open fires?"

"Why weren't there any stoves, grandmother? And where were the furnaces?"

"People did not know how to make stoves and furnaces, Peter. They had very large fireplaces, instead. My grandmother told me about them."

"What beautiful white birch logs," said the Story Lady. "They make such a good fire."

"They came from our woods," said Peter. "We were up there one day. We went to see next winter's wood. There is plenty. Some is already cut and piled."

"At first, I did not like to see the pretty trees cut down," said Polly. "But father told me that it is sometimes best."

"So it is, Polly," said the Story Lady. "We need the wood to keep us warm, and for many other things, too. What are some of them?"

"Carts, sleds, telephone poles!" shouted Peter.

"Houses, barns, bridges!" shouted Polly.

"Yes, indeed, children, for all those and more. So we must cut down some of the trees. But we must take care that others grow in their places.

"Thousands of years ago, people believed strange things about trees. They believed that in some lived beings called dryads.

"These dryads were like lovely maidens. A maiden is a girl, you know. They could come out of their trees. But still they were a part of the tree.

"If a tree was cut down, the lovely dryad who lived in it died. So, in those days, most people did not wish to cut down trees. They were afraid of hurting the dryads.

"When trees grew old and fell, the dryads died, too. Sometimes kind people propped up old trees. Then the dryads could live a little longer."

"Oh, I wish I could see one," said Polly. "What did they wear?"

"No one knows exactly, Polly, because no one ever saw a dryad. It is one of those stories that have come to us from thousands of years ago.

"Most of the stories are not true. We call them myths. And we like them very much."

"Are myths as good as 'Once upon a time' stories?" asked Peter.

"Yes, indeed, Peter. Get your mother to tell you some, and see."

"Now I shall think of this story, when I see our fire burning a dryad's house," said Polly.

"I shall play that there are dryads in our trees, too. Perhaps, if I play hard enough, one will really be there.

"When spring comes, I shall go to the woods often. I know where there is a hollow tree. That will make a good dryad's house."

"Spring is coming soon," said mother. "The cold winter is nearly over. But, first of all, bedtime is coming. It has nearly come, now. Say good night, Peter and Polly. Then off with you."

So Peter and Polly said good night and went upstairs to bed. Perhaps they dreamed of dryads. Perhaps they dreamed of spring-time. Perhaps they slept soundly and did not dream at all.

<eob>

Mr. Stubbs's Brother

By

James Otis



Chapter I

The Scheme


"Why, we could start a circus jest as easy as a wink, Toby, 'cause you know all about one an' all you'd have to do would be to tell us fellers what to do, an' we'd 'tend to the rest."

"Yes; but you see we hain't got a tent, or bosses, or wagons, or nothin', an' I don't see how you could get a circus up that way;" and the speaker hugged his knees as he rocked himself to and fro in a musing way on the rather sharp point of a large rock, on which he had seated himself in order to hear what his companions had to say that was so important.

"Will you come down with me to Bob Atwood's, an' see what he says about it?"

"Yes, I'll do that if you'll come out afterwards for a game of I-spy 'round the meetin'-house."

"All right; if we can find enough of the other fellers, I will."

Then the boys slipped down from the rocks, found the cows, and drove them home as the preface to their visit to Bob Atwood's.

The boy who was so anxious to start a circus was a little fellow with such a wonderful amount of remarkably red hair that he was seldom called anything but Reddy, although his name was known -- by his parents, at least -- to be Walter Grant. His companion was Toby Tyler, a boy who, a year before, had thought it would be a very pleasant thing to run away from his Uncle Daniel and the town of Guilford in order to be with a circus, and who, in ten weeks, was only too glad to run back home as rapidly as possible.

During the first few months of his return, very many brilliant offers had been made Toby by his companions to induce him to aid them in starting an amateur circus; but he had refused to have anything to do with the schemes, and for several reasons. During the ten weeks he had been away, he had seen quite as much of a circus life as he cared to see, without even such a mild dose as would be this amateur show; and, again, whenever he thought of the matter, the remembrance of the death of his monkey, Mr. Stubbs, would come upon him so vividly, and cause him so much sorrow, that he resolutely put the matter from his mind.

Now, however, it had been a year since the monkey was killed; school had closed during the summer season; and he was rather more disposed to listen to the requests of his friends.

On this particular night, Reddy Grant had offered to go with him for the cows -- an act of generosity which Toby accounted for only on the theory that Reddy wanted some of the strawberries which grew so plentifully in Uncle Daniel's pasture. But when they arrived there the strawberries were neglected for the circus question, and Toby then showed he was at least willing to talk about it.

There was no doubt that Bob Atwood knew Reddy was going to try to induce Toby to help start a circus, and Bob knew, also, that Reddy and Toby would visit him, although he appeared very much surprised when he saw them coming up the hill towards his house. He was at home, evidently waiting for something, at an hour when all the other boys were out playing; and that, in itself, would have made Toby suspicious if he had paid much attention to the matter.

Bob was perfectly willing to talk about a circus -- so willing that, almost before Toby was aware of it, he was laying plans with the others for such a show as could be given with the material at hand.

"You see we'd have to get a tent the first thing," said Toby, as he seated himself on the saw-horse as a sort of place of honor, and proceeded to give his companions the benefit of his experience in the circus line. "I s'pose we could get along without a fat woman, or a skeleton; but we'd have to have the tent anyway, so's folks couldn't look right in an' see the show for nothin'."

Reddy had decided some time before how that trifling matter could be arranged; and, as he went industriously to work making shavings out of a portion of a shingle, he said:

"I've got all that settled, Toby; an' when you say you're willin' to go ahead an' fix up the show, I'll be on hand with a tent that'll make your eyes stick out over a foot."

Bob nodded his head to show he was convinced Reddy could do just as he had promised; but Toby was anxious for more particulars, and insisted on knowing where this very necessary portion of a circus was coming from.

"You see a tent is a big thing," he said seriously; "an' it would cost more money than the fellers in this town could raise if they should pick all the strawberries in Uncle Dan'l's pasture."

"Oh, I don't say as the tent Reddy's got his eye on is a reg'lar one like a real circus has," said Bob slowly and candidly, as he began to draw on the side of the wood-shed a picture of what he probably intended should represent a horse; "but he knows how he can rig one up that'll be big enough, an' look stavin'."

With this information Toby was obliged to be satisfied; and with the view of learning more of the details, in case his companions had arranged for them, he asked:

"Where you goin' to get the company -- the folks that ride, an' turn hand-springs, an' all them things?"

"Ben Cushing can turn twice as many hand-springs as any feller you ever saw, an' he can walk on his hands twice round the engine-house. I guess you couldn't find many circuses that could beat him, an' he's been practising in his barn all the chance he could get for more'n a week."

Without intending to do so, Bob had thus let the secret out that the scheme had already been talked up before Toby was consulted, and then there was no longer any reason for concealment.

"You see we thought we'd kinder get things fixed," said Reddy quickly, anxious to explain away the seeming deception he had been guilty of, "an' we wouldn't say anything to you till we knew whether we could get one up or not."

"An' we're goin' to ask three cents to come in; an' lots of the fellers have promised to buy tickets if we'll let 'em do some of the ridin', or else lead the hosses."

"But how are you goin' to get any hosses?" asked Toby, thoroughly surprised at the way in which the scheme had already been developed.

"Reddy can get Jack Douglass's blind one, an' we can train him so's he'll go 'round the ring all right; an' your Uncle Dan'l will let you have his old white one that's lame, if you ask him. I ain't sure but I can get one of Chandler Merrill's ponies," continued Bob, now so excited by his subject that he left his picture while it was yet a three-legged horse, and stood in front of his friends; "an' if we could sell tickets enough, we could hire one of Rube Rowe's hosses for you to ride."

"An' Bob's goin' to be the clown, an' his mother's goin' to make him a suit of clothes out of one of his grandmother's curtains," added Reddy, as he snapped an imaginary whip with so many unnecessary flourishes that he tumbled over the saw-horse, thereby mixing a large quantity of sawdust in his brilliantly colored hair.

"An' Reddy's goin' to be ring-master," explained Bob, as he assisted his friend to rise, and acted the part of Good Samaritan by trying to get the sawdust from his hair with a curry-comb. "Joe Robinson says he'll sell tickets, an' 'tend the door, an' hold the hoops for you to jump through."

"Leander Leighton's goin' to be the band. He's got a pair of clappers; an' Mrs. Doak's goin' to show him how to play on the accordion with one finger, so's he'll know how to make an awful lot of noise," said Reddy, as he gave up the task of extracting the sawdust, and devoted his entire attention to the scheme.

"An' we can have some animals," said Bob, with the air of one who adds the crowning glory to some brilliant work.

Toby had been surprised at the resources of the town for a circus, of which he had not even dreamed; and at Bob's last remark he left his saw-horse seat as if to enable him to hear more distinctly.

"Yes," continued Bob, "we can get a good many of some kinds. Old Mrs. Simpson has got a three-legged cat with four kittens, an' Ben Cushing has got a hen that crows; an' we can take my calf for a grizzly bear, an' Jack Havener's two lambs for white bears. I've caught six mice, an' I'll have more'n a dozen before the show comes off; an' Reddy's goin' to bring his cat that ain't got any tail. Leander Leighton's goin' to bring four of his rabbits an' make believe they're wolves; an' Joe Robinson's goin' to catch all the squirrels he can -- we'll have the largest for foxes, an' the smallest for hyenas; an' Joe'll keep howlin' while he's tendin' the door, so's to make 'em sound right."

"Bob's sister's goin' to show him how to sing a couple of songs, an' he's goin' to write 'em out on paper so's to have a book to sell," added Reddy, delighted at the surprise expressed in Toby's face. "Nahum Baker says if we have any kind of a show he'll bring up some lemonade an' some pies to sell, an' pass 'em 'round jest as they do in a reg'lar circus."

This last information was indeed surprising, for, inasmuch as Nahum Baker was a man who had an apology for a fruit-store near the wharves, it lent an air of realism to the plan, this having a grown man connected with them in the enterprise.

"But he mustn't get any of the boys to help him, an' then treat them as Job Lord did me," said Toby earnestly, the scheme having grown so in the half-hour that he began to fear it might be too much like the circus with which he had spent ten of the longest and most dreary weeks he had ever known.

"I'll look out for that," said Bob confidently, "If he tries any of them games we'll make him leave, no matter how good a trade he's doin'."

"Now, where we goin' to have the show?" and from the way Toby asked the question it was easily seen that he had decided to accept the position of manager which had been so delicately offered him.

"That's jest what we ain't fixed about," said Bob, as if he blamed himself severely for not having already attended to this portion of the business. "You see, if your Uncle Dan'l would let us have it up by his barn that would be jest the place, an' I almost know he'd say yes if you asked him."

"Do you s'pose it would be big enough? You know when there's a circus in town everybody comes from all around to see it, an' it wouldn't do to have a place where they couldn't all get in," and Toby spoke as if there could be no doubt as to the crowds that would collect to see this wonderful show of theirs.

"It'll have to be big enough, if we use the tent I'm goin' to get," said Reddy decidedly; "for you see that won't be so awful large, an' it would make it look kinder small if we put it where the other circuses put theirs."

"Well, then, I s'pose we'll have to make that do, an' we can have two or three shows if there are too many to come in at one time," said Toby in a satisfied way that matters could be arranged so easily; and then, with a big sigh, he added, "If only Mr. Stubbs hadn't got killed, what a show we could have! I never saw him ride; but I know he could have done better than any one else that ever tried it, if he wanted to, an' if we had him we could have a reg'lar circus without anybody else."

Then the boys bewailed the untimely fate of Mr. Stubbs, until they saw that Toby was fast getting into a mood altogether too sad for the proper transaction of circus business, and Bob proposed that a visit be paid Ben Cushing, for the purpose of having him give them a private exhibition of his skill, in order that Toby might see some of the talent which was to help make their circus a glorious success.


Chapter II

The Blind Horse


Reddy had laid his plans so well that all the intending partners were where they could easily be found on this evening when Toby's consent was to be won, and Ben Cushing was no exception. On the hard, uneven floor of his father's barn, with all his clothes discarded save his trousers and shirt, he was making such heroic efforts in the way of practice, that while the boys were yet some distance from the building they could hear the thud of Ben's head or heels as he unexpectedly came in contact with the floor.

When the three visitors stood at the door and looked in, Ben professed to be unaware of their presence, and began a series of hand-springs that might have been wonderful, if he had not miscalculated the distance, and struck the side of the barn just as he was getting well into the work.

Then, having lost his opportunity of dazzling them by showing that even when he was alone he could turn any number of hand-springs simply in the way of exercise, he suddenly became aware of their presence, and greeted his friends with the anxiously asked question as to what Toby had decided to do about entering the circus business.

Bob and Reddy, instead of answering, waited for Toby to speak; it was a good opportunity to have the important matter settled definitely, and they listened anxiously for his decision.

"I'm goin' into it," said Toby after a pause, during which it appeared as if he were trying to make up his mind, "'cause it seems as if you had it almost done now. You know when I got home last summer I didn't ever want to hear of a circus or see one, for I'd had about enough of them, an' then I'd think of poor Mr. Stubbs, an' that would make me feel awful bad. I didn't think, either, that we could get up such a good show; but now you fellers have got so much done towards it, I think we'd better go ahead -- though I do wish Mr. Stubbs was alive, an' we had a skeleton an' a fat woman."

Reddy Grant cheered very loudly as a means of showing how delighted he was at thus having finally enlisted Toby in the scheme, and Bob, as proof of the high esteem in which all the projectors of the enterprise held this famous circus-rider, said:

"Now you know all about circuses, Toby, an' you shall be the chief boss of this one, an' we'll do just what you say."

Toby almost blushed as this great honor was actually thrust upon him, and he hardly knew what reply to make, when Ben ceased his acrobatic exercises, and, with Bobby and Reddy, stood waiting for him to give his orders.

"I s'pose the first thing to do," he said at length, "is to see if Jack Douglass is willin' for us to have his hoss, an' then find out what Uncle Dan'l says about it. If we don't get the hoss, it won't be any use to say anything to Uncle Dan'l."

Reddy was so anxious to have matters settled at once that he offered to go up to Mr. Douglass's house then, if the others would wait there for his return, which proposition was at once accepted.

Mr. Douglass was an old colored man who lived fully half a mile from the village; but Reddy's eagerness caused quick travelling, and in a surprisingly short time he was back breathless and happy. The coveted horse was to be theirs for as long a time as they wanted him, provided they fed him well, and did not attempt to harness him into a wagon.

The owner of the sightless animal had expressed his doubts as to whether he would ever make much of a circus-horse, owing to his lack of sight and his extreme age; but he argued that if, as was very probable, the animal fell while being ridden, he would hurt his rider quite as much as himself, and therefore the experiment would not be tried so often as seriously to injure the steed.

It only remained to consult Uncle Daniel on the matter, and of course that was to be attended to by Toby. He would have waited until a fitting opportunity presented itself; but his companions insisted so strongly, that he went home at once to have the case decided.

Uncle Daniel was seated by the window as usual, looking out over the distant hills as if he were trying to peer in at the gates of that city where so many loved ones awaited him, and it was some moments before Toby could make him understand what it was he was trying to say.

"So ye didn't get circusin' enough last summer?" asked the old gentleman, when at last he realized what it was the boy was talking about.

"Oh yes, I did!" replied Toby, quickly; "but you see that was a real one, an' this of ours is only a little make-believe for three cents. We want to get you to let us have the lot between the barn an' the road to put our tent on, an' then lend us old Whitey. We're goin' to have Jack Douglass's hoss that's blind, an' we've got a three-legged cat, an' one without any tail, an' lots of things."

"It's a kind of a cripples' circus, eh? Well, Toby boy, you can do as you want to, an' you shall have old Whitey; but it seems to me you'd better tie her lame leg on, or she'll shake it off when you get to makin' her cut up antics."

Then Uncle Daniel returned to his reverie, and the show was thus decided upon, the projectors going again to view the triangular piece of land so soon to be decorated with their tents and circus belongings.

Each hour that passed after Toby had decided, with Uncle Daniel's consent, to go into the circus business made him more eager to carry out the brilliant plan that had been unfolded by Bob Atwood and Reddy Grant, until his brain was in a perfect whirl when he went to bed that night. He was sure he could ride as well as when he was under Mr. Castle's rather severe training, and he thought over and over again how he would surprise every one who knew him; but he did not stop to think that there might be a difference between the horse he had ridden in the circus and the lame one of Uncle Daniel's, or the blind one belonging to Mr. Douglass. He had an idea that it all depended upon himself, with very little reference to the animal, and he was sure he had his lesson perfectly.

Early as he got up the next morning, his partners in the enterprise were waiting for him just around the corner of the barn, where he found them as he went for the cows, and they walked to the pasture with him in order to discuss the matter.

Ben Cushing was in light-marching and acrobatic costume, worn for the occasion in order to give a full exhibition of his skill; and Reddy had been up so long that he had had time to procure Mr. Douglass's wonderful steed, which he had already led to the pasture so that he could be experimented upon.

"I thought I'd get him up there," he said to Toby, "so's you could try him; 'cause if we don't get money enough to hire one of Rube Rowe, you'll have to ride the blind one or the lame one, an' you'd better find out which you want. If you try him in the pasture the fellers won't see you; but if you did it down by your house, every one of 'em would huddle 'round."

Toby thought the general idea was a good one; but he was just a trifle uncertain as to how the blind horse would get along on such uneven ground. However, he said nothing, lest his companions should think he was afraid to make the attempt; and when Ben and Bob proceeded to mark out a ring, he advised them as to its size.

The most level piece of ground that could be found was selected as the place for the trial, but several small mounds prevented it from being all a circus-rider could ask for.

Bob volunteered to lead the horse around the track several times, hoping he would become so accustomed to it as to be able to go by himself after a while; and Toby made his preparations by laying his hat on the ground with a stone on it, so that he should be sure to find it when his rehearsal was done.

It was a warm job Bob had undertaken, this leading the blind animal along the ill-defined line that marked the limits of the ring, for the sun shone brightly, and there were no friendly trees to lend a shelter; but he paid no attention to his discomfort because of the fact that he was doing something towards the enterprise which was to bring them in both honor and money.

The poor old horse was the least interested of the party, and he stumbled around the circle in an abused sort of way, as if he considered it a piece of gross injustice to force him on the weary round when the grass was so plentiful and tender just under his feet.

Ben was busily engaged in lengthening Mr. Douglass's rather weak and aged bridle with a small piece of rope, and from time to time he encouraged the ambitious clown in his labor.

"Keep it up, if it is hot!" he shouted; "an' when we get him so's he can do it alone, he'll be jest as good a circus-hoss as anybody would want, for we can stuff him with hay an' grass till he's fat," and Ben looked at the clearly defined ribs in a critical way, as if trying to decide how much food would be necessary to cover them with flesh.

"Oh, I can keep on as long as the hoss can," said Bob, as he wiped the perspiration from his face with one hand, and clung firmly to the forelock of the animal with the other; "but we've been round here as many as six times already, an' he don't seem to know the way any better than when we started."

"Oh yes, he does," cried Reddy, who was practising for his duties as ring-master, anxious that his education should advance as fast as the horse's did; "he's got so he knows enough to turn out for that second knoll, though he does stumble a little over the first one."

By this time Ben had the bridle adjusted to suit him, Toby was ready to make his first attempt at riding since he left the circus, and the more serious work was begun.

Ben bridled the horse after some difficulty, Reddy drew out from its hiding-place a whip made by tying a piece of cod-line to an alder branch, and Toby was about to mount, when Joe Robinson came in sight.

He had been running at full speed, and was nearly breathless; but he managed to cry out so that he could be understood after considerable difficulty:

"Hold on! don't go to ridin' till after we get some hoops for you to jump through."

"I guess I won't try any jumpin' till after I see how he goes," said Toby as he looked rather doubtfully first at the horse's weak legs, and then at his sharp back; "besides, we can't use the hoops till he gets more used to the ring."

Joe threw himself on the ground as if he felt quite as much aggrieved because he was thus left out of the programme as the horse apparently did because he was in it, and Bob consoled him by explaining that he had no reason to feel slighted, since he, who, as the clown, was to be the life of the entertainment, could take no other part in these preparatory steps than to lead a blind horse around a still blinder ring.

"Hold him while I get on," said Toby as he clutched the mane and a portion of the prominent backbone, drawing himself up at some risk of upsetting the rather shaky steed.

But there was no necessity of his giving this order, for, although four boys sprang to do his bidding, the weary horse remained as motionless as a statue, save for his hard breathing which proclaimed the fact that the "heaves" had long since singled him out as a victim.

Toby succeeded in getting on the animal's back after some exertion; but he found standing there an entirely different matter from standing on the broad saddles that were used in the circus, and the boy and the horse made a shaky-looking pair.

"Shall I start him?" asked Bob, while Reddy stood as near the centre of the ring as he could get, prepared to snap his cod-line whip at the first signal.

Toby hesitated a moment; he knew that to attempt to stand upon, or on either side of, that prominent backbone, after its owner was in motion, would be simply to invite his own downfall; and he said, as he seated himself carefully astride the bone:

"Let him walk around once till I see how he goes."

Reddy cracked his whip without producing any effect upon the patient steed, but, after much coaxing, Bob succeeded in starting him again, while Toby bounced up and down much like a kernel of corn on a griddle, such a decided motion did the horse have.

"He won't ever do for a ridin' hoss," said Toby with much difficulty, when he was half-way around the circle, "'cause you see his bones is so sharp that he feels as if he was comin' to pieces every time he steps."

"Jest get him to trottin' once, an' then you can tell what he's good for," suggested Reddy, anxious to try the effect of his whip; and, without waiting for the rider's permission, he lashed the unfortunate animal with the cod-line until he succeeded in rousing him thoroughly.

It was in vain Toby begged him to stop, and Bob shouted that such a course was not the proper one for a ring-master to pursue. Reddy was determined the rider should have an opportunity of trying the horse under full speed, and the result was that the animal broke loose from Bob's guiding hand, rushing out of the imaginary ring into the centre of the pasture at a rate of speed that would have surprised and frightened Mr. Douglass had he been there to see it.

Shaken first up, then down, and from one side to the other, Toby stretched himself out at full length, clasping the horse around the neck as the patched bridle broke, and shouting "Whoa!" at the full strength of his lungs.

After running fully fifty yards, until it seemed to Toby that his head and his body had been pounded into one, the horse stopped, leaned one heel up against the other, and stood as if dreamily asking whether they wanted any more circus out of him.

"Couldn't anybody ride him, he jolts so," said Toby to his partners, as they came running up to where he stood trying to find out whether or not his tongue was bleeding, and fearing it was, because his teeth had been pounded down on it so hard two or three times. "You see, in the circus they had big, wide saddles, an' the hosses didn't go anything like him."

"Well, we can fix a saddle," said Bob, thoughtfully; "but I don't know as we could do anything to the hoss."

"Perhaps old Whitey'll go better, 'cause she's lame," suggested Reddy, feeling that considerable credit was due him for having made it possible to test the animal's qualities in so short a time.

"I wouldn't wonder if this one would be all right when he gets a saddle on an' is trained," said Joe, and then he added, quickly, "I hain't got anything more to do to-day, an' I'll stay up here an' train him."

The partners were only too glad to accept this offer; and while Joe led the horse back to the supposed ring, Ben gave a partial exhibition of his acrobatic feats, omitting the most difficult, owing to the uneven surface of the land.

Then the partners retired to the shade of some alder bushes, where they could fight mosquitoes and talk over their plans at the same time, while Joe was perspiring in his self-imposed task of educating the blind horse.


Chapter III

Abner Bolton


"Now I'll see about makin' the saddle," said Bob, "'cause I've seen 'em a good many times in a circus, an' I know jest how they're made. While I'm doin' that you fellers must be fixin' 'bout who else we'll have in the show. Leander Leighton will come up here to-morrow, so's we can hear how he plays, an' we must have everything fixed by then."

"Why didn't he come to-day?" asked Ben, thinking that all the members of the firm should have been present at this first rehearsal.

"Well, you see, he had to split some wood, an' he had to take care of the baby. I offered to help him with the wood; but he said he couldn't get away any quicker if I did, for just as soon as the baby saw another feller waitin' 'round, she'd yell so awful hard he'd have to stay in all day."

This explanation as to the absence of the band appeared to be perfectly satisfactory to those present, and they began to discuss the merits of certain of their companions in order to decide upon the proper ones to enlist as members, since the number of their performers was not so large as they thought it should be in a show where an admission fee of three cents was to be charged.

Just as they were getting well into their discussion, and, of course, speaking of such matters as managers should keep a profound secret from the public, Bob cried out:

"There comes Abner Bolton! He's always runnin' 'round where he hain't wanted; an' I wonder how he come to know we was here? I'll send him off mighty quick now, you see."

The boy who had disturbed Bob so greatly was so near when he was first discovered that by the time the threat had been uttered he was close upon them. He was a small boy, not more than eight years old, and hardly as large as a boy of six should be; he walked on crutches because of his deformed legs, which hung withered and useless, barely capable of supporting his slight weight.

"Now, what do you want?" asked Bob, in an angry tone.

"I don't want anything," was the mild reply, as the cripple halted just outside the shade, as if not daring to come any farther until invited. "I heard you was goin' to get up a circus, an' I thought perhaps you'd let me watch you, 'cause I wouldn't bother you any."

"You would bother us, an' you can't stay 'round here, for we hain't goin' to have anybody watchin' us. You may come to the show if you can get three cents."

"I don't s'pose I could do that," said the boy, looking longingly towards the shade, but still standing in the sun. "I don't have any chance to get money, an' I do wish you boys would let me stay where you are, for it's so awful lonesome out to the poor-farm, an' I can't run around as you can."

"Well, you can't stay here, an' the sooner you go back to the village the better we'll like it, for we don't want anybody to know what we're talkin' about."

Toby had attempted to speak once or twice while Bob was engaged with the cripple from the poor-farm; but he did not get an opportunity until Abner turned to go away, looking thoroughly sad and disheartened.

"Don't go, Abner, but come and set down here where it's cool, an' perhaps we can fix it for you."

The cripple turned as Toby spoke, and the look which came into his face went right to the heart of the boy, who for ten long weeks had known what it was to be almost entirely without a friend.

"I don't see what you want him 'round here for," said Bob, petulantly, as Abner seated himself by Toby's side, thoroughly exhausted by his long walk. "He can't do nothin'; an' if he could, we don't want no fellers from the poor-farm mixed up with the show."

"It don't make any difference if he does live to the poor-farm," said Toby, as he put his little brown hand on Abner's thin fingers. "He has to stay there 'cause his father and mother's dead, an' perhaps I'd been there, 'cept for Uncle Dan'l. If I'd thought before about his bein' lonesome an' not bein' able to play like the rest of us, I'd gone out to see him; an' now we do know it we'll let him stay with us, an' perhaps he can do something in the circus."

"The fellers will laugh at us, an' say we're runnin' a poorhouse show," replied Bob, sulkily.

"Well, let 'em laugh; we'll feel a good deal better'n they do, 'cause we'll know we're tryin' to let a little feller have some fun what don't get many chances;" and, in his excitement, Toby spoke so loudly that Joe came running up to see what was the matter.

"Let him stay 'round here to-day, 'cause we've got all through practisin', an' then tell him to keep away," said Ben, thinking this idea a very generous one.

"He can belong to the show jest as well as not; an' if you fellers will let him, I'll give you my part of all the money we make."

This proposition of Toby's put the matter on a very different basis, and both Ben and Bob now looked favorably inclined towards it.

"Don't you do that, Toby," said Abner, his eyes filling with tears because of the kindness shown him. "I'll go right away, an' I won't come into the village again to bother you."

"You shall come into the village every day, Abner, an' you won't bother us at all, for you shall go 'long of me everywhere I do, an' I won't never walk any faster'n you can;" and Toby moved his seat nearer Abner, to show that he took him under his especial care.

"He might help tend the door," said Joe, kindly, anxious to please Toby, "an' that'll give me a chance to do more howlin' for the hyenas, 'cause that'll be 'bout all I oughter do if I have to hold the hoops."

"Yes, he can do that," and Toby was very eager now, "an' we can get him a stool to sit on, an' he can do jest as much as if he could stand up."

By this time Bob and Ben had decided that, in consideration of Toby's offer, Abner should be counted as one of the company, and the matters under discussion that had been interrupted by the cripple's coming were again taken up.

Owing to the possible chance that Joe could not succeed in training the blind horse sufficiently to make him useful in the ring, it was necessary to know just what animals they could procure, and Bob offered to see Chandler Merrill for the purpose of securing the services of his Mexican pony, who had never allowed any one to ride him without first having a severe battle.

"We can train him down all right," said Bob; "an' you fellers come down now while I find out 'bout the pony, so's we can come back here after dinner."

As it was very important that this matter should be settled as soon as possible, Bob's advice was acted upon; and as the boys started to go, Toby said:

"Come, Abner, you come home with me an' get some dinner, an' then you can come back here when I do."

Bob was disposed to make sport of this sudden friendship; but Toby paid no attention to what he said, and if any of them wanted to talk with him, they too were obliged to walk with the boy from the poor-farm.

By the time they arrived at Uncle Daniel's, Toby had formed many plans for making the life of the homeless boy more cheerful than it ever had been.


Chapter IV

The Pony


Toby's interest in the crippled boy whom he had taken under his charge was considerably greater than in the contemplated circus; and both Bob and Ben felt angry and injured when, in the midst of some brilliant plan for startling those of the good people of Guilford who should come to their circus, Toby would stop to say something to Abner, who was hobbling along as fast as possible in order that he might not oblige the party to wait for him.

For a number of years Toby had known that there was a crippled orphan at the poor-farm; but it so happened that he had not met him very often, and even then he had no idea of the lonely life the boy was obliged to lead.

On the way to the village he had formed several plans by which he might aid Abner; but none of them could be put into operation until after he had consulted Uncle Daniel and Aunt Olive.

It was nearly noon, and the understanding was that each one should get his dinner and go to the pasture again, when it would be known whether they were to be able to number Chandler Merrill's pony among the attractions of their show, or be wholly dependent upon the disabled horses that as yet made up their collection.

"You're comin' to get dinner with me, Abner," said Toby, as he stopped in front of Uncle Daniel's gate, while the little fellow was continuing on his way to the only place he could call home, there to get his dinner with the other paupers.

"I'm afraid your aunt won't want me," he said, shyly, while it was plain to be seen that he would be more than well pleased to accept the invitation.

"Aunt Olive won't care a bit, an' she'll be glad to have you, I know, 'cause she says it always does her good to see hungry people eat, though if that's so I must have done her an awful sight of good lots of times, for it don't seem to me I ever set down to the table in my life but what I was awful hungry. Come on now, so's we'll have time to get our hands an' faces washed before the dinner-bell rings."

Abner followed Toby in a hesitating way, much as if he expected each moment to be ordered back; and when they arrived at the door he stood on the threshold, not daring to enter until permission had been given.

"This is Abner Bolton, Uncle Dan'l," said Toby, as he saw that his newly made friend would not come in without an invitation from some one besides himself. "He lives out to the poor-farm, an' he don't have any such nice home as I've got, so I thought you wouldn't care if I brought him in to dinner."

"You've got a good heart, Toby, boy, and the Lord will reward you for it," said Uncle Daniel, as he stroked the boy's refractory hair; and then he said to Abner, "Come in, my lad, and share Toby's dinner, nor need you ever hesitate about accepting any such invitation when it leads you here."

Then Aunt Olive greeted Abner so kindly that the poor boy hardly knew whether it was reality or a dream, so strange was it all to him.

During the dinner Toby told of the difficulty he had had in getting his partners to consent to Abner's being one of the company, and Aunt Olive, who had shown considerable interest in the circus scheme, said:

"Why don't you let him keep a stand, and then he can make some money for himself. I will bake him a lot of doughnuts and ginger-snaps, and your Uncle Dan'l will lend him money enough to buy lemons an' sugar. It will be a deal better than to have Nahum Baker there with his pies that are as heavy as lead, an' doughnuts that have soaked up all the fat in the pan."

Toby was delighted with the plan, and Abner's eyes glistened at the mere idea that it might be possible for him to do, once in his life at least, as did other and more fortunate boys.

It certainly seemed, when they arrived at the pasture again, as if everything was conspiring in favor of their circus, for Chandler Merrill had willingly consented to let them use his pony; but he had done so with the kindly prophecy that the little animal would "kick their brains out" if they were not careful with him.

In order to make sure that the consent would not be withdrawn, and at the same time to prove that he told the truth, Bob had brought the pony with him, and, judging from his general appearance as he stood gazing suspiciously at the Douglass horse, he deserved all that was said of him regarding his vicious qualities. He was about half the size of an ordinary horse, and his coat was ragged-looking, owing to its having been rubbed off in spots, thus giving him the air of just such a pony as one would suppose willing to join a party of boys in starting a circus.

"Now, there's a hoss that hain't either lame or blind," said Bob, proudly, as he led the pony once around the ring to show his partners how he stepped. If he was intending to say anything more, he concluded to defer it while he made some very rapid movements in order to escape the blow the "hoss" aimed at him with his hind-feet.

"Kicks, don't he?" said Toby, in a tone which plainly told he did not think him very well suited to their purpose.

"Well, he did then," and Bob fastened the halter more securely by putting one end of the rope through the pony's mouth; "but you see that's 'cause he hain't been used much, an' he's tickled 'cause he's goin' to belong to a circus."

"How long before he'll get over bein' tickled?" asked Joe. "I'm willin' to train Jack Douglass's hoss; but I don't know 'bout this one till he gets sorry enough not to kick."

"Oh, he'll be all right jest as soon as Toby rides him 'round the ring a little while."

"Do you think I'm goin' to ride him?" asked Toby, beginning to believe his partners expected more of him than ever Mr. Castle did.

"Of course; a feller what's been with a circus ought to know how to ride any hoss that ever lived," replied Bob, with considerable emphasis, owing to the fact that the pony kicked and plunged so that his words were jerked out of him, rather than spoken.

"I s'pose some fellers can; but I wasn't with the circus long enough to find out how to ride such hosses as them," and Toby retired to the shade of the alder bushes, where Abner was sitting to wait until Bob and the pony had come to terms.

It was quite as much as Bob could do to hold his prize, without trying to make any arrangements for having him ridden, and he called Reddy to help him.

Now, as the ring-master of the contemplated circus, Reddy ought to have known all about horses, and he thought he did until the pony made one plunge, just as he came up smiling with whip in hand. Then he said, as he ran towards Toby:

"I don't believe I want to be ring-master if we're goin' to have that hoss."

"Here, Joe, you help me," cried Bob, in desperation, growing each moment more afraid of the steed. "I want to get him up by the fence, where we can hitch him, till we find out what to do with him."

Joe was perfectly willing to assist the unfortunate clown in his troubles; but, as he started towards him, the pony wheeled and flung his heels out with a force that showed he would do some damage if he could, and Joe also joined the party among the bushes.

Bob was thus left alone with his prize, and a most uncomfortable time he appeared to be having of it, standing there in the hot sun clinging desperately to the halter, and jumping from one side to the other when the pony attempted to bite, or strike him with his fore-feet.

"Let him go; he hain't any good," shouted Reddy from his secure retreat.

"If I let go the halter, he'll jump right at me," and there was a certain ring in Bob's voice that told he was afraid.

"Hitch him to the fence, an' then climb over," suggested Joe.

"But I can't get him over there, for he won't go a step," and Bob continued to hold fast to the halter, afraid to do so, but still more afraid to let go.

He had borrowed the pony; but it certainly seemed as if the animal had borrowed him, for his fear caused him to cling desperately to the halter as the only possible means of saving his life.

The boys under the alder bushes were fully alive to the fact that something should be done although they were undecided as to what that something should be.

Joe proposed that they all rush out and scare the pony away, but Bob insisted that he would be the sufferer by such a course. Reddy thought if Bob should show more spirit, and let the vicious little animal see that he was not afraid of him, everything would be all right; but when it was proposed that he try the plan himself, he concluded, perhaps, there might be serious objections to such a course.

Ben thought if all of them got hold of the halter, they could pull the pony to the fence, and this plan was looked upon with such favor that it was adopted at once.

Every one, except Abner, took hold of the halter, after some little delay in getting there, owing to the readiness of the pony to use his heels at the slightest provocation; and, just when they were about to put forth all their strength in pulling, the pony jumped towards them suddenly, rendering their efforts useless, and starting all, save Bob, back to the alder bushes in ignominious flight.

Bob still remained at his post, or, more correctly speaking, the halter, and it was very much against his will that he did so.

"I wish Chandler Merrill would come up here an' get his old hoss, for I don't want him any longer," he said, angrily. "He ought to be prosecuted for lettin' us have such a old tiger."

Bob did not seem to remember that, if he had refused the loan of the pony, he would have considered Chandler Merrill very selfish; in fact, he hardly remembered anything save his own desire to get rid of the animal, and as quickly as possible.

"What shall I do?" he cried, in desperation. "I can't stand here all day, an' the hoss don't mean to let me get away."

"We've got to help Bob," said Toby, decidedly, as he arose to his feet again, and went towards the unfortunate clown. "If you fellers will try to hold him, I'll get on his back, an' then Bob can get away."

"But he'll throw you off, an' hurt you," objected Abner, trying to prevent his newly made friend from going.

"I can stop him from doing that, an' it's the only way I know of to help Bob."

"You get on, Toby, an' then I'll scoot jest as soon as you get hold of the halter," said Bob, happy at this prospect of being relieved. "Then, when you get a chance, you jump off, an' we'll let somebody else take him home."

It was a hard task, and they all ran considerable risk of getting kicked; but at last it was accomplished, so far as mounting was concerned. Toby was on the pony's back with a firm grasp of the rope that was made to serve as bridle.

"Now, be all ready to run," he said; and there was no disposition to linger shown by any of his friends.

"Let go!" he shouted, and at the sound of his voice the boys went one way and the pony another at full speed.

It was not until the would-be circus managers were within the shelter of the clump of bushes that they stopped to look for their partner, and then they saw him at the further end of the pasture, the pony running and leaping as if doing his best to dislodge his rider.

Even the Douglass horse seemed to be excited by the display of spirit, for he capered around in a manner very unbecoming one as old and blind as he.

Only for a few moments could they watch the contest, and then the distant trees hid Toby Tyler and Chandler Merrill's pony from view.


Chapter V

Old Ben


Some time the boys watched for Toby's return, and just as they were beginning to think they ought to go in search of him, and fearing lest he had been hurt by the vicious pony, they saw him coming from among the trees, alone and on foot.

"Well," said Bob, with a sigh of relief, "he's got rid of the hoss, an' that was all we wanted."

Toby's story, when at last, hot and tired, he reached the alder bushes, was not nearly so exciting as his partners anticipated. He had clung to the pony until they entered the woods, where he was brushed off by the branches of the trees as easily as if he had been a fly, and with as little damage.

How they should get the pony back into its owner's keeping was a question difficult to answer, and they were all so completely worn out by their exertions to get rid of him that they did not attempt to come to any conclusion regarding it.

While they were resting from their labors, and before they had ceased to congratulate each other that they had succeeded in separating themselves from the pony, Leander Leighton, his accordion under his arm and his clappers in his hand, made his appearance.

His struggle with the baby had evidently come to an end sooner than he had dared hope, and the managers were happy at this speedy prospect of hearing what their band could do in the way of music.

"Boys!" shouted Leander, excitedly, while he was some distance away, "there's a real circus comin' here next week -- the same one Toby Tyler run away with -- an' the men are pastin' up the bills now, down to the village!"

The boys looked at each other in surprise; it had never entered into their calculations that they might have a real circus as a rival, and certainly Toby had never thought he would again see those whom he had first run away with and then run away from. He was rather disturbed by the prospect at first, for it seemed certain that Job Lord and Mr. Castle would try to compel him to go with them; but a moment's thought convinced him that Uncle Daniel would not allow them to carry him away, and he grew as eager for more news as any of the others.

Leander knew no more than he had already told; after having been relieved from his care of the baby, he had started for the pasture, and had seen the show-bills as he came along. He was certain it was the same circus Toby had gone with, for the names on the bills were the same, and he had heard some of the townspeople say so as he came along.

"An' I shall see the skeleton an' the fat woman again," said Toby, delighted at the idea of meeting those kind friends from whom he had thought himself parted with forever.

"Don't you s'pose you could get 'em to leave that show an' come with ours?" asked Bob, thinking perhaps some kind fortune had thrown this opportunity in their way that they might the better succeed in their project.

Toby was not sure such a plan could be made to work, for the reason that they were only intending to give two or three performances, and Mr. and Mrs. Treat might not think it worth their while to leave the circus they were with on the strength of such uncertain prospects.

"And you shall go to the show, Abner," said Toby, pleased at the opportunity he would have of making the crippled boy happy for one day at least; "an' I'll take all of you fellers down, an' get the skeleton to talk at you, so's you can see how nice he is. You shall see his wife, an' old Ben, an' Ella, an' -- "

"But won't you be afraid of Job Lord?" interrupted Leander, fearful lest Toby's dread of meeting his old employer might prevent them from having all this promised enjoyment.

"Uncle Dan'l wouldn't let him take me away, an' now I'm home here I don't believe old Ben would let him touch me."

There was evidently no probability that they would transact any more business relative to their own circus that day, so intent were they on talking about the one that was to come, and it was not until nearly time to drive the cows home that they remembered the presence of their band.

Ben proposed that Leander should show them what he could do in the way of music, so that he need not be at the trouble of bringing his accordion up into the pasture again, and the boys ceased all conversation for the purpose of listening to the so-called melody.

After considerable preparation in the way of polishing his clappers on the cuff of his jacket and fingering the keys of his accordion to make sure they were in proper working order, Leander extracted with one finger a few bars of "Yankee Doodle" from the last-named instrument, and gave an imitation of a drum with the clappers, in a manner that won for him no small amount of applause.

"Now, we'll go home," said Toby, "'cause Uncle Dan'l will be waitin' for me an' the cows, an' to-morrow I'll meet you down-town where the circus pictures be."

Then he helped Abner on to his crutches, and walked beside him all the way, wishing, oh, so much! that he could save the poor boy from having to go out to the poor-farm to sleep.

"You come in just as early as you can in the mornin', Abner, an' you shall eat dinner with me," he said, as he parted with the boy at Uncle Daniel's gate, "an' perhaps you'll make so much money at our circus that you won't ever have to go out to the poor-farm again."

Abner tried to thank his friend for the kindness he had shown him; but the sobs of gratitude came into his throat so fast that it was impossible, and he hobbled away towards his dreary home, while Toby ran into the house to tell the astounding news of the coming of the circus.

"So all the people who were so kind to you will be here next week, will they?" said, rather than asked, Aunt Olive. "Well, Toby, we'll kill one of the lambs, an' you shall invite them up here to dinner, which will kind of encourage them to be good to any other little boy who may be as foolish as you were."

Toby lay awake a long time that night, thinking of the pleasure he was to have in seeing Mr. and Mrs. Treat, old Ben and little Ella, eating dinner in Uncle Daniel's home, and of how good a boy he ought to be to repay his uncle and aunt for their loving-kindness to him.

Operations were almost entirely suspended by the would-be circus managers in view of the coming of the real show. It would have been commercial folly to attempt to enter into competition with it; the real circus would, without a doubt, prove too strong a rival for them to contend against; and by waiting until after it had come and gone they might be able to pick up some useful ideas regarding the show they proposed to give.

This delay would be to their advantage in a great many other ways. The band would have so much time for practice that he might learn another tune, or even be able to play with more than one finger; their acrobat would have so many rehearsals that he could, perhaps, double his present allowance of hand-springs, and Joe would be able to bring his horses to a more perfect state of training.

Mr. Douglass, having no use for his horse, was perfectly willing he should remain under Joe's tuition, providing it was done in Uncle Daniel's pasture; but matters were not in so good a condition regarding the pony.

Chandler Merrill was anxious to have his property returned to him, and not willing to go after it. Besides, Mr. Douglass's horse was in great danger of being kicked to death so long as the vicious little animal remained in the same pasture.

Very many were the discussions the boys had on the subject; but nothing could be suggested which promised any relief, after Bob's brilliant idea of driving the pony out, and letting him find his way home as best he might, was tried without success. The pony not only refused to go out, but he actually drove the boys away by the liberal use he made of his heels.

Slowly the time passed until the day before the one on which the circus was to arrive, Toby had almost been counting the hours and Abner, who was to see the interior of a circus tent for the first time in his life, was quite as excited as he.

The lamb had been killed as Aunt Olive had promised, and a rare store of good things in the way of apple-pies, cake, doughnuts, and custards had been prepared, until the pantry looked like a large-sized baker's shop just opened for inspection.

Everything was ready for the guests, who were to be invited to dinner next day; and when Toby went to bed that night, it seemed as if he would never get to sleep for thinking of all the friends he was to see.

Abner was in quite as sleepless a condition as Toby; Aunt Olive had invited him to remain overnight, so that he might see everything that was going on, and as he lay in the soft, geranium-scented bed, his eyes were kept wide open by his delight with what seemed to him the magnificence of the room.

It seemed as though each boy in the village considered himself Toby's particular and intimate friend during the week that preceded the coming of the circus; and the marbles, balls, and boats that were showered upon him in the way of gifts would almost have stocked a small shop.

Then, on this day before the circus, all the boys in town were most anxious to know just where Toby proposed meeting the cavalcade, at what time he was to start, and other details which showed quite plainly it was their intention to accompany him if possible.

When Toby went to bed, it was with the express understanding with Uncle Daniel that he was to be called at daylight, in order that he might start out to meet the circus when it stopped to prepare for its entrance into the town. The place where the procession was usually formed was fully two miles from town, and as Abner could hardly walk that distance, and certainly could not walk so fast as Toby would want to go, he had agreed to drive the cows to pasture, after which he was to go to the tenting-ground, where his friend would introduce him to all the celebrities.


Chapter VI

The Great Event


Uncle Daniel seemed quite as anxious as Toby that he should leave the house in time to meet his circus friends before the entree was made, and Aunt Olive afterwards said he didn't sleep a wink after two o'clock for fear he might not waken in time to rouse the anxious boy.

It was fully an hour before sunrise when Uncle Daniel awakened Toby, and cautioned him to eat as much of the lunch Aunt Olive had set out as possible, insisting that what he could not eat he should put into his pocket, as it would be a long while before he would get his dinner.

The two miles Toby was obliged to walk seemed very short ones, and at nearly every house on the road one or more boys were watching for him quite as eagerly as for the show itself, so that by the time he arrived at the place where two or three of the wagons had drawn up by the side of the road, he had as many as a hundred boys for an escort, all of whom were urging him to get the manager to take out a few lions and tigers for their inspection before starting for the village.

Toby could hold out no promise to them; on the contrary, he insisted that he hardly knew the manager, save by sight, and explained to them that they were unwise to come with him on any such errand, since none of the curiosities could be seen there, and if old Ben were still with the company he should ride back with him.

But the boys put very little faith in what he said, seeming to have the idea that he simply wanted to get rid of them, and, instead of going away, they surrounded him more closely.

Toby watched anxiously as each wagon came up, and he failed to recognize any of the drivers. For the first time it occurred to him that perhaps those whom he knew were no longer with this particular company, and his elation gave way to sadness.

Fully twenty wagons had come, and he had just begun to think his fears had good foundation, when in the distance he saw the well-remembered monkey-wagon, with the burly form of old Ben on the box.

Toby could not wait for that particular team to come up, even though it was driven at a reasonably rapid speed; but he started towards it as fast as he could run, and, following him something like the tail of a comet, were all his friends, who, having come so far, were determined not to lose sight of him for a single instant, if it could be prevented by any exertions on their part.

Old Ben was driving in a sleepy sort of way, and paid no attention to the little fellow who was running towards him, until Toby shouted, and then the horses were stopped with a jerk that nearly threw them back on their haunches.

"Well, Toby, my son! I declare, I am glad to see you;" and old Ben reached down for the double purpose of shaking hands and helping the boy on to the seat beside him. "Well, well, well, it's been some time since you've been on this 'ere box, hain't it? I'd kinder forgotten what town it was we took you from; I knew it was somewhere hereabouts though, an' I've kept my eye peeled for you ever since we've been in this part of the country. So you found your Uncle Dan'l all right, did you?"

"Yes, Ben, an' he was awful good to me when I got home; but Mr. Stubbs got shot."

"No? you don't tell me! How did that happen?"

Then Toby told the story of his pet's death, and, although it had occurred a year before, he could not keep the tears from his eyes as he spoke of it.

"You mustn't feel bad 'bout it, Toby," said Ben, consolingly, "for, you see, monkeys has got to die jest like folks, an' your Stubbs was sich a old feller that I reckon he'd died anyhow before long. But I've got one in the wagon here that looks a good deal like yours, an' I'll show him to you."

As Ben spoke he drew his wagon, now completely surrounded by boys, up by the side of the road near the others, and opened the panel in the top so that Toby could have a view of his passengers.

Curled up in the corner nearest the roof, where Mr. Stubbs had been in the habit of sitting, Toby saw, as Ben had said, a monkey that looked remarkably like Mr. Stubbs, save that he was younger and not so sedate.

Toby uttered an exclamation of surprise and joy as he pushed his hand through the bars of the cage, and the monkey shook hands with him as Mr. Stubbs used to do when greeted in the morning.

"Why, I never knew before that Mr. Stubbs had any relations!" said Toby, looking around with joy imprinted on every feature. "Do you know where the rest of the family is, Ben?"

There was no reply from the driver for some time; but instead, Toby heard certain familiar sounds as if the old man were choking, while his face took on the purplish tinge which had so alarmed the boy when he saw it for the first time.

"No, I don't know where his family is," said Ben, after he had recovered from his spasm of silent laughter, "an' I reckon he don't know nor care. Say, Toby, you don't really think this one is any relation to your monkey, do you?"

"Why, it must be his brother," said Toby, earnestly, "'cause they look so much alike; but perhaps Mr. Stubbs was only his cousin."

Old Ben relapsed into another spasm, and Toby talked to the monkey, who chattered back at him, until the boys on the ground were in a perfect ferment of anxiety to know what was going on.

It was some time before Toby could be persuaded to pay attention to anything else, so engrossed was he with Mr. Stubbs's brother, as he persisted in calling the monkey, and the only way Ben could engage him in conversation was by saying,

"You don't seem to be very much afraid of Job Lord now."

"You won't let him take me away if he should try, will you?" Toby asked, quickly, alarmed at the very mention of his former employer's name, even though he had thought he would not be afraid of him, protected as he now was by Uncle Daniel.

"No, Toby, I wouldn't let him if he was to try it on, for you are just where every boy ought to be, an' that's at home; but Job's where he can't whip any more boys for some time to come."

"Where's that?"

"He's in jail. About a month after you left he licked his new boy so bad that they arrested him, an' he got two years for it, 'cause it pretty nigh made a cripple out of the youngster."

Toby was about to make some reply; but Ben continued unfolding his budget of news.

"Castle stayed with us till the season was over, an' then he went out West. I don't know whether he got his hair cut trying to show the Injuns how to ride, or not; but he never come back, an' nobody I ever saw has heard anything about him."

"Are Mr. and Mrs. Treat with the show?"

"Yes, they're still here; he's a leetle thinner, I believe, an' she's twenty pound heavier. She says she weighs fifty pounds more'n she did; but I don't believe that, even if she did strike for five dollars more a week this season on the strength of it, an' get it. They keep right on cookin' up dinners, an' invitin' of folks in, an' the skeleton gets choked about the same as when you was with the show. I don't know how it is that a feller so thin as Treat is can eat so much."

"Uncle Dan'l says it's 'cause he works so hard to get full," said Toby, quietly, "an' I shouldn't wonder if I grew as thin as the skeleton one of these days, for I eat jest as awful much as I used to."

"Well, you look as if you got about all you needed, at any rate," said Ben, as he mentally compared the plump boy at his side with the thin, frightened-looking one who had run away from the circus with his monkey on his shoulder and his bundle under his arm.

"Is Ella here?" asked Toby, after a pause, during which it seemed as if he were thinking of much the same thing that Ben was.

"Yes, an' she keeps talkin' about what big cards you an' her would have been if you had only stayed with the show. But I'm glad you had pluck enough to run away, Toby, for a life like this hain't no fit one for boys."

"And I was glad to get back to Uncle Dan'l," said Toby, with a great deal of emphasis. "I wouldn't go away without he wanted me to, if I could go with a circus seven times as large as this. Do you suppose young Stubbs would act bad if I was to take him for a walk?"

"Who?" asked Ben, looking down at the crowd of boys with no slight show of perplexity.

"Mr. Stubbs's brother," and Toby motioned to the door of the cage. "I'd like to take him up in my arms, 'cause it would seem so much like it used to before his brother died."

Ben was seized with one of the very worst laughing spasms Toby had ever seen, and there was every danger that he would roll off the seat before he could control himself; but he did recover after a time, and as the purple hue slowly receded from his face, he said:

"I'll tell you what we'll do, Toby. You come to the tent when the afternoon performance is over, an' I'll fix it so's you shall see Mr. Stubbs's brother as much as you want to."

Just then Toby remembered that Ben was to be his guest for a while that day, and, after explaining all Aunt Olive had done in the way of preparing dainties, invited him to dinner.

"I'll come, Toby, because it's to see you an' them that has been good to you," said Ben, slowly, and after quite a long pause: "but there hain't anybody else I know of who could coax me out to dinner; for, you see, rough fellows like me hain't fit to go around much, except among our own kind. But say, Toby, your Uncle Dan'l hain't right on his speech, is he?"

Toby looked so puzzled that Ben saw he had not been understood, and he explained:

"I mean, he don't get up a dinner for the sake of havin' a chance to make a speech, like the skeleton, does he, eh?"

"Oh no, Uncle Dan'l don't do that. I know you'll like him when you see him."

"And I believe I shall, Toby," said Ben, speaking very seriously; "I'd be sure to, because he's such a good uncle to you."

Just then the conversation was interrupted by the orders to prepare for the parade; and as the manager drove up to see that everything was done properly, he stopped to speak with and congratulate Toby on being home again, a condescension on his part that caused a lively feeling of envy in the breasts of the other boys, because they had not been so honored.


Chapter VII

Attractions For The Little Circus


While he stood there, the wagon in which the skeleton and his wife travelled rolled past; but Toby knew they were still sleeping, and would continue to do so until their tent was ready for them to go into.

The carriage in which the women of the company rode also passed him, and he almost fancied he could see Ella sitting in one of the seats sleeping with her head on her mother's shoulder, as she had slept on the stormy night when his head was nearly jerked from his body as he tried to sleep while sitting upright.

There were but three of the drivers who had been with the circus the year before, and, after speaking with them, he stood by the side of the road, and watched the preparations for the entree with feelings far different from those with which he had observed such preparations in that dreary time when he expected each moment to hear Job Lord order him to attend to his work.

The other boys crowded quite as close to him as they could get, as if by this means they allied themselves in some way with the show; and when a drove of ponies were led past, Joe Robinson said, longingly:

"There, Toby, if we had one or two of them to train, it would be different work from what it is to make the Douglass boss remember his way round the ring."

"You wouldn't have to train them any," began Toby; and then he had no time to say anything more, for Ben, who had been talking with the manager, called to him.

"Has your Uncle Dan'l got plenty of pasturage?" asked Ben, when the boy approached him.

"Well, he's got twenty acres up by the stone quarry, an' he keeps three cows on it, an' Jack Douglass's hoss, that don't count, for he's only there till we boys have our circus," said Toby, never for a moment dreaming of the good fortune that was in store for him.

"So you're goin' to have a circus of your own, eh?" asked Ben, with a smile that alarmed Toby, because he feared it was a signal for one of those terrible laughing spells.

"We're only goin' to have a little three-cent one," replied Toby, modestly, noting with satisfaction that Ben's mirth had gone no further than the smile.

"Two of our ponies are about used up," said the manager, "and we've got to leave them somewhere. Ben tells me he is going to see your Uncle Dan'l this noon, so suppose you take one of these boys and ride them up to the pasture. Ben will make a bargain with your uncle for their keeping, and you can use them in your circus if you want to."

Joe Robinson actually jumped for joy as he heard this, and Toby's delight spread itself all over his face, while Bob Atwood and Ben Gushing went near the fence, where they stood on their heads as a way of expressing their elation at thus being able to have real live ponies in their circus.

A black and a red pony were the ones pointed out for Toby to take away, and they were not more than twice as large as Newfoundland dogs; they were, in fact, just exactly what was wanted for a little circus such as the boys were about to start.

Joe was so puffed up with pride at being allowed to ride one of these ponies through the village that if his mind could have affected his body he would not have weighed more than a pound, and he held his head so high that it seemed a matter of impossibility for him to see his feet.

Very much surprised were Uncle Daniel and Aunt Olive at seeing Toby and Joe dash into the yard astride of these miniature horses, just as they were sitting down to breakfast; and when the matter had been explained, Abner appeared quite as much pleased that the boys would have this attraction in their circus as if he were the sole proprietor of it.

It was with the greatest reluctance that either of the boys left his pony in the stable-yard and sat down to breakfast, so eager was Joe to get back to the tenting-ground to see what was going on, and so anxious was Toby to see the skeleton and his wife as soon as possible. But they ate because Uncle Daniel insisted that they should do so; and, when breakfast was over, he advised that the ponies be left in the stable until Chandler Merrill's pony could be removed from the pasture.

When they started down town again, Abner went with them, and it was so late in the morning that Toby was sure the skeleton and his wife would be prepared to receive visitors.

When Toby, Abner, and Joe reached the tenting-ground, everything was in that delightful state of bustle and confusion which is attendant upon the exhibition of a circus in a country town, where the company do not expect that the tent will be more than half filled, and where, in consequence, the programme will be considerably shortened.

It did not require much search on Toby's part to find the tent wherein the skeleton and his wife exhibited their contrasting figures, for the pictures which hung outside were so gaudy, and of such an unusually large size, that they commanded the attention of every visitor.

"Now I'm goin' in to see 'em," said Toby, first making sure that the exhibition had not begun; "an' Joe, you take Abner over so's he can see how Nahum Baker keeps a stand, an' then he'll know what to do when we have our circus. I'll come back here for you pretty soon."

Then Toby ran around to the rear of the tent, where he knew he would find a private entrance, thus running less risk of receiving a blow on the head from some watchful attendant, and in a few moments he stood before Mr. and Mrs. Treat, who, having just completed their preparations, were about to announce that the exhibition could be opened.

"Why, Toby Tyler, you dear little thing!" cried the enormous lady, in a joyful tone, after she had looked at the boy intently for a moment, to make sure he was really the one whom she had rescued several times from Job Lord's brutality; and then she took him in her fat arms, hugging him much as if he were a lemon and she an unusually large squeezer. "Where did you come from? How have you been? Did you find your Uncle Daniel?"

Her embrace was so vigorous that it was some seconds after she had released him before he could make any reply; and while he was trying to get his breath the fleshless Mr. Treat took him solemnly by the hand, and cleared his throat as if he were determined to take advantage of the occasion to make one of his famous speeches.

"My dear Mr. Tyler," he said, squeezing Toby's hand until it ached, "it is almost impossible for me to express the joy I feel at meeting you once more. We -- Lilly and I -- have looked forward to such a moment as this with a great deal of impatience, and even during our most prosperous exhibitions we have found time to speak of you."

"There, there, Samuel, don't take up so much time with your long-winded talk, but let me see the dear little fellow myself;" and Mrs. Treat lifted her slim husband into a chair, where he was out of her way, and again greeted Toby by kissing him on both cheeks with a resounding smack that rivalled anything Reddy Grant had yet been able to do in the way of cracking his whip.

Then she fairly overwhelmed him with questions, nor would she allow her husband to say a word until Toby had answered them all. He was again obliged to tell the story of Mr. Stubbs's death; of his return home, and everything connected with his running away from the circus; while all the time the fat lady alternately kissed and hugged him, until it seemed as if he would never be able to finish his story.

"And, now that you are home again, don't ever think of running away, even though I must admit that you made a wonderful success in the ring;" and Mr. Treat crossed one leg over the other in a triumphant way, pleased that he had at last succeeded in getting a chance to speak.

Toby was very emphatic in his assurances that he should never run away again, for he had had quite as much experience in that way as he wanted; and, after he had finished, Mrs. Treat, by way of further showing her joy at meeting him once more, brought out from a large black trunk fully half a dozen doughnuts, each quite as large among their kind as she was among women.

"Now eat every one of them," she said, as she handed them to Toby, "an' it will do me good to see you, for you always used to be such a hungry little fellow."

Toby had already had two breakfasts that morning, but he did not wish to refuse the kindly proffered gift, and he made every effort to do as she requested, though one of the cakes would have been quite a feast for him at his hungriest moment.

The food reminded him of the dinner-invitation he was to deliver, and, as he forced down the rather heavy cake, he said:

"Aunt Olive's killed a lamb, an' made an awful lot of things for dinner to-day, an' Uncle Dan'l says he'd be glad to have you come up. Ben's coming an' I'm goin' to find Ella, so's to have her come, an' we'll have a good time."

"Lilly an' I will be pleased to see your aunt's lamb, and we shall be delighted to meet your Uncle Daniel," replied the skeleton, before his wife could speak, and then a "far-away" look came into his eyes, as if he could already taste, or at least smell, the feast in which he was certain he should take so much pleasure.

"That's just the way with Samuel," said Mrs. Treat, as if she would offer some apology for the almost greedy way in which her husband accepted the invitation; "he's always thinking so much about eating that I'm afraid he'll begin to fat up, and then I shall have to support both of us."

"Now, my dear" -- and Mr. Treat used a tone of mild reproof -- "why should you have such ideas, and why express them before our friend, Mr. Tyler? I've eaten considerable, perhaps, at times; but during ten years you have never seen me grow an ounce the fatter, and surely I have grown some leaner in that time."

"Yes, yes, Sammy, I know it, and you shall eat all you can get, only try not to show that you think so much about it." Then, turning to Toby, she said, "He's such a trial, Sam is. We'll go to see your uncle, Toby, and we should be very glad to do so even if we wasn't going for dinner."

"Ben an' me will come 'round when it's time to go," said Toby, and then, in a hesitating way, he added, "Abner's out here -- he's a cripple that lives out to the poor-farm -- an' he never saw a circus or anything. Can't I bring him in here a minute before you open the show?"

"Of course you can, Toby, my dear, and you may bring all your friends. We'll give an exhibition especially for them. We haven't got a sword-swallower this year, and the albino children that you used to know have had to leave the business, because albinos got so plenty they couldn't earn their salt; but we've got a new snake-charmer, and a man without legs, and a bearded lady, so -- "

"So that our entertainment is quite as morally effective and instructively entertaining as ever," said Mr. Treat, interrupting his wife to speak a good word for the exhibition.

Toby ran out quickly, that he might not delay the regular business any longer than was absolutely necessary; and at the very entrance of the tent, looking at the pictures in wonder that almost amounted to awe, he found Abner with his partners, and about a dozen other boys.

"Come right in quick, fellers," said Toby, breathlessly, "an' you can see the whole show before it commences."


Chapter VIII

The Dinner Party


The invitation was no sooner given than accepted; and in a twinkling every one of those boys was inside the tent, looking at the skeleton and the fat woman as though they had been old acquaintances.

Toby had told Mr. and Mrs. Treat of the little circus they were intending to have, and he introduced to them his partners in the enterprise.

The fleshy Lilly smiled encouragingly upon them, and the skeleton, moving his chair slightly to prevent his wife from interrupting him, said:

"I am pleased to meet you, gentlemen, principally, and I might almost say wholly, because you are the friends of my old friend, Mr. Tyler. Whatever business relations you may have with him, whether in the great profession of the circus, or in the humbler walks of life, I am sure he will honor the connection."

From appearances Mr. Treat would have continued to talk for some time, but his wife passed around more doughnuts, and the attention of the visitors was so distracted that he was obliged to stop.

"And this is Abner," said Toby, taking advantage of the break in the skeleton's speech to lead forward his crippled friend.

Abner limped blushingly towards the gigantic lady, and when both she and her thin husband spoke to him kindly, he was so covered with confusion at the honor thus showered upon him that he was hardly able to say a word.

But the time was passing rapidly, and as there were many persons outside, probably, waiting for an opportunity to pay their money to see the varied attractions of the show, Mrs. Treat gave the signal for the snake-charmer to begin the entertainment, which was given as a mark of respect, as the skeleton explained, to their friend Toby Tyler.

This private exhibition lasted about fifteen minutes, and when, at its close, the doors were thrown open to such of the public as were willing to pay to come in, the boys were not at all anxious to leave.

"Let them stay as long as they want to, Toby," said the skeleton indulgently.

The boys were only too glad to avail themselves of this permission, and Toby said to Abner:

"I want to see if I can find Ella, an' you stay here till I come back."

"I'll keep him right here by me," said Mrs. Treat, "and he'll be safe enough."

Remembering how she had served Job Lord, Toby had no fears for the safety of his friend; he went at once, therefore, to deliver the invitation to the last of Aunt Olive's expected guests.

When, after some little time, Toby returned, the boys had satisfied their curiosity so far as the side-show was concerned, and all except Abner had left the tent.

That he had found Ella was evident, as that young lady herself skipped along by his side in the greatest possible delight at having met her former riding companion; and that she had accepted his invitation to dinner was shown by the scrupulous care with which she was dressed.

"It's time to go up to Uncle Dan'l's," Toby whispered to Mrs. Treat, "an' Ben's harnessin' the hosses into your wagon, so's you won't have to go to the trouble of puttin' on your other clothes."

"I don't know as we ought to go up there in this rig," said Mrs. Treat doubtfully, as she looked down at her "show dress," made to display her arms and neck to the greatest advantage, and then at her husband's costume, which was as scanty as his body. "I wanted to dress up when we went there; but I don't see how I'll get the chance to do it."

"I wouldn't bother, 'cause Uncle Dan'l will like you jest as well that way, an' it will take you too long," said Toby impatiently.

The skeleton, on being consulted as to the matter, decided to do as Toby wished, because by adopting that course they would the sooner get the dinner about which he had been thinking ever since he had received the invitation.

But while Mrs. Treat was ready to believe that her costume might be reasonably fit to wear to a dinner party, she was certain that something more than tights and a pair of short, red velvet trousers was necessary for her husband.

Mr. Treat tried to argue with his much larger half, insisting that Uncle Daniel would understand the matter; but his wife insisted so strongly, and with such determination to have her own way, that he compromised by adding to his scanty wardrobe a black frock-coat and a tall silk hat, which gave him a rather more comical than distinguished appearance.

The audience were dismissed as soon as possible; Abner was helped into the wagon, perfectly delighted at being allowed to ride in a circus van, and the party started for Uncle Daniel's.

Toby sat on the box with Ben, to show him the way; and when the gaudily painted cart stopped in front of the farm-house; it was much as if a peacock had suddenly alighted amid a flock of demure hens.

Uncle Daniel was out in the yard to receive his strangely assorted guests, and the greeting they received from both him and Aunt Olive was as hearty as if they had been old acquaintances.

There was a look of calm satisfaction on the skeleton's face as the odor of roast lamb was mingled with Uncle Daniel's welcome when he descended from the wagon; and as the company were ushered into the "fore-room," the air of which was pungent with the odors of herbs used to keep the moths from carpet and furniture, a restful feeling came over them such as only those whose lives are dreary rounds of travelling can feel.

Uncle Daniel insisted on taking care of the horses himself, for his idea of the duties of host would not allow that Ben should help him, and almost as soon as he had finished this work dinner was ready.

When all the guests were at the table, and Uncle Daniel bowed his head to invoke a blessing on those who had befriended the fatherless, the look of general discomfort old Ben had worn from the time he reached the house passed away, and in its place came the peaceful look Toby had seen on Sundays after the old driver had come from church.

It seemed to Toby that he had never really known Uncle Daniel before, so jolly was he in his efforts to entertain his guests; and the manner in which he portioned out the food, keeping the plates well filled all the time, was in the highest degree pleasing to Mr. Treat.

Of course very much was said about the time when Toby was an unwilling member of the circus, and Mrs. Treat and Ben told of the boy's experiences in a way that brought many a blush to his cheeks. Mr. Treat was too busy with Aunt Olive's lamb, as he affectionately spoke of it, to be able to say anything; he was wonderfully fortunate in not choking himself but once, and that was such a trifling matter that it was all over in a moment.

Old Ben told Toby that night, however, that Treat would not have got on so well, if his wife had not trodden on his toes frequently, as a hint to eat more slowly.

Although Abner had spent several hours in the side-show, it seemed as if he would never tire of gazing at Mrs. Treat's enormous frame, and so intently did he look at her that he missed a good chance of getting a second piece of custard pie, though Toby nudged him several times to intimate that he could have more as well as not.

Ben told a number of stories of circus life; Mrs. Treat related some of her experiences in trying to prevent her husband from eating too fast; Ella told Aunt Olive of the home she and her mother lived in during winter; and the hour which had been devoted to this visit passed so pleasantly that every one was sorry when it was ended.

"You've got a trim little farm here," said Ben to Uncle Daniel, when the two went out to harness the horses; "an' I reckon that a man who has got land enough to support him is fixed jest about as well as he can be. I don't know of anything I'd rather be than a farmer, if I could only get away from circus life."

"Whenever you want to leave that business," said Uncle Daniel solemnly and earnestly, "you come right here, and I'll show you the chance to become a farmer."

"I'd like to," said Ben, with a sigh of regret that the matter seemed so impossible; "but I've been with a circus now, man an' boy, goin' on forty-one years, an' I s'pose I shall always be with one."

Then he changed the conversation, making an arrangement with Uncle Daniel for pasturing the ponies that were to be left behind, and by the time the bargain was completed the horses were at the door.

While Uncle Daniel and old Ben had been at the stables, Mr. Treat had been showing his liberality by giving Aunt Olive tickets for the side-show and circus, and inducing her to promise that she and Uncle Daniel would see both shows. He had also given Toby fully a dozen circus tickets for distribution among his friends; and then, as Uncle Daniel entered, he said:

"I wish to express thanks -- both for myself and my wife Lilly -- for the very kind manner in which you have entertained us to-day."

Before he could say anything more the others came to say good-bye, and he was disappointed again. Aunt Olive kissed Ella several times, while the parting with the others was almost as between old friends, and the guests started for the tent again, more than satisfied with their visit.

"Now, Toby, you look me up jest after the show is out this afternoon, an' we'll fix it so's you shall have a chance to talk with Mr. Stubbs's brother," said Ben, as they were driving along.

As a matter of course Toby promised to be there, and to bring Abner with him.

"You said that little cripple had to live at the poor-farm, didn't you?" asked Ben, after quite a long pause.

"Yes, an' it's 'cause he hain't got no father or mother, nor no Uncle Dan'l like I've got," said Toby sadly.

"Hain't he got any relations anywhere?"

"No; Uncle Dan'l said he didn't have a soul that he could go to."

"It must be kinder hard for him to live there alone, an' I don't s'pose he'll ever be able to walk."

Toby was not at all certain whether or not Abner could ever be cured; but he told the old driver what he knew of the lonely life the boy led. Ben did not appear to hear what was said, for he was in one of his deep studies and seemed unconscious of everything except the fact that his horses were going in the proper direction.

"I'll tell you what I'll do, Toby," he said, after remaining silent until they were nearly at the tent. "I hain't got a child or a chick in the world, an' I'll take care of that boy."

Toby looked up in surprise, as he repeated, in a puzzled way:

"You'll take care of him?"

"I don't mean that I'll take hold an' tote' him 'round; but he shall have as much as he needs out of every dollar I get. I'll see your Uncle Dan'l, an' fix it somehow so he'll be taken out of the poorhouse."

"Why, Ben, how good you are!" and Toby looked up at his friend with sincere admiration imprinted on his face.

"It hain't 'cause I'm good, my lad; but if I didn't help that poor fellow in some way, I'd see them big eyes an' that pale face of hisn every night I rode on this box alone; so you see I only do it for the sake of havin' peace," said Ben, with a forced laugh; and then he stopped the horses at the rear of Mr. Treat's tent. "Now you jump down, Toby, so's to see the skeleton don't break himself all to pieces gettin' out, for I'm kinder 'fraid he will some day. I'd rather drive a hundred monkeys than one sich slim man as him."

Then Ben had a fit of internal laughter caused by his own remark, and Uncle Daniel's guests were ready to resume their duties at the circus.


Chapter IX

Mr. Stubbs's Brother


It was so near the time for the circus to begin that Toby was obliged to hurry considerably in order to distribute among his friends the tickets the skeleton had given him, and he advised Abner to remain with Mrs. Treat while he did so, in order to escape the crowd, among which he might get injured.

Then he gave his tickets to those boys who he knew had no money with which to buy any, and so generous was he that when he had finished he had none for himself and Abner.

That he might not be able to witness the performance did not trouble him very greatly, although it would have been a disappointment not to see Ella ride; but he blamed himself very much because he had not saved a ticket for Abner, and he hurried to find Ben that he might arrange matters for him.

The old driver was easily found, and still more easily persuaded to grant the favor which permitted Abner to view the wonderful sights beneath the almost enchanted canvas.

From one menagerie wagon to another Toby led his friend as quickly as possible, until they stood in front of the monkeys' cage, where Mr. Stubbs's supposed brother was perched as high as possible, away from the common herd of monkeys which chatted familiarly with every one who bribed them.

Toby was in the highest degree excited; it seemed as if his pet that had been killed was again before him, and he crowded his way up to the bars of the cage, dragging Abner with him, until he was where he could have a full view of the noisy prisoners.

Toby called to the monkey as he had been in the habit of calling to Mr. Stubbs, but now the fellow paid no attention to him whatever; there were so many spectators that he could not spend his time upon one, unless he were to derive some benefit in return.

Fortunately, so far as his happiness was concerned, Toby had the means of inducing the monkey to visit him, for in his pocket yet remained two of the doughnuts Mrs. Treat had almost forced upon him; and, remembering how fond Mr. Stubbs had been of such sweet food, he held a piece out to the supposed brother.

Almost immediately that monkey made up his mind that the freckle-faced boy with the doughnut was the one particular person whom he should be acquainted with, and he came down from his perch at a rapid rate.

So long as Toby was willing to feed him with doughnuts he was willing to remain; but when his companions gathered around in such numbers that the supply of food was quickly exhausted, he went back to his lofty perch, much to the boy's regret.

"He looks like Mr. Stubbs, and he acts like him, an' it must be his brother sure," said Toby to himself as Abner hurried him away to look at the other curiosities. When he was at some distance from the cage he turned and said, "Good-bye," as if he were speaking to his old pet.

During the performance that afternoon Abner was in a delightful whirl of wonder and amazement; but Toby's attention was divided between what was going on in the ring and the thought of having Mr. Stubbs's brother all to himself as soon as the performance should be over.

He did, however, watch the boy who sold peanuts and lemonade, but this one was much larger than himself, and looked rough enough to endure the hardships of such a life.

Toby was also attentive when Ella was in the ring, and he was envied by all his acquaintances when she smiled as she passed the place where he was sitting.

Abner would have been glad if the performance had been prolonged until midnight; but Toby, still thinking of Mr. Stubbs's brother, was pleased when it ended.

He and Abner waited by the animal's cages until the crowd had again satisfied their curiosity; and as the last visitor was leaving the tent old Ben came in, followed by Mr. and Mrs. Treat, both in exhibition costume.

Toby was somewhat surprised at seeing them, for he knew their busiest time was just at the close of the circus, and while he was yet wondering at their coming he saw Ella approaching from the direction of the dressing-tent.

He had not much time to spend in speculation, however, for Ben said, as he came up:

"Now, boy, you shall see Mr. Stubbs's brother, and talk to him just as long as you want to."

The skeleton and his wife and Ella looked at each other and smiled in a queer way as Ben said this; but Toby was too much excited at the idea of having the monkey in his arms to pay any attention to what was going on around him.

Ben, unlocking the door of the cage, succeeded, after considerable trouble, in catching the particular inmate he wanted, and, handing him to Toby, said:

"Now let's see if he knows you as well as Stubbs did."

Toby took the monkey in his arms with a glad cry of delight, and fondled him as if he really were the pet he had lost.

Whether it was because the animal knew that the boy was petting him, or because he had been treated harshly, and was willing to make friends with the first one who was kind to him, it is difficult to say; certain it is that as soon as he found himself in Toby's arms he nestled down with his face by the boy's neck, remaining there as contentedly as if the two had been friends for years.

"There, don't you see he knows me!" cried the boy in delight, and then he sat down upon the ground, caressing the animal, and whispering all sorts of loving words in his ear.

"He does seem to act as if he had been introduced to you," said old Ben, with a chuckle. "It would be kinder nice if you could keep him, wouldn't it?"

"'Deed it would," replied Toby earnestly. "I'd give everything I've got if I could have him, for he does act so much like Mr. Stubbs it seems as if it must be him."

Then Ella whispered something to the old driver, the skeleton bestowed a very mysterious wink upon him, the fat woman nodded her head till her cheeks shook like two balls of very soft butter, and Abner looked curiously on, wondering what was the matter with Toby's friends.

He soon found out what it was, however, for Ben, after indulging in one of his laughing spasms, asked:

"Whose monkey is that you've got in your arms, Toby?"

"Why, it belongs to the circus, don't it?" And the boy looked up in surprise.

"No, it don't belong to the circus; it belongs to you -- that's who owns it."

"Me? Mine? Why, Ben -- "

Toby was so completely bewildered as to be unable to say a word, and just as he was beginning to think it some joke, Ben said:

"The skeleton an' his wife, an' Ella and I, bought that monkey this forenoon, an' we give him to you so's you'll still be able to have a Mr. Stubbs in the family."

"Oh, Ben!" was all Toby could say; with the monkey tightly clasped in his arms, he took the old driver by the hand; but just then the skeleton stepped forward holding something which glistened.

"Mr. Tyler," he said, in his usual speech-making style, "when our friend Ben told us this morning about your having discovered Mr. Stubbs's brother, we sent out and got this collar for the monkey, and we take the greatest possible pride in presenting it to you; although, if it had been something that my Lilly could have made with her own fair fingers, I should have liked it better."

As he ceased speaking, he handed Toby a very pretty little dog-collar, on the silver plate of which was inscribed:


+ --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  -- -+ | Mr. Stubbs's Brother. | | Presented To | | Toby Tyler | | | | By | | | | The Skeleton, The Fat Woman, | | Old Ben, Little Ella. | + --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  -- -+


Toby took the collar, and as he fastened it on the monkey's neck he said, in a voice that trembled considerably with emotion:

"You've all of you been awful good to me, an' I don't know what to say so's you'll know how much I thank you. It seems as if ever since I started with the circus you've all tried to see how good you could be; an' now you've given me this monkey that I wanted so much. Some time, when I'm a man, I'll show you how much I think of all you've done for me."

The tears of gratitude that were gathering in Toby's eyes prevented him from saying anything more, and then Mrs. Treat and Ella both kissed him, while Ben said, in a gruff tone:

"Now carry the monkey home, an' get your supper, for you'll want to come down here this evening, an' you won't have time if you don't go now."

Ella, after making Toby promise that he would see her again that night, went with Mr. and Mrs. Treat, while old Ben, as if afraid he might receive more thanks, walked quickly away towards the dressing-rooms, and there was nothing else for Toby and Abner to do but go home.

It surely seemed as if every boy in the village knew that Toby Tyler had remained in the tent after the circus was over, and almost all of them were waiting around the entrance when the two boys came out with the monkey.

If Toby had stayed there until each one of his friends had looked at and handled the monkey as much as he wanted to, he and Abner would have remained until morning, and Mr. Stubbs's brother would have been made very ill-natured.

He waited until his friends had each looked at the monkey, and then he and Abner started home, escorted by nearly all the boys in town.

The partners in the amateur-circus scheme were nearly as wild with joy as Toby was, for now their enterprise seemed an assured success, since they had two real ponies and a live monkey to begin with. They seemed to consider it their right to go to Uncle Daniel's with Toby; and when the party reached the corner that marked the centre of the village, they decided that the others of the escort should go no farther -- a decision which relieved Toby of an inconvenient number of friends.

As it was, the party was quite large enough to give Aunt Olive some uneasiness lest they should track dirt in upon her clean kitchen floor, and she insisted that both the boys and the monkey should remain in the yard.

Toby had an idea that Mr. Stubbs's brother would be treated as one of the family; and, had any one hinted that the monkey would not be allowed to share his bed and eat at the same table with him, he would have resented it strongly.

But Uncle Daniel soon convinced him that the proper place for his pet was in the wood-shed, where he could be chained to keep him out of mischief, and Mr. Stubbs's brother was soon safely secured in as snug a place as a monkey could ask for.

Not until this was done did the partners return to their homes, or the centre of attraction -- the tenting-grounds -- nor did Toby find time to get his supper and go for the cows.

Not once during the afternoon had Toby said anything to Abner of the good fortune that might come to him through old Ben; but when he got back from the pasture and met Uncle Daniel in the barn, he told him what the old driver had said about Abner.

"Are you sure you heard him rightly, Toby, boy?" asked the old gentleman as he pushed his glasses up on his forehead, as he always did when he was surprised or perplexed.

"I know he said that; but it seems as if it was too good to be true, don't it?"

"The Lord's ways are not our ways, my boy, and if he sees fit to work some good to the poor cripple, he can do it as well through a circus driver as through one of his elect," said Uncle Daniel reverentially, and then he set about milking the cows in such an absent-minded way that he worried old Short-horn until she kicked the pail over when it was nearly half full.


Chapter X

The Accident


That night Toby and Abner went to the circus grounds with Uncle Daniel and Aunt Olive; and when old Ben approached the party as they were nearing the tent, Toby motioned the cripple to come with him, for he thought it might be better that the boy should not hear the conversation concerning himself.

It had been decided by Uncle Daniel that the boys should go to the circus grounds that evening, and stay there until it was nearly dark, when they were to go home and go to bed; for he never believed it could do boys any good to be out after dark, while he was certain it was better for their health if they went to bed early.

Therefore Toby intended to make this visit simply one of farewell, after Abner should see a little more of the bustle and confusion that had so fascinated him in the afternoon.

To that end the boys walked around the enclosure, listened to the men who were loudly crying the wonderful things they had for sale, and all the while kept a bright lookout in the hope of seeing some of their circus friends.

It was nearly time for the performance to begin when the boys went into the skeleton's tent, and said good-bye to the thin man and his fat wife.

Then Toby, anxious to run around to the dressing-rooms to speak with Ella, and not daring to take Abner with him, said to the boy:

"Now you wait here for a minute, an' I'll be right back."

Abner was perfectly contented to wait; it seemed to him that he would have been willing to stay there all night, provided the excitement should be continued, and he gazed around him in perfect delight as he leaned against one of the tent ropes.

Toby found Ella without much difficulty; but both she and her mother had so much to say to him that it was some time before he could leave them to go in search of Ben.

The old driver was curled up on his wagon, taking "forty winks," as he called a nap, before starting on the road again.

When Toby awakened him, he explained that he would not have taken the liberty if it had not been for the purpose of saying good-bye, and Ben replied, good-naturedly:

"That's all right, Toby; I should only have been angry with you if you had let me sleep. I've fixed it with your uncle about that little cripple; and now, when I get pitched off and killed some of these dark nights, there'll be one what'll be sorry I'm gone. Be a good boy, Toby; don't ever do anything you'd be afraid to tell your Uncle Dan'l of, and next year I'll see you again."

Toby wanted to say something; but the old driver had spoken his farewell, and was evidently determined neither to say nor to hear anything more, for he crawled up on the box of the wagon again, and appeared to fall asleep instantly.

Toby stood looking at him a moment, as if trying to make out whether this sudden sleep was real, or only feigned in order to prevent the parting from being a sad one; and then he said, as he started towards the door:

"Well, I thank you over and over again for Mr. Stubbs's brother, even if you have gone to sleep." Then he went to meet Abner.

When he reached the place where he had left his friend, to his great surprise he could see nothing of him. There was no possibility that he could have made any mistake as to the locality, for he had left him standing just behind the skeleton's tent.

Toby ran quickly around the enclosure, asked some of the attendants in the dressing-room if they had seen a boy on crutches, and then he went into Mr. Treat's tent. But he could neither hear nor see anything of Abner, whose complete disappearance was, to say the least, very strange.

Toby was completely bewildered by this sudden disappearance, and for some moments he stood looking at the place where he had left his friend, as if he thought that his eyes must have deceived him, and that the boy was still there.

There were but few persons around the outside of the tent, those who had money enough to pay for their admission having gone in, and those who were penniless having gone home, so that Toby did not find many of whom to make inquiries. The attaches of the circus were busily engaged packing the goods for the night's journey, and a number of them had gathered around one of the wagons a short distance away. But Toby thought it useless to ask them for tidings of his missing friend, for he knew by experience how busy every one connected with the circus was at that hour.

After he had looked at the tent rope against which he had seen Abner leaning, until he recovered his presence of mind, he went into the tent again for the purpose of getting Uncle Daniel to help him in the search. As he was passing the monkey wagon, however, he saw old Ben -- whom he had left apparently in a heavy sleep -- examining his wagon to make sure that everything was right, and to him he told the story of Abner's strange disappearance.

"I guess he's gone off with some of the other fellows," said Ben, thinking the matter of but little importance, but yet going out of the tent with Toby as he spoke. "Boys are just like eels, an' you never know where to find 'em after you once let 'em slip through your fingers."

"But Abner promised me he'd stay right here," said Toby.

"Well, some other fellows came along, an' he promised to go with them, I s'pose."

"But I don't believe Abner would; he'd keep his promise after he made it."

While they were talking they had gone out of the tent, and Ben started at once towards the crowd around the wagon, for he knew there was no reason why so many men should be there when they had work to do elsewhere.

"Did you go over there to see what was up?" asked the old driver.

"No, I thought they were getting ready to start, an' I could see Abner wasn't there."

"Something's the matter," muttered the old man, as he quickened his pace, and Toby, alarmed by the look on his friend's face, hurried on, hardly daring to breathe.

One look into the wagon around which the men were gathered was sufficient to show why it was that Abner had not remained by the tent as he had promised; for he lay in the bottom of the cart, to all appearances dead, while two of the party were examining him to learn the extent of his injuries.

"What is the matter? How did this boy get hurt?" asked Ben, sternly, as he leaped upon the wagon, and laid his hand over the injured boy's heart.

"He was standing there close by the guy ropes when we were getting ready to let the canvas down. One of the side poles fell and struck him on the head, or shoulder, I don't know which," replied a man.

"It struck him here on the back of the neck," said one of those who were examining the boy, as he turned him half over to expose an ugly-looking wound around which the blood was rapidly settling. "It's a wonder it didn't kill him."

"He hain't dead, is he?" asked Toby, piteously, as he climbed up on one of the wheels and looked over in a frightened way at the little deformed body that lay so still and lifeless.

"No, he hain't dead," said Ben, who had detected a faint pulsation of the heart; "but why didn't some of you send for a doctor when it first happened?"

"We did," replied one of the men. "Some of the village boys were here, and we started them right off."

Almost as the man spoke, Dr. Abbott, one of the physicians of the town, drove up and made his way through the crowd.

Toby, too much alarmed to speak, watched the doctor's every movement as he made an examination of the wounded boy, and listened to the accounts the men gave of the way in which the accident had happened.

"His injuries are not necessarily fatal, but they are very dangerous. He lives at the poor-farm, and should be taken there at once," said the doctor after he had made a slight and almost careless examination.

Toby was anxious that the poor boy should be taken to his home rather than to the comfortless place the doctor had proposed; but he did not dare make the suggestion before asking Uncle Daniel's consent to it. He was about to ask them not to move Abner until he could find his uncle, when Ben whispered something to the doctor that caused him to look at the old driver in surprise.

"I'll ask Uncle Dan'l to take him home with us," said Toby as he slipped down from his high perch and started towards the tent.

"I'll take care of that," said Ben as he went towards the tent with him. "I had just fixed it with your uncle so's he'd take Abner from the poor-farm an' board him, an' now there's all the more reason why he should do it. You go back an' stay with Abner, an' I'll bring your Uncle Dan'l out."

Then Toby went back to the wagon where the poor little cripple still lay as one dead, while the blood flowed in a tiny stream from one of his arms, where the physician had opened a vein.

Not understanding the reason for this blood-letting, and supposing that the crimson flow was due to the injuries Abner had received, Toby cried out in his fear; but one of the men explained the case to him, and then he waited as patiently as possible for the driver's return.

Both Uncle Daniel and Aunt Olive came out with Ben, and within a very few moments Abner was being carried to the farm-house, in the same wagon that had taken him there before in company with the skeleton and his party, for that famous dinner.

It frightened Toby still more to see the unconscious boy carried into the house by Ben and the doctor as though he were already dead; and when Aunt Olive led them into the best room, where no one had slept since Uncle Daniel's sister died, it seemed as if every one believed Abner could not live, or they would not have carried him there.

Toby hardly knew when Ben went away, or whether he said anything before he left, or, in fact, anything else, so sad and confused was he. He did not even think about Mr. Stubbs's brother, but remained in one corner of the room, almost hidden by one of the flowing chintz curtains, until Uncle Daniel heard him sobbing, and led him away to his room.

"There is good reason to hope Abner will recover," said the old man as he stroked Toby's hair; "but he is in the keeping of the One who never errs, and whatsoever He does is good."

Then Uncle Daniel actually kissed the boy, as he told him to go to bed and go to sleep. Toby went to bed as he was commanded, though it seemed impossible he should sleep while it might be that Abner was dying.


Chapter XI

Change Of Plans


Toby was thoroughly surprised, when he awoke, to find that it was morning, and that his slumber had been as sweet as if nothing had happened. He dressed himself as quickly as possible, and ran down-stairs, and Uncle Daniel told him the doctor had just left, after saying he thought Abner would recover.

It was a sad visit Toby paid Mr. Stubbs's brother that morning; and, as he petted him, the tears came into his eyes when he thought of poor Abner, until he was obliged to leave the monkey to himself, after having tied him so that he could take a short run out of doors.

Then he visited the ponies in the stable, and when he returned to the house he found all his partners in the circus enterprise, as well as several other boys, waiting to hear an account of the accident.

Dr. Abbott had reported that Abner had been injured; but, as he had not given any particulars, the villagers were in a state of anxious uncertainty regarding it.

After Toby had told them all he knew about the matter, and had allowed them to see the monkey and the ponies, which some of them seemed to regard as of more importance than the injured boy, Bob asked:

"Well, now what about our circus?"

"Why, we can't do anything on that till Abner gets well," said Toby, as if surprised that the matter should even be spoken about.

"Why not? He wasn't goin' to do any of the ridin', an' now's the time for us to go ahead while we can remember what they did at the show yesterday. It don't make any difference 'bout our circus if he did get hurt," and Bob looked around at the others as if asking whether they agreed with him or not.

"I think we ought to wait till he gets better," said Joe, "'cause he was goin' in with us, an' it don't seem jest fair to have the show when he's so sick."

"That's foolish," said Ben, with a sneer. "If he hadn't come up to the pasture the other day, you wouldn't thought anything 'bout him, an' he'd been out to the poor-farm where he belongs."

"If he hadn't come up there," said Toby, "I'd never known how lonesome he was, an' I'd gone right on havin' a good time without ever once thinkin' of him. An' if he hadn't come up there, perhaps he wouldn't got hurt, an' it seems almost as if I'd done it to him, 'cause I took him to the circus."

"Don't make a fool of yourself, Toby Tyler!" and Ben Gushing spoke almost angrily. "You act awful silly 'bout that feller, an' father says he's only a pauper anyway."

"It wouldn't make any difference if he was, 'cause he's a poor lonesome cripple; but he hain't a pauper, for old Ben's goin' to take care of him, an' he pays Uncle Dan'l for lettin' him stay here."

This news was indeed surprising to the boys, and as they fully realized that Abner was under the protection of a "circus man," he rose considerably in their estimation.

They were anxious to know all about the matter, and when Toby told them all he could, they looked at the case in such an entirely different light that Ben Gushing even offered to go out in the field, where he could be seen from the windows of the room in which Abner lay, and go through his entire acrobatic performance in the hope the sight might do the invalid some good. Leander Leighton also offered to come twice each day and play "Yankee Doodle" with one finger on the accordion, in order to soothe him.

But Toby thought it best to decline both these generous offers; he was glad they had been made, but would have been much better pleased if they had come while it was still believed Abner's only home was at the poorhouse.

When the boys went away, Toby pleaded so hard that Aunt Olive consented to his sitting in the chamber where Abner lay, with the agreement that he should make no noise; and there he remained nearly all the day, as still as any mouse, watching the pale face on which death seemed already to have set its imprint.

Each day for two weeks Toby remained on watch, leaving the room only when it was necessary, and he was at last rewarded by hearing Abner call him by name.

After that, Aunt Olive allowed the two boys to talk a little, and a few days later Mr. Stubbs's brother was brought in to pay his respects to the invalid.

Many times during Abner's illness had the boys been up to learn how he was getting on, and to try to persuade Toby to commence again the preparations for the circus; but he had steadily refused to proceed further in the matter until Abner could at least play the part of spectator.

Uncle Daniel had had several letters from Ben inquiring about Abner's condition; and as each one contained money, some of which had been sent by the skeleton and his wife to "Toby Tyler's friend," the sick boy had wanted for nothing. Ben had also written that he had gained the consent of the proprietors of the circus to have the ponies driven for Abner's benefit, and had sent a dainty little carriage and harnesses so that he could ride out as soon as he was able.

Chandler Merrill had grown tired of waiting for his pony, and had taken him from the pasture, while Reddy had long since returned the blind horse to its owner.

But during all these five weeks the work had gone slowly but steadily on circusward. Leander had become so expert a musician on the accordion, that he could play "Yankee Doodle" with all his fingers, "Old Hundred" with two; and was fast mastering the intricacies of "Old Dog Tray."

As to Ben Gushing, it would be hard to say exactly how much progress he had made, the reports differed so much. He claimed to be able to turn hand-springs around the largest circus ring that was ever made, and to stand on his head for a week; but some of the boys who were not partners in the enterprise flatly contradicted this, and declared that they could do as many feats in the acrobatic line as he could.

Joe Robinson had practised howling until Reddy insisted that there was little or no difference between him and the fiercest and strongest-lunged hyena that ever walked. Bob could sing the two songs his sister had taught him, and had written out twelve copies of them in order to have a good stock to sell from; but Leander predicted that he would not be able to dispose of many, because one was the "Suwanee River," and the other "A Poor Wayfaring Man," the words of which any boy could get by consulting an old music-book.

Reddy had made a remarkably large whip, which he could snap once out of every three attempts, and not hit himself on the head more than once out of five.

Thus the circus project was as promising as ever, and Abner, as well as the other partners, had urged Toby to take hold of it again; but he had made no promises until the day came when Abner was able to sit up, and Dr. Abbott said that he could go out for a ride in another week, if he still continued to improve.

Then it was that Toby told his partners he would meet them on the first day Abner went out for a ride, and tell them when he would take up the circus work again, which made every one more anxious than ever to see the poor-farm boy out of doors.

From the time when the tiny little carriage and the two sets of harness glistening with silver had come, Toby had been anxious for a drive with the ponies; but he had resolutely refused to use them until Abner could go with him, although Uncle Daniel had told him he could try them whenever he wished. He had waited for his other pleasures until Abner could join him, and he insisted on waiting for this one. One day, when Aunt Olive spoke to him about it, he said:

"If I was sick, an' had such a team sent to me, I'd feel kinder bad to have some other boy using it, an' so I'm goin' to let Abner be the first one to go out with the ponies."

It was hard not even to get into the little carriage that was so carefully covered with a white cloth in the stable; but Toby resisted the temptation, and when at last the day did come that Aunt Olive and Uncle Daniel helped the sick boy down-stairs, and lifted him into the prettiest little pony carriage ever seen in Guilford, he felt amply rewarded for his denial.

They drove all over the town, stopping now and then to speak with some of their friends, or to answer questions as to Abner's health; and when it was nearly time to return home Toby turned the ponies' heads towards the pasture, where he knew his partners were waiting for him according to agreement.

"We'll go on with the circus now," he said to Abner, "for I can take you with me in this team, an' you can stay in it all the time we're practising so's it'll be 'most as good as if you could do something towards it yourself."

Abner was quietly happy; the tender, thoughtful care that had been bestowed upon him since his mishap had been such as, in his mind at least, repaid him for all the pain.

"I hope you will have it," he said, earnestly, "for, even if I can't be with you all the time, I won't feel as if I was keepin' you from it."

Then he put his hand in a loving way on Toby's cheek, and the "boss of the circus" felt fully repaid for having waited for his pleasure.

At the pasture all the partners were gathered, for Toby had promised to tell them when he would begin operations; and as he drove the ponies up to the bars, he shouted:

"Abner an' me will be up here about nine o'clock to-morrow morning, an' we'll bring Mr. Stubbs's brother with us."

There was a mighty shout, and Ben Cushing stood on his head, when this announcement was made, and then Toby and Abner drove home as quickly as their ponies could scamper.


Chapter XII

A Rehearsal


When Toby told Uncle Daniel that night of their intention to go on with the work of the long-delayed circus, and that Abner was to ride up to the pasture where he could see everything that was going on, the old gentleman shook his head doubtingly, as if he feared the consequences to the invalid, who appeared very much exhausted even by the short ride he had taken.

Abner, interpreting Uncle Daniel's shake of the head the same way Toby did, pleaded hard to be allowed to go, insisting that he would be no more tired sitting in the little carriage than he would in a chair at home; and Aunt Olive joined in the boys' entreaty, promising to arrange the pillows in such a manner that Abner could lie down or sit up, as best suited him.

"We'll see what the doctor has to say about it," replied Uncle Daniel, and, with much anxiety, the boys awaited the physician's coming.

"Go? Why, of course he can go, and it will do him good to be out-of-doors," said the medical gentleman when he made his regular afternoon visit and Uncle Daniel laid the case before him.

Toby insisted on bringing Mr. Stubbs's brother into the invalid's room as a signal mark of rejoicing at the victory the doctor had won for them, and Abner was so delighted with the funny pranks the monkey played that it would have been difficult to tell by his face that the morning ride had tired him.

Mr. Stubbs's brother was quite as mischievous as a monkey could be; he capered around the room, picking at this thing and looking into that, until Aunt Olive laughed herself tired, and Uncle Daniel declared that if the other monkey was anything like this one, Toby was right when he named him Steve Stubbs, so much did he resemble that gentleman in inquisitiveness.

The day had been so exciting to the boy who had been confined to one room for several weeks, that he was quite ready to go to bed when Aunt Olive suggested it; and Toby went about his evening's work with a lighter heart than he had had since the night he found his crippled friend lying so still and death-like in the circus wagon.

The next morning Toby was up some time before the sun peeped in through the crevices of Uncle Daniel's barn to awaken the cows, and he groomed the tiny ponies till their coats shone like satin. The carriage was washed until every portion of it reflected one's face like a mirror, and the harnesses with their silver mountings were free from the slightest suspicion of dirt.

Then after the cows had been driven to the pasture Mr. Stubbs's brother was treated to a bath, and was brushed and combed until, losing all patience at such foolishness, he escaped from his too cleanly-disposed master, taking refuge on the top of the shed, where he chattered and scolded at a furious rate as he tried to explain that he had no idea of coming down until the curry-comb and brush had been put away.

But when the pony team was driven up to the door, and Toby decorated the bridles of the little horses with some of Aunt Olive's roses, Mr. Stubbs's brother came down from his high perch, and picked some of the flowers for himself, putting them over his ears to imitate the ponies; then he gravely seated himself in the carriage, and Toby had no difficulty in fastening the cord to his collar again.

Aunt Olive nearly filled the little carriage with pillows so soft that a very small boy would almost have sunk out of sight in them; and in the midst of these Abner was placed carefully, looking for all the world, as Toby said, like a chicken in a nest.

Mr. Stubbs's brother was fastened in the front in such a way that his head came just above the dash-board, over which he looked in the most comical manner possible.

Then Toby squeezed in on one side, declaring he had plenty of room, although there was not more than three square inches of space left on the seat, and even a portion of that was occupied by a fan and some other things Aunt Olive had put in for Abner's use.

Both the boys were in the highest possible state of happiness, and Abner was tucked in until he could hardly have been shaken had he been in a cart instead of a carriage with springs.

"Be sure to keep Abner in the shade, and come home just as soon as he begins to grow tired," cried Aunt Olive as Toby spoke to the ponies, and they dashed off like a couple of well-trained Newfoundland dogs.

"I'll take care of him like he was wax," cried Toby as they drove out through the gateway, and Mr. Stubbs's brother screamed and chattered with delight, while Abner lay back restful and happy.

It was just the kind of a morning for a ride, and Abner appeared to enjoy it so much that Toby turned the little steeds in the direction of the village, driving fully a mile before going to the pasture.

When they did arrive at the place where the first rehearsal was to be held, they found the partners gathered in full force; and, although it was not even then nine o'clock, they had evidently been there some time.

Joe Robinson ran to let the bars down, while the ponies pranced into the field as if they knew they were the objects of admiration from all that party, and they shook their tiny heads until the petals fell from the roses in a shower upon the grass.

Mr. Stubbs's brother stood as erect as possible, and was so excited by the cheers of the boys that he seized the flowers he had tucked over his ears, and flung them at the party in great glee.

The carriage was driven into the shade cast by the alders; the ponies were unharnessed, and fastened where they could have a feast of grass; and Toby was ready for business, or thought he was. But, just as he was about to consult with his partners, a scream from both Abner and the monkey caused him to turn towards the carriage quickly.

From the moment they had entered the pasture, Mr. Stubbs's brother had shown the greatest desire to be free; and when he saw his master walking away, while he was still a prisoner, he made such efforts to release himself that he got his body over the dash-board of the carriage, and, when Toby looked, he was hanging there by the neck as if he had just committed suicide.

Toby ran quickly to the relief of his pet; and when he had released him from his uncomfortable position, the other boys pleaded so hard that Toby gave him his freedom, which he celebrated by scampering across the pasture on all four paws, with his tail curled up over his back like a big letter O.

It seemed very much as if Mr. Stubbs's brother would break up the rehearsal, for he did look so comical as he scampered around that all the partners neglected their business to watch and laugh at him, until Toby reminded them that he could not stay there very long because of Abner's weakness.

Then Bob and Reddy straightened themselves up in a manner befitting circus proprietors, and began their work.

"Leander is goin' to commence the show by playin' 'Yankee Doodle,'" said Bob, as he consulted a few badly written words he had traced on the back of one of his father's business cards, "an' while he's doin' it Joe'll put in an' howl all he knows how, for that's the way the hyenas did at the last circus."

The entire programme was evidently to be carried out that morning, for, as Bob spoke, Leander marched with his accordion and a great deal of dignity to a rock near where a line representing the ring had been cut in the turf.

"Now you'll see how good he can do it," said Bob, with no small amount of pride; and Leander, with his head held so high that it was almost impossible to see his instrument, struck one or two notes as a prelude, while Joe took his station at a point about as far distant from the ring as the door of the tent would probably be.

Leander started with the first five or six notes all right, and Joe began some of the most wonderful howling ever heard, which appeared to disconcert the band, for he got entirely off the track of his original tune, and mixed "Yankee Doodle" with "Old Dog Tray" in the most reckless manner, Joe howling louder at every false note.

Almost every one in that pasture, save possibly the performers themselves, was astonished at the din made by these two small boys; and Mr. Stubbs's brother, who had hung himself up on a tree by his tail, dropped to his feet in the greatest alarm, adding his chatter of fear to the general confusion.

But the two performers were not to be daunted by anything that could occur; in fact, Joe felt rather proud that his howling was so savage as to frighten the monkey, and he increased his efforts until his face was as red as a nicely boiled beet.

For fully five minutes the overture was continued; then the band stopped and looked around with an air of triumph, while Joe uttered two or three more howls by way of effect, and to show that he could have kept it up longer had it been necessary.

"There! what do you think of that?" asked Reddy, in delight. "You couldn't get much more noise if you had a whole band, could you?"

"It's a good deal of noise," said Toby, not feeling quite at liberty to express exactly his views regarding the music; "but what was it Leander was playin'?"

"I played two tunes," replied Leander, proudly. "I can play 'Yankee Doodle' with the whole of one hand; but I think it sounds better to play that with my thumb and two fingers, an' 'Old Dog Tray' with the other two fingers. You see, I can give 'em both tunes at once that way."

The monkey went back to the tree as soon as the noise had subsided; but, from the way he looked over his shoulder now and then, one could fancy he was getting ready to run at the first sign that it was to commence again.

"Didn't that sound like a whole cageful of hyenas?" asked Joe, as he wiped the perspiration from his face, and came towards his partners. "I can keep that up about as long as Leander can play, only it's awful hard work."

Toby had no doubt as to the truth of that statement; but before he could make any reply, Bob said:

"Now, this is where Ben comes in. He starts the show, an' he ends it, an' I sing right after he gets through turnin' hand-springs this first time. Now, Leander, you start the music jest as soon as Ben comes, an' keep it up till he gets through."

Ben was prepared for his portion of the work. His trousers were belted tightly around his waist by a very narrow leather belt, with an enormously large buckle, and his shirt-sleeves were rolled up as high as he could get them, in order to give full play to his arms.

"He's been rubbin' goose-grease all over him for as much as two weeks, an' he can bend almost any way," whispered Reddy to Toby, as Ben stood swinging his arms at the entrance to the ring, as if limbering himself for the work to be done.

Leander started "Yankee Doodle" in slow and solemn strains; Ben gathered himself for a mighty effort, and began to go around the ring in a series of hand-springs in true acrobatic style.


Chapter XIII

The Results Of Long Training


Mr. Stubbs's brother had been a close observer of all that was going on, probably to guard against another sudden fright such as the overture had given him, and the moment Ben commenced to revolve he leaped from the tree, running with full speed towards the whirling acrobat.

Toby started to catch him, but the monkey was too quick in his movements: before any one could prevent him he had caught the revolving boy by one leg, and for a few seconds it was difficult to tell which was Ben and which the monkey.

Of course such an interruption as that broke up the performance for the time being, and Toby was obliged to exert all his authority to disentangle the monkey from the performer.

"I knew it wouldn't do to let him be loose," said Toby, in a half-apologetic tone. "Now I'll set here an' hold him while you commence over again, Ben."

"Well, now, be sure you hold him," said Ben, seriously, "for I don't want him to catch me again when I'm goin' 'round so fast, for it hurts a feller to tumble the way he made me."

Bob offered to help hold the unruly monkey, and, when he and Toby had taken a firm grip on the collar, the music was started again, and Ben recommenced his performance.

This time he got through with it in a highly successful and creditable manner; he proved to be a really good acrobat, so far as turning hand-springs and standing on his head were concerned, and Toby felt certain that this portion of the entertainment would be pleasing.

Bob now went into the ring, and began to sing the "Suwanee River" in a manner which he intended should captivate his audience; but he had neglected to give the band any orders, and the consequence was that, when he commenced to sing, Leander began to play "Old Dog Tray," a proceeding which mixed the musical matters considerably.

"You mustn't do that, Leander," Bob said, sharply, after he had done his best to sing the band down, and failed in the attempt. "It won't do for you to play one thing while I'm tryin' to sing something else. Now, you be restin' while I'm doin' my part."

Leander was so deeply interested in the enterprise that he was perfectly willing to keep on playing without ever thinking of taking a rest; but in deference to Bob's wishes he ceased his efforts, although he did venture to remark that he noticed particularly, when the real circus was there, that the band always played when the clown sang.

Bob got along very well with his portion of the rehearsal after the first mistake had been rectified; and when he finished he bowed gracefully in response to the applause bestowed upon him.

"Now's the time when you come in, Toby," said Bob; "an' if you'll see how you can ride the ponies, Joe'll run around the ring with 'em."

Toby was willing to do his share of the work, and all the more so because he could see that Abner, from his cosy seat under the bushes, was deeply interested in all that was going on.

Joe got one of the ponies while Toby made his preparations; and after the little horse had been led around the circle two or three times to show what was expected of him, Toby got on his back. This was Reddy's opportunity to act the part of ring-master, and he seized his long whip, standing in the centre of the ring, in what he believed to be the proper attitude.

"Run around with him till I tell you to let go," said Toby, as he tied the reins together to form a bridle, and then stood on the pony's back as Mr. Castle had taught him to do.

There was so great a difference between the motion of this horse and that of the one owned by Mr. Douglass, that Toby began to understand it might be quite as necessary to train the animal as its rider.

Owing to his lack of practice he was a little clumsy; but after one or two attempts he went around the ring standing on one foot, almost as well as he had done it when with Ella.

The boys, who had never seen Toby ride before were thoroughly elated by the brief exhibition he gave them; and if he had done as they wanted, he would have tired both himself and the pony completely.

"I'll practise some, now Abner can come out," said Toby, as he led his steed to a spot where he could get more grass, but neglected to fasten him; "an' I wouldn't wonder if I could ride two at once, after a little while."

His partners in the enterprise were more than delighted with their rider, and they already began to believe they should have such a circus as would, in some points, eclipse the real one that had lately visited the town.

After the excitement caused by Toby's riding had in a measure died away, Ben continued with his feats according to the programme, and then Bob commenced his second song.

The audience of partners were listening to it intently, the more because it seemed to them that Bob had made a mistake as to the tune, and they were anxious to see what he was going to do about it -- when the pony Toby had been riding suddenly dashed into the ring, with what looked very like a boy on his back.

The partners were amazed at this interruption, and Bob continued to sound the note he was wrestling with when he first saw the pony coming towards him, until it ended almost in a shriek.

"Who is it?" cried Joe, as the pony dashed across the pasture, urged to full speed by its rider, and in an instant more all saw a long curling tail, which showed unmistakably who the culprit was.

"It's Mr. Stubbs's brother!" cried Toby, in alarm, "and how shall we catch him?"

It was, indeed, the monkey, and during the next ten minutes it seemed to the boys that they ran over every square foot of that pasture, scaring the cows and tiring themselves, until the frightened little horse was penned up in one corner, and his disagreeable rider was taken from him.

This last act of the rehearsal had occupied so much time, and the monkey was making himself so troublesome, that Toby decided to go home, the others promising to come to Uncle Daniel's barn that afternoon, when Reddy was to explain how the tent was to be procured, a matter which, up to this time, he had kept a profound secret from all but Bob.

Short as the time spent at the rehearsal seemed to the boys, it was considerably too long for one in Abner's weak condition, as was evident from his face when Aunt Olive came to the door to help him out of the carriage.

He seemed thoroughly exhausted, and, as soon as he got into the house, asked to be allowed to lie down -- a confession of weakness that gave Aunt Olive a great deal of uneasiness, because she considered herself in a great measure responsible for the ride and its results, as she had urged Abner to go before the doctor's advice had been heard in the matter.

Toby's fears regarding the invalid were always reflections of Aunt Olive's; but when he saw Abner go to sleep so quickly, he thought she was alarmed without cause, and believed his friend would be quite himself so soon as he should awaken.

Dinner-time came and passed, and Abner was still sleeping sweetly. Therefore Toby could see no reason why he should not join his partners, whom he saw going into the barn before dinner was over.

"The boys have come up to see 'bout the tent," he said to Aunt Olive, "an' I'm goin' out to the barn, where they're waitin' for me. Will you call me when Abner wakes up?"

Aunt Olive promised that he should be informed as soon as the sick boy could see him, and Toby joined his partners with never a fear but that Abner would soon be able to participate in all his sports.

That the boys had come to Uncle Daniel's barn on very serious business was evident from their faces, and the two large packages they brought.

Two rolls of what looked to be sail-cloth were lying on the barn floor, and around them Bob, Reddy, Joe, Ben, and Leander were seated with a look on their faces that was very nearly a troubled one.

"What's them?" asked Toby, in surprise, as he pointed to the bundles.

"The tent," and Reddy gave a big sigh as he spoke.

"What, have you got two?" asked Toby, a look of glad surprise showing itself on his face.

Reddy shook his head.

"What's the matter? If there hain't two tents here, what makes the two bundles?" And Toby was almost impatient because he could not understand the matter.

"Well, you see, this is just how it is," said Reddy, as he began to untie the fastenings from the rolls of canvas. "When I told you I could get a tent, I'd asked Captain Whetmore to lend me two of the sails what he took off his schooner, an' he told me yes."

"An' you've got 'em, haven't you?" and Toby looked meaningly at the canvas.

"Yes, we've got 'em," replied Joe; "but now we don't know how to fix 'em, 'cause you see we've got to put 'em up like a roof, an' we hain't got anything for the ends."

Reddy had planned to use each of the sails as a side to the tent, fastening them along the top to a ridge-pole; and it had never occurred to him, in all the time he had had to think the matter over, that as yet he had nothing with which to form the ends.

It was a question that puzzled the boys greatly, and caused their faces to grow very long, until Toby said:

"I'll tell you how we can fix one end. We can put it right up against the barn, where the little door is, an' then we can have the stalls for a dressin'-room."

The faces of the partners lightened at once, and each wondered why he had not thought of such a plan.

"An' I'll tell you how we could fix the other end," said Toby, quickly, as another happy thought presented itself. "If Mr. Mansfield would lend us his big flag, it would jest do it."

"That's the very thing, an' I'll go an' ask him now;" and Bob started out of the barn at full speed, while Reddy, now that the important question was settled, displayed great alacrity in unrolling his treasures.

The sails were not in a remarkable state of preservation, or Captain Whetmore would not have taken them from his vessel; but Reddy explained that the holes could be closed up by pasting paper over them, or by each boy borrowing a sheet from his mother and pinning it up underneath.

One of the sails was considerably larger than the other; but Reddy had also thought of this, and proposed to make them look the same size by "tucking one in" at the end.

Bob returned before the sails had been thoroughly inspected, and brought with him the coveted flag, thus showing he had been successful in his mission.

"Now let's put it right up, an' then we can build our ring, an' do our practisin' there instead of goin' up to the pasture," suggested Ben.

Since there was no reason why this should not be done, Bob and Ben started for the woods to cut some young trees with which to make a ridge-pole and posts, while the others carried the canvas out-of-doors, and made calculations as to where and how it should be put up.

When they commenced work, they had no idea but that it would be completed before supper-time; but when the village clock struck the hour of five, they had not finished making the necessary poles and pegs.

"We can't come anywhere near getting it done to-night," said Toby, surprised at the lateness of the hour, and wondering why Aunt Olive had not called him as she had promised. "Let's put the sails back in the barn, an' to-morrow mornin' we can begin early, an' have it all done by noon."

There was no hope that they could complete the work that night Therefore Toby's advice was followed; and when the partners separated, each promised to be ready for work early the next morning.


Chapter XIV

Raising The Tent


Toby went into the house, feeling rather uneasy because he had not been called; but when Aunt Olive told him that Abner had aroused from his slumber but twice, and then only for a moment, he had no idea of being worried about his friend, although he did think it a little singular he should sleep so long.

That evening Dr. Abbot called again, although he had been there once before that day; and when Toby saw how troubled Uncle Daniel and Aunt Olive looked after he had gone, he asked;

"You don't think Abner is goin' to be sick, do you?"

Uncle Daniel made no reply, and Aunt Olive did not speak for some moments; then she said:

"I am afraid he stayed out too long this morning; but the doctor hopes he will be better to-morrow."

If Toby had not been so busily engaged planning for Abner to see the work next day, he would have noticed that the sick boy was not left alone for more than a few moments at a time, and that both Uncle Daniel and Aunt Olive seemed to have agreed not to say anything discouraging to him regarding his friend's illness.

When he went to bed that night, he fancied Uncle Daniel's voice trembled, as he said:

"May the good God guard and spare you to me, Toby, boy;" but he gave no particular thought to the matter, and the sandman threw dust in his eyes very soon after his head was on the pillow.

In the morning his first question was regarding Abner, and then he was told that his friend was not nearly so well as he had been; Aunt Olive even said that Toby had better not go into the sick-room, for fear of disturbing the invalid.

"Go on with your play by yourself, Toby, boy, and that will be a great deal better than trying to have Abner join you, until he is much better," said Uncle Daniel, kindly.

"But hain't he goin' to have a ride this mornin'?"

"No, he is not well enough to get up. You go on building your tent, and you will be so near the house that you can be called at any moment, if Abner asks for you."

Toby was considerably disturbed by the fact that he was not allowed to see his friend, and by the way Uncle Daniel spoke; but he went out to the barn where his partners were already waiting for him, feeling all the more sad now because of his elation the day before.

He had no heart for the work, and, after telling the boys that Abner was sick again, proposed to postpone operations until he should get better; but they insisted that as they were so near the house, it would be as well to go on with the work as to remain idle, and Toby could offer no argument to the contrary.

Although he did quite as much towards the putting-up of the tent as the others did, it was plain to be seen that he had lost his interest in anything of the kind, and at least once every half-hour he ran into the house to learn how the sick boy was getting on.

All of Aunt Olive's replies were the same: Abner slept a good portion of the time, and during the few moments he was awake said nothing, except in answer to questions. He did not complain of any pain, nor did he appear to take any notice of what was going on around him.

"I think it's because he got all tired out yesterday, an' that he'll be himself again to-morrow," said Aunt Olive, after Toby had come in for at least the sixth time, and she saw how worried he was.

This hopeful remark restored Toby to something very near his usual good spirits; and when he went back to his work after that, his partners were pleased to see him take more interest in what was going on.

The tent was up firmly enough to resist any moderate amount of wind, but it did not look quite so neat as it would have done had it not been necessary to perform the operation of "tucking in" one end, which made that side hang in folds that were by no means a pleasing addition to the general appearance.

The small door of the barn, over which the tent was placed, served instead of a curtain to their dressing-room; and at one side of it, on an upturned barrel, arrangements were made for a band-stand.

Mr. Mansfield's flag covered the one end completely, and all the boys thought it gave a better appearance to the whole than if they had made it wholly of canvas.

The ring, which Reddy marked out almost before the tent was up, occupied nearly the whole of the interior; but since they did not intend to have any seats for their audience, it was thought there would be plenty of room for all who would come to see them. The main point was to have the ring, and to have it as nearly like that of a regular circus as possible, while the audience could be trusted to take care of itself.

The animals to be exhibited were to be placed in small cages at each corner. Reddy had at first insisted that each cage should be on a cart to make it look well; but he gave up that idea when Bob pointed out to him that six mice or two squirrels would make rather a small show in a wagon, and that they would be obliged to enlarge their tent if they carried out that plan, even provided they could get the necessary number of carts, which was very doubtful.

In the matter of getting sheets from their mothers they had not been as successful as they had anticipated. No one of the ladies who had been spoken to on the subject was willing to have her bed-linen decorating the interior of a circus-tent, even though the show was to be only a little one for three cents.

Reddy was quite sure he could mend one or two of the largest holes if he had a darning-needle and some twine; but after he got both from Aunt Olive, and stuck the needle twice in his own hand, once in Joe Robinson's, and then broke it, he concluded that it would be just as well to paste brown paper over the holes.

It was a hard job to dig the ground up in order to make as large a ring as the boys had marked out, but by persistent work it was accomplished, as almost everything can be; and then Ben went to practising, in order that he might, as he expressed it, "get the hang of the thing."

Of course, the fact that a tent had been put up by the side of Uncle Daniel's barn was soon known to every boy in the village, and the rush of visitors that afternoon was so great that Joe was obliged to begin his duties as door-keeper in advance, in order to keep back the crowd.

The number of questions asked by each boy who arrived kept Joe so busy answering them that, after every one in town knew exactly what was going on, Reddy hit upon the happy plan of getting a large piece of paper, and painting on it an announcement of their exhibition.

It was while he was absent in search of the necessary materials with which to carry out this work that the finishing touches were put on the interior; and the partners were counting the number of hand-springs Ben could turn without stopping, when a great shout arose from the visitors outside, and the circus owners heard a pattering and scratching on the canvas above their heads.

"Mr. Stubbs's brother has got loose, an' he's tearin' 'round on the tent!" shouted Joe, as he poked his head in through a hole in the flag, and at the same time struggled to keep back a small but bold boy with his foot.

Toby, followed by the other proprietors, rushed out at this alarming bit of news, and, sure enough, there was the monkey dancing around on the top of the tent like a crazy person, while the rope with which he had been tied dangled from his neck.

It seemed to Toby that no other monkey could possibly behave half so badly as did Mr. Stubbs's brother on that occasion. He danced back and forth from one end of the tent to the other, as if he had been a tight-rope performer giving a free exhibition; then he would sit down and try to find out just how large a hole he could tear in the tender canvas, until it seemed as if the tent would certainly be a wreck before they could get him down.

Toby coaxed and scolded, and scolded and coaxed, but all to no purpose. The monkey would clamber down over the end of the tent as if he were about to allow himself to be made a prisoner, and then, just as Toby was about to catch the rope, he would spring upon the ridge-pole again, chattering with joy at the disappointment he had caused.

The visitors fairly roared with delight, and even the proprietors, whose borrowed property was being destroyed, could not help laughing at times, although there was not one of them who would not have enjoyed punishing Mr. Stubbs's brother very severely.

"He'll break the whole show up if we don't get him off," said Bob, as the monkey tore a larger hole than he had yet made, and the crowd encouraged him in his mischievous work by their wild cheers.

"I know it; but how can we get him down?" asked Toby, in perplexity, knowing that it would not be safe for any one of them to climb upon the decayed canvas, even if there were a chance that the monkey would wait for them to catch him after they got there.

"Get a long pole, an' scrape him off," suggested Joe; but Toby shook his head, for he knew that to "scrape" a monkey from such a place would be an impossibility.

Bob had an idea that if he had a rope long enough to make a lasso, he could get it around the animal's neck and pull him down; but just as he set out to find the rope, Mr. Stubbs's brother settled the matter himself.

He had torn one hole fully five inches long, and commenced on another a short distance from the first, when the thin fabric gave way, the two rents were made one, and down fell Mr. Monkey, only saved from falling to the ground by his chin catching on the edges of the cloth.

There he hung, his little round head just showing above the canvas, with a bewildered, and, at the same time, discouraged look on his face.

Toby knew that it would be but a moment before the monkey would get his paws out from under the canvas, and thus extricate himself from his uncomfortable position. Running quickly inside the tent, he seized Mr. Stubbs's brother by his long tail, pulling him completely through, and the mischievous pet was again a prisoner.

It was a great disappointment to the boys on the outside when this portion of the circus was hidden from view; but it was equally as great a relief to the partners that the destruction of their tent was at last averted.

After the excitement had nearly subsided, and Toby was reading his pet a lesson on the sin of destructiveness, Reddy arrived with the materials for making his circus poster -- a sheet of brown paper, a bottle of ink, and a brush made by chewing the end of a pine stick.

He began his work at once. It was a long task, but was at last accomplished, and when the partners went to their respective homes that night, the following placard adorned one side of the tent:


+ --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  -- -+ |       BiG CiRCUS        | |                         | |  DOORS OpEn PuTTy SOOn  | |                         | |      PRiCe 3 CEnTS      | + --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  -- -+


Chapter XV

Stealing Ducks


After Toby had secured Mr. Stubbs's brother so that he could not liberate himself, he ran into the house to inquire for Abner.

The news this time was more encouraging, for the sick boy had awakened thoroughly after his long sleep, and had asked how the work on the tent was getting on. Aunt Olive thought Toby could see him, and, after promising that he would not remain very long, or allow Abner to talk much, he went up-stairs.

The crippled boy was lying in the bed bolstered up with pillows, looking out of the window that commanded a view of the tent, and evidently puzzled to know whether the large sheet of brown paper which he saw on one side was there as an ornament, or to serve some useful purpose.

Toby explained to him that it was the poster Reddy had made, and then told him all that had been done that day towards getting ready for the great exhibition which was to dazzle the good people of Guilford, as well as to bring in a rich reward, in the way of money, to the managers.

Abner was so interested in the matter, and seemed so bright and cheerful when he was talking about it, that Toby's fears regarding his illness were entirely dispelled; he came to the conclusion that Abner had simply been tired, as Aunt Olive had said, and that he would be better than ever by morning.

This belief was strengthened by the doctor, who came while Toby was still with his friend, and who, in answer to a question, said, cheerily:

"Of course he'll be all right; he may not be quite smart enough to go out to-morrow, but before the week is ended I'll guarantee that you'll have hard work to keep him in the house."

Toby's heart was light again as he attended to his evening's work; and when he met Joe, on his way to the pasture, he laid plans for the coming exhibition with a greater zest than he had displayed since the matter was first spoken of.

Now that the tent was up, and Abner on the sure and rapid road to recovery, Toby thought it quite time that Mr. Stubbs's brother should be taught to take some part in the performance. Joe was of the same opinion, and they decided to commence the education of the monkey that very night, giving him two or three lessons each day until he should be thoroughly trained.

The cows were not exactly hurried on the way home that night; but they were not allowed to loiter by the roadside when they saw particularly tempting tufts of grass, and as soon as they were in the barn Mr. Stubbs's brother was taken to the tent.

He was in anything rather than a good condition for training, for he evidently remembered his frolic of the afternoon, and was anxious to repeat it. Toby thought he could be made to leap through hoops as a beginning of his circus education, and all the energies of the boys were bent to the accomplishment of this.

But the monkey was either remarkably stupid just then, or determined to take no part in the show, for although Joe held the hoops until his arms ached, and Toby coaxed and scolded till he was hoarse, Mr. Stubbs's brother could not be persuaded even to attempt to leap.

"It's no use to try any more to-night," said Toby, impatiently, when it was nearly dark inside the tent, and his pet was showing signs of anger. "We'll commence the first thing in the mornin', an' I guess he'll do it."

"I'd whip him if I was you," said Joe, who was thoroughly tired, and angry at the monkey's obstinacy. "If you would give him a good switchin', he'd know he's got to do it."

"I wouldn't whip him if he never did anything," said Toby, as he hugged his pet tightly, almost as if he feared Joe might attempt, as one of the partners in the enterprise, to whip the unwilling performer.

"'Tain't my monkey, so I hain't got nothin' to say about it," and Joe was impatient now; "but if he was mine, I'll bet he'd do what I told him to."

It seemed almost as if Mr. Stubbs's brother knew what had been said about him, for he nestled close to Toby, hiding his face on the boy's neck in a way that would have prevented his master from whipping him even if he had been disposed so to do.

"We'll put him in the shed, an' I guess he'll be good enough to-morrow," said Toby, cheerfully; and then, after fastening the flag in the front of the tent in such a way that the wind would be kept out, if nothing more, he and Joe walked towards the house, discussing the question of the kind of tickets they should use at the show.

While they were yet some distance from the wood-shed in which Mr. Stubbs's brother was lodged, Aunt Olive called Toby to come quickly to the house.

"You put him in the wood-shed, an' fasten him in snug," said Toby, as he handed the monkey to Joe, and started for the house at full speed.

Now Joe knew perfectly well where Mr. Stubbs's brother was kept; but, as he had never seen him put away for the night, he was uncertain whether he should be tied there, or simply shut in. It hardly seemed to him that Toby would leave the monkey tied up by the neck all night, so he set him up comfortably on a bench, and carefully shut the door.

Toby had been called to go to the druggist's for some medicine, and he came out of the house in such haste, calling to Joe to follow him, that nothing more was thought of the insecurely prisoned monkey.

When Toby returned, it was so late that Uncle Daniel advised him to go to bed if he had any desire to be "healthy, wealthy, and wise," and he obeyed at once.

Positive that Abner was on the road to recovery, sure that all his work had been done, and with nothing to trouble him, it was not very long that Toby lay awake after he was once in bed.

It seemed to him that he had been sleeping a long while, when he was awakened by the sound as of some one hunting around in his room; and, before he had time to call out, the candle was lighted, showing that the intruder was Uncle Daniel, only partially dressed and in a high state of excitement.

"What is it? What's the matter?" asked Toby, in alarm, thinking at once of Abner, and fearing that something had happened to him.

"Hush!" said Uncle Daniel, warningly; "don't make a noise, for some one is trying to get into the hen-house, an' I am going to make an example of him. I suppose it's one of the tramps who went by here to-day, an' I want to find that gun I saw in here yesterday."

There was such a weapon in Toby's room, or, at least, what had once been a gun was there, for a hired man whom Uncle Daniel had employed left it there. It had been an army musket, and appeared to have been used as a collection of materials to repair others guns with, for the entire lock, ramrod, and at least four inches of the stock had been taken away, leaving it a mere wreck of a gun.

"It's up there in the corner behind the wash-stand," said Toby, coming out of the bed as quickly as if he had tumbled out, and alarmed at the thought of burglars. "It hain't no good, Uncle Dan'l, for there's only a little of it left."

"It will do as well for me as a better one," said Uncle Daniel, grimly. "I don't want to shoot anybody, only to give them a severe fright, and perhaps capture them."

"Then what'll you do with 'em?" asked Toby in a whisper, almost as much alarmed by Uncle Daniel's savage way of speaking as by the thought of the burglars.

"I don't know, Toby, boy -- I don't know. The tramps do trouble me greatly, an' I'd like to make an example of these; but I suppose they must be hungry, or else they wouldn't try to get into the hen-house, I guess if we catch one we'll give him a good breakfast, and try to persuade him to go to work like an honest man."

Uncle Daniel's anger usually had some such peaceful ending, as Toby knew; but he did look bloodthirsty as he stood there in his shirt-sleeves, with one stocking on, and his night-cap covering one ear and but a small portion of his head, while he handled the invalid gun recklessly.

By the time he was ready to go in search of the supposed chicken-thief, Aunt Olive, looking thoroughly frightened, came into the room with his other stocking and his boots in her hand, insisting that he should put them on before he ventured out.

It must have been a very tame burglar who would have continued at his work after the lights had warned him that the inmates of the house were aroused; but Toby did not think of that. He saw that Aunt Olive had armed herself with the fire-shovel, that Uncle Daniel kept a firm hold of the gun even while he was trying to put his boots on, and he was frightened by the warlike preparations.

Toby put on his trousers and shoes as quickly as possible, and when Uncle Daniel was ready to start, he stationed himself directly behind Aunt Olive, a position which he thought would afford him a fair view of what was going on, and at the same time be safe.

"Now be careful of that gun, Dan'l, an' don't go so far that they can hurt you, for there's no telling what they will do if they find out you mean to catch them," and Aunt Olive looked quite as badly frightened as did Toby.

"There, there, Olive, don't be alarmed," said Uncle Daniel, soothingly, "they will probably run as soon as they see the gun, and that will end it. I only hope that I can catch one," and Uncle Daniel went down the stairs as determined and savage looking a man as ever started in search of a supposed chicken-thief.

Aunt Olive insisted on carrying the candle, though Uncle Daniel urged that it would not be possible for him to surprise the burglars if she held this light as a warning; but she had no idea of allowing him to go out where there was every probability that he would be in danger, unless she could see what was going on.

When the party reached the kitchen, the sounds which came from the hen-house told plainly that the party they were in search of had not ceased his work because the household had been alarmed. The snapping of wood could be heard, and if Aunt Olive had not been thoroughly aroused before, she was then, for laths were being broken, and one of her choicest broods of ducks was secured only by such frail barriers against either two or four-legged thieves.

"Stop them quick, or all the ducks will be out," she screamed; and, thus urged, Uncle Daniel made a bold stand.

"Get behind me, and hold your hand over the light," he whispered, and then he shouted, as he brought the gun up to his shoulder in a very threatening manner, "Come out here, and give yourselves up at once."

There was no answer made to this peremptory command, and, strangely enough, the work of destruction was continued as vigorously as if Uncle Daniel and his broken gun were a thousand miles away, instead of on the spot and ready for action.

"Come away from there instantly, and save yourself any further trouble," shouted Uncle Daniel in a louder voice, stamping his foot, while Aunt Olive brandished the fire-shovel to give emphasis to his words.

There was silence for a moment, as if the burglar had stopped to consider the matter, and then the work was continued with greater energy than before.

"Well, I declare!" exclaimed Uncle Daniel, as he brought the butt of his gun down on his own foot with such force that he was obliged to give immediate attention to the wounded member.

Toby had always had a wholesome dread of a gun; but his fear became greater than ever when he saw how much mischief could be done with one as near a total wreck as that was, for Uncle Daniel had seated himself on the grass, regardless of the dew, and was hugging his foot as if he feared he should lose it.


Chapter XVI

A Lost Monkey


Even though her husband was wounded, Aunt Olive could not stop to offer any aid while her precious ducks were in such peril, as the breaking of the laths proved they were; and she started forward alone and unarmed, save with the shovel, until a loud quacking indicated that the robber had made at least one prisoner.

Dropping the shovel, but still clinging to the candle, Aunt Olive seized the gun, and, dragging it along by the muzzle, she cried:

"I'll shoot you if you don't let them ducks alone, and go right straight away from here!"

The loud quacking of another duck proved that she had not alarmed the burglar; and as she was now quite near the bold robber, by holding her candle above her head she could discern in the darkness what looked like a boy, with a duck tightly clutched in each hand.

"It's only a boy," she cried to Uncle Daniel, who had given over attending to his foot, and was coming up; and then, as she ran towards the thief, she cried, "Put down them ducks, you little rascal, or I will whip you soundly!"

The boy did not put the ducks down, nor did he stay for the whipping; but, with both the noisy prizes held in one hand, he began to climb the hen-house in a manner surprising in one so small.

By this time both Toby and Uncle Daniel were on the spot, and the former saw that the supposed boy was using a long tail in his work of climbing the hen-house.

"It's Mr. Stubbs's brother; don't shoot him!" he cried, forgetting, in his excitement, that the gun was dangerous only when dropped on one's foot; and then he too tried to climb upon the hen-house.

"The monkey?" cried Uncle Daniel, as he felt on his forehead for his spectacles to enable him to see better. Aunt Olive made use of almost the same words; but, instead of feeling for her spectacles, she ran towards the building, as if she fancied it to be the easiest thing in the world to catch a mischievous monkey.

Toby knew, if Aunt Olive did not, that it would be the work of some time to catch Mr. Stubbs's brother, and that no threats would induce him to come down. Therefore he put forth all his energies in the vain hope of overtaking him.

Although the monkey was encumbered by the two ducks he had stolen, he could climb twice as fast as Toby could, and Aunt Olive realized the fact very soon.

"Scare him till he drops the ducks," she cried to Toby; and then, to do her portion of the "scaring," she brandished the fire-shovel, and cried "shoo!" in a very energetic manner.

Uncle Daniel waved his arms, and shouted, "Come down! come down!" as he ran from one side of the building to the other; but the only reply to his shout was the quacking of the half-strangled ducks.

"Catch him, Toby, catch him, before he kills the ducks," cried Aunt Olive, in an agony of fear lest these particular inmates of her poultry-yard should be killed.

"That's what I'm tryin' to do," panted Toby, as he chased Mr. Stubbs's brother from one end of the roof to the other without even a chance of catching him.

The quacking of the ducks was growing fainter every moment, and, knowing that something must be done at once, Uncle Daniel hunted around until he found a long pole, with which he struck at the monkey.

This had the desired effect, for Mr. Stubbs's brother was so nearly hit two or three times that he dropped the almost dead ducks, curled his tail over his back, and leaped to the ground. He alighted so near Aunt Olive that she uttered a loud shriek, nearly falling backward over the wood-pile; but the monkey was out of sight in an instant, going in the direction of the road.

As his pet disappeared in the darkness, Toby scrambled down from the roof of the building and started in pursuit; but before he had gone far he heard Uncle Daniel calling to him, while at the same time he realized that pursuit would be useless under the circumstances.

"He's run away, an' I won't ever find him again," he said, in so mournful a tone that Uncle Daniel knew the tears were very near his eyelids.

"He won't go very far, Toby, boy," said Uncle Daniel, consolingly, "and you can soon find him after the sun rises."

"He'll be more'n seven miles off by that time," said Toby, as he choked back his sobs, and tried to speak firmly.

"I don't know much about the nature of monkeys," replied Uncle Daniel, speaking very slowly; "but I am inclined to the belief that he will remain near here, since he has come to consider this his home. But it will be daylight in less than an hour, and then you can start after him. I will drive the cows to the pasture, so that you will have nothing to delay you."

Aunt Olive had caught up the ducks as soon as Mr. Stubbs's brother had dropped them, and, believing it was yet possible to save their lives, she had started towards the house for the purpose of applying some remedies.

"It's so near morning that I sha'n't go to bed again," she said, "and I'll get you something to eat, and put up a lunch for you, so you can stay out until you find him."

This offer on Aunt Olive's part seemed doubly kind, since the monkey had done so much mischief among her pets, and Toby realized that it would be ungrateful in him to complain, more especially as Uncle Daniel and Aunt Olive were willing to do all in their power to enable him to catch the fugitive.

"I'll mend the duck-pen," he said, resolutely putting from his mind the thought of Mr. Stubbs's brother, who he firmly believed was trudging up the road in the direction taken by the circus when it left town.

Uncle Daniel thought it would be just as well to remain up also, and he dragged the wreck of the gun into the house, putting it carefully away lest some one should be injured by it, before he commenced to build the fire.

Mr. Stubbs's brother had labored industriously when he set about reducing the duck-pen to kindling-wood; and although Toby worked as fast as possible, it was nearly time for the sun to rise before he finished the job of repairing it.

By that time Aunt Olive had a nice breakfast ready for him, and a generous lunch done up neatly in paper.

Abner had not wakened, therefore Toby was obliged to go away without knowing whether he was better or worse; but Aunt Olive told him that she thought he need have no fear regarding the invalid, for she felt certain he would be much better when he awoke.

Toby ate his breakfast very hurriedly, and then started down the road in the direction of his partners' homes, for he thought there would be a better chance of capturing the runaway if four or five boys set out in pursuit than if he went out alone.

Fully two hours were spent in arousing his partners, explaining what had happened, and waiting for them to get their breakfast; but at the end of that time every one of the circus managers was ready for the search.

There was a decided difference of opinion among them as to which direction they should take, some believing the monkey had gone one way and some another, and the only plan by which the matter could be settled was to divide the force into two parties.

Bob, Reddy, and Ben formed one division, and they started into the woods in a nearly straight line from Uncle Daniel's house. Toby, Joe, and Leander, making up the other party, went up the road, Toby insisting on this course because he was sure that Mr. Stubbs's brother would attempt to follow the circus of which he had once been a member, although so many weeks had elapsed since it had passed along there.

Leander was of the opinion that they ought to have borrowed a dog, with which to track the monkey more easily, and even offered to go back to get one; but Toby thought that would be a waste of valuable time, more especially as it was by no means certain that Leander could procure the dog if he did go back.

Joe thought each inch of the road should be examined with a view to finding tracks of the monkey; but that plan was given up in a very few moments after it was tried, for the good reason that the boys could not distinguish even their own footprints, the road was beaten so hard; and so they could only walk straight ahead, hoping to come up with the fugitive, or to hear some news of him.

At each house on the road they stopped to ask if a stray monkey had been seen; but they could hear nothing encouraging until they had walked nearly three miles, and were just beginning to think it would have been wiser to remain with the party who went into the woods.

At last, however, a farmer told them that he had seen an animal come up the main road, just about sunrise, and that it had gone up through his field into an oak grove. He had had no idea at the time that it was a monkey, and had intended to take his gun and go in search of it as soon as he could spare the time.

Toby trembled as the man said this, for Mr. Stubbs's death was too vivid in his mind for him to think without a shudder of any one going in search of this monkey with a gun. He started for the grove at full speed, fearing that some one with more time at his disposal had seen his pet, and might even now be in pursuit of him.

Of course the boys did not know certainly that the animal the farmer had seen was Mr. Stubbs's brother, but all were quite sure it was; and, before they had been in the oak grove ten minutes they saw the monkey himself, hanging by his tail and one paw from the branch of a tree.


Chapter XVII

Driving A Monkey


Toby was so delighted at seeing his pet safe and alive that he set up a great shout; and the monkey, thus warned that boys who would chain him down to the drudgery of a circus ring were on his track, started off at full speed, scolding furiously as he went.

To catch a monkey in the woods was even a harder task than to "scrape" him from the tent, or to capture him on the roof of the hen-house; but he must be caught, and the three boys started after him, fully aware of the difficult task before them.

To Mr. Stubbs's brother this flight and pursuit was simply the wildest kind of a frolic, and he fairly screamed with delight as he leaped from one tree to another, sometimes allowing them almost to touch him, and then starting off at full speed until nearly out of sight.

For an hour this tantalizing work was continued, and the pursuers were nearly exhausted. Half the time they had been running at full speed, and the only chance for rest had been when they were trying to creep upon Mr. Stubbs's brother unawares, which was just about no rest at all.

Leander, who was naturally a very slow-moving boy, and quite fleshy, was more quickly tired than the others. When, for at least the twentieth time, they thought they had the monkey within their grasp, and he darted to the top of one of the tallest trees, Leander declared he could not take another step, even though the life of the monkey and the success of the circus depended upon it.

Of course, it was not to be thought of that they should leave their band there exhausted and alone, so Toby decided they should rest as long as Mr. Stubbs's brother remained in the tree, and it was determined to occupy the time by eating the luncheon Aunt Olive had prepared.

During the last ten minutes of the chase, Leander's face had worn a very gloomy expression; but it lighted wonderfully when the package of food was opened, and Toby helped him to a very generous slice of bread and meat.

Nor was Leander the only one who looked with favor upon the food. Mr. Stubbs's brother had been a close observer of all that was going on at the foot of the tree in which he had taken refuge, and he showed every disposition to make one of the eating party.

Seeing his evident hunger, Toby was sure it would be possible to capture the monkey by means of the food, and he walked around the trunk of the tree, holding a piece of ginger-bread temptingly in his fingers.

The monkey came down from branch to branch, as if he had decided to allow himself to be made a prisoner for the sake of the food; but, just as Toby was about to seize him, he jumped back with a cry that sounded much as if he were laughing because of the disappointment he had caused.

Then Joe tried his skill at monkey-catching, coming about as near success as Toby had done; and Leander was roused to action by the new phase the chase had assumed. He too held out some food in order to give Mr. Stubbs's brother the impression that all he had to do was to come and get it.

In thus trying the coaxing plan, all three of the boys got on one side of the tree, while the greater part of their provisions was on the opposite side.

The monkey descended again, first towards one boy and then towards another, as if it were his purpose to allow all three to catch him, and all were equally certain they were about to succeed, when Mr. Stubbs's brother suddenly ran along the branches towards the food. Before it was possible for any of the boys to intercept him, he had dropped to the ground, seized two of the very largest pieces of cake, and was up in the tree again so quickly that but for the cake he had in his paws it might have been doubted whether or not he had been on the ground at all.

Now Mr. Stubbs's brother could laugh at his pursuers, if it is possible for a monkey to laugh; for, without any thanks to them, he had a trifle more than his share of the provisions, and was still at liberty.

"It hain't any use," said Joe, in despair, as he threw himself on the ground and attacked the luncheon savagely, "I don't believe we shall ever get him; an' if we don't, it won't be much use for us to have our show, for every real circus has a monkey."

"We must catch him," replied Toby, mournfully, looking up into the tree where his pet sat eating the stolen food with the greatest possible enjoyment. "I wouldn't go home an' leave him here if I had to stay all night."

"One might watch here while the others went back to the village an' got every feller there to come out an' help catch him," suggested Leander, who was famous for having ideas so brilliant that no one could carry them into execution.

"We're goin' away from home all the time this way," said Toby, after he had studied the matter carefully, without paying any attention to the suggestion made by Leander; "now let's get a little ways the other side of the tree, an' when he comes down again he'll have to go towards home. Even if we can't catch him, perhaps we can drive him into the village."

Even Leander could see the wisdom of this plan, and the party moved their luncheon and themselves to the side of the tree opposite to that on which they had approached it.

Of course there was nothing to do but await Mr. Stubbs's brother's pleasure in the matter, and he seemed to be in no haste to make a move. He ate his cake in the most leisurely fashion possible, and then appeared to be wonderfully interested in the leaves, for he would spend several minutes pulling one apart, probably to see how it was made.

But he was obliged to come down at last, and he chose the time just as Leander had settled himself comfortably for a nap, which did not tend to make the band regard him with additional favor.

As Toby had thought, the monkey started back in the direction they had come; and, as he was going towards home, they did not make any effort to hurry him. If they could not catch him, they could at least drive him, and they were satisfied to let him go as slowly as he chose -- a plan which met with hearty approval from Leander.

For some time Mr. Stubbs's brother moved along as if it were his greatest desire to be back at Uncle Daniel's again, and then Toby saw him run along swiftly as if he had found something under a tree which interested him greatly.

Afraid that the monkey had done this simply to avoid being driven, and that he might dart through the underbrush and get in rear of them again, Toby ran forward quickly; but before he had taken more than a dozen steps he heard piercing shrieks, which evidently came from the monkey, while the commotion among the bushes indicated that a struggle of some kind was taking place there.

With but one thought, and that for the safety of his pet, Toby ran ahead regardless of the bushes that tore his clothing and scratched his face. A struggle was going on, as he saw when he pulled the branches of the trees away, and Mr. Stubbs's brother was getting decidedly the worst of it.

A small, prickly ball curled up at the foot of the tree, and the monkey striking at it savagely with his paws, while porcupine quills were sticking in his face and body, told the whole story.

The monkey had seen the porcupine, and, much to his discomfort, had tried to make that animal's acquaintance. As every boy knows, when one of these animals is attacked it immediately rolls itself up into a ball, with the quills or spines sticking straight out, and the attacking party generally gets plentifully supplied with them in a very short time.

It was some moments before Toby could persuade his pet to stop trying to inflict punishment when he was getting the greater part himself; but he pulled him away at last, and the porcupine, unrolling himself with a grunt of satisfaction, trotted away into the bushes.

There was no disposition on the part of Mr. Stubbs's brother to run away again. He stood there looking as sad and discouraged as a monkey ought to look who had commenced his day's work by stealing ducks, and concluded it by fighting a porcupine.

The quills stood out from his face, making him look as if sadly in need of shaving, while on almost every inch of his body there was one of these natural weapons, giving him a decidedly comical appearance.

As he stood there holding out his paws to Toby as if asking him to extract the spines, and squinting down now and then at those in his face, the boys did not try to restrain their laughter, which appeared to make the inquisitive monkey very angry.

He screamed and scolded in the shrillest tones until Toby set about picking out the quills for him, and Joe took a firm hold of his collar, to make sure he should not escape when he was relieved from the effects of his introduction to the porcupine.


Chapter XVIII

Collecting The Animals


It was quite a task to extract the porcupine quills from Mr. Stubbs's brother, because the operation was painful, and he danced about in a way that seriously interfered with the work.

But the last one was out after a time, and the monkey was marched along between Joe and Toby, looking very repentant now that he was in his master's power again.

"I tell you what it is," said Joe, sagely, after he had walked awhile in silence as if studying some matter, "we'd better get about six big chains an' fasten Mr. Stubbs's brother to the tent; 'cause if we keep on tryin' to train him, he'll keep on gettin' loose, an' before he gets through with it, we sha'n't have any show left."

"I think that's the best thing we can do," panted Leander; "'cause if all hands of us has to start out many times like this, some of the boys will come up while we're off, an' pull the tent down."

"We can tie him in the tent, and have him for a wild man of Borneo," suggested Joe.

"I guess we won't train him," replied Toby, rather sorry to deprive his pet of the pleasure of being one of the performers, and yet fearing the trouble he would cause if they should try to make anything more than an ordinary monkey out of him.

The pursuit had led the boys farther from home than they had imagined, and it was noon when, weary and hungry, they arrived at the tent, where they found the other party, who had given up the search some time before. They had travelled through the woods without hearing or seeing anything of the runaway, and had returned in the hope that the others had been more successful.

Leaving Mr. Stubbs's brother in charge of the partners, who, it was safe to say, would now take very good care to prevent his escape, Toby hurried into the house to see Abner.

The sick boy was no better, Aunt Olive said, neither did he appear to be any worse -- he was sleeping then; and, after eating some of his dinner at the table, and taking the remainder in his hands, Toby went out to the tent again.

He found his partners indulging in an animated discussion as to when the performance should be given.

Reddy was in favor of having it within two or three days at furthest; Bob thought that, as Mr. Stubbs's brother was not to be one of the performers, there was no reason for delay.

All the others were of the same opinion, but Toby urged them to wait until Abner could take part in it.

To this Bob had a very reasonable objection: in two weeks more school would begin, and then, of course, the circus would be out of the question. If their first exhibition should be a success, as it undoubtedly would be, they could give a second performance when Abner should get well enough to attend it; and that would be quite as pleasing to him as for all the talent to remain idle while waiting for his recovery.

Toby felt that his partners asked him to do only that which was fair; the circus scheme had already done Abner more harm than good, and, as he did not seem to be dangerously sick, it would be unkind to the others to insist on waiting.

"I'd rather Abner was with us when we had the first show," said Toby; "but I s'pose it'll be just as well to go ahead with it, an' then give another after he can come out."

"Then we'll have it Saturday afternoon; an' while Reddy's fixin' up the tickets, Ben an' I'll get the animals up here, so's to see how they'll look, an' to let 'em get kinder used to the tent."

Reddy was a boy who did not believe in wasting any time after a matter was decided upon, and almost as soon as Toby consented to go on with the show, he went for materials with which to make posters and tickets.

His activity aroused the others, and all started out to bring in the animals, leaving Toby to guard Mr. Stubbs's brother and the tent. The canvas would take care of itself, so long as it was unmolested, but the other portion of Toby's charge was not so easily managed. After much thought, however, he settled the monkey question by tying Mr. Stubbs's brother to the end pole, with a rope long enough to allow him to climb nearly to the top, but short enough to keep him at a safe distance from the canvas.

By the time this was done, Ben arrived with the first instalment of curiosities. His crowing hen he had under his arm, and Mrs. Simpson's three-legged cat and four kittens he brought in a basket.

"Joe's got a cage 'most built for the hen, an' I'll fix one for the cat this afternoon," he said, as he seated himself on the basket, and held the hen in his lap.

"You can't fix it if you've got to hold her," said Toby, as he brought from the barn a bushel-basket, which was converted into a coop by turning it bottom side up, and putting the hen underneath it.

Ben was about to make a search of the barn for the purpose of finding some materials with which to build the cat's cage, when a great noise was heard outside, and the two partners left the tent hurriedly.

"It's Bob an' his calf," said Ben, who had got out first, and then he started towards the newcomers at full speed.

It was Bob and his calf; but the animal should have been mentioned first, for it seemed very much as if he were bringing his master, instead of being brought by him. In order to carry his cage of mice and lead the calf at the same time, Bob had tied the rope that held this representative of a grizzly bear around his waist, and had taken the cage under his arm. This plan had worked well enough until just as they were entering the field that led to the tent, when Bob tripped and fell, scaring the calf so that he started at full speed for the barn, of course dragging the unfortunate Bob with him.

Sometimes on his face, sometimes on his back, screaming for help whenever his mouth was uppermost, and clinging firmly to the cage of mice, Bob was dragged almost to the door of the tent, where the frightened animal was finally secured.

"Well, I've got him here, an' I hain't lost a single mouse," said Bob, as he counted his treasures before even scraping the dirt from his face.

Ben and Toby led the calf into the tent after some difficulty, owing to the attempts of Mr. Stubbs's brother to frighten him, and then they did their best to separate the dirt from their partner.

In this good work they had but partially succeeded, when Reddy arrived with a large package of brown paper, and his cat without a tail. This startling curiosity he carried in a bag slung over his shoulder, and from the expression on his face when he came up it seemed almost certain that the cat's claws had passed through the bag and into her master's flesh.

"There," he exclaimed, with a sigh of relief, as he threw his live burden at the foot of the post to which Mr. Stubbs's brother was tied, "I've kept shiftin' that cat from one shoulder to the other ever since I started, an' I tell you she can scratch as well as if she had a tail as long as the monkey's."

It surely seemed as if the work of building the cages had been too long neglected, for here were a number of curiosities without anything in which they could be exhibited, and the audience might be dissatisfied if asked to pay to see a cat in a bag, or a hen under a bushel-basket.

Toby spoke of this, and Bob assured him that it could easily be arranged as soon as all the partners should arrive.

"You see, we've got to carry Mrs. Simpson's cat an' kittens home every night, 'cause she says the rats are so thick she can spare her only day-times, an' we don't need a cage for her till the show comes off," said Bob, as he bustled around again to find materials.

Mr. Stubbs's brother demanded his master's attention about this time, owing to his attempts to make friends with the calf. From the time that this peaceful animal, who was to be transformed into a grizzly bear, had been brought into the tent, the monkey had tried in every possible way to get at him, and the calf had shown unmistakable signs of a desire to butt the monkey; but the ropes which held them both had prevented the meeting. Now, however, Bob detected Mr. Stubbs's brother in trying to bite his rope in two, and it was considered necessary to set a guard over him.

Reddy was already busily engaged in painting the posters, despite the confusion that reigned, and, as his work would keep him inside the tent, he was chosen to have general care of the animals, a task which he, without a thought of possible consequences, accepted cheerfully.

Leander and Joe came together, the first bringing his accordion, and four rabbits in a cage, and the last carrying five striped squirrels in a paste-board box.

Leander was the only one who had been thoughtful enough to have his animals ready for exhibition, and the cage in which the long-eared pets were confined bore the inscription, done in a very fanciful way with blue and red crayons, "Wolves. Keep off!"

This cage was placed in the corner near the band-stand, where the musician could attend to his musical work and have a watchful eye on his pets at the same time.

Reddy had been busily engaged in painting a notice to be hung up over the calf; and, as he fastened it to the barn just over the spot where the animal was to be kept, Bob read, with no small degree of pride in the thought that he was the fortunate possessor of such a prize,


GRIzsLee BARE FROM THE ROCKY MOunTAINS


Then the artist went back to his task of painting posters, while the others set to work, full of determination to build the necessary number of cages if there was wood enough in Uncle Daniel's barn.

They found timber enough and to spare; but, as it was not exactly the kind they wanted, Toby proposed that they should all go over to the house, explain the matter to Aunt Olive, and ask her to give them as many empty boxes as she could afford to part with.

As has been said before, Aunt Olive looked upon the circus scheme with favor, and when she was called upon to aid in the way of furnishing cages for wild animals, she gave the boys full permission to take all the boxes they could find in the shed. They found so many that they were able to select those best suited to the different species of animals, and yet have quite a stock to fall back upon in case they should make additions to their menagerie.

Now that the boys had found cages ready made, and needing only some bars or slats across the front, they did not think it necessary to hurry. They stayed for some time to talk of Abner, and to test some doughnuts Aunt Olive was frying. It is very likely that they would have remained even longer than they did, if the doughnut-frying had not been completed, and the tempting dainties placed upon a high shelf beyond their reach, as a gentle intimation that they had had about as many as they would get that afternoon.

After leaving the house, they walked leisurely towards the barn, little dreaming what a state of confusion their property was in -- until Reddy rushed out of the tent, his jacket torn, his face bleeding, and his general appearance that of a boy who had been having rather a hard time of it.


Chapter XIX

The Show Broke Up


"Why, what's the matter? Why don't you stay an' watch the animals?" asked Bob, in a tone intended to convey reproach and surprise that one of the projectors of the enterprise should desert his post of duty.

"Watch the animals?" screamed Reddy, in a rage; "you go an' watch 'em awhile instead of eatin' doughnuts, an' see how you like it. Mr. Stubbs's brother picked a hole in the bag so my cat got out, an' she jumped on the calf, an' he tore 'round awful till he let the hen an' Mrs. Simpson's cat loose, an' I got knocked down an' scratched, an' the whole show's broke up."

Reddy sat down on the ground, and wiped the blood from his face after he had imparted the painful news; and all the party started for the tent as rapidly as possible.

It was a scene of ruin which they looked in upon after they had pulled aside Mr. Mansfield's flag, and one well calculated to discourage amateur circus proprietors.

Mr. Stubbs's brother was seated amid Reddy's paper and paint, holding the crowing hen by the head while he picked her wing-feathers out one by one. Mrs. Simpson's cat and kittens each had one of Bob's mice in its mouth, while Reddy's cat was chasing one of the squirrels with a murderous purpose. The calf was no longer an inmate of the tent; but a large rent in the canvas showed that he had opened a door for himself when the cat scratched him; and afar in the distance he could be seen, head down and tail up, as if fleeing from everything that looked like a circus.

The destruction was as complete as it could well have been made in so short a time, and the partners were, quite naturally, discouraged. Toby retained sufficient presence of mind, amid the trouble, to rescue the crowing hen from the murderous clutches of Mr. Stubbs's brother, and the monkey scampered up the tent-pole, brandishing two or three of poor biddy's best and longest wing-feathers, while he screamed with satisfaction that he had accomplished at least a portion of the work of stripping the fowl.

"The show's broke up, an' that's all there's to it," said Bob, sorrowfully, as he gazed alternately at the hole in the canvas and his rapidly vanishing calf.

"Are the squirrels all gone?" asked Joe, driving the cat from her intended prey long enough to allow Master Bushy-tail to gain a refuge under the barn.

"Every one," replied Reddy. "The calf kicked the box over when he come towards me, an' it looked as if there was as many as a hundred come out jest as soon as the cover was off. I could have caught one or two; but somehow Mrs. Simpson's cat got out of the basket jest then, an' she flew right on to my face."

The marks on Reddy's cheeks and nose told most eloquently with what force the cat "flew," and search was at once made for that pet of the Simpson family. She, with her kittens, had taken refuge under the barn as soon as the boys entered, and thus another trouble was added to the load the circus managers had to bear, for that cat must be returned to her mistress by night, or trouble might come of it.

The mice were entirely consumed, two tails alone remaining of what would have been shown to the good people of Guilford as strange animals from some far-off country.

The squirrels were gone, the calf had fled, the hen was in a thoroughly battered condition, and nothing remained of all that vast and wonderful collection of animals except Mr. Stubbs's brother, and the rabbits, protected by the cage which their master's thoughtfulness had provided.

"I guess I'll take the rabbits home," said Leander, as he lifted the box to his shoulder. "It wouldn't do to have only them for animals, an' it hain't very certain how long they'll stay alive while that monkey's 'round."

"He's broke up the whole show, that's what he's done," and Ben shook his fist at Mr. Stubbs's brother, while he tried to soothe his half-plucked hen.

"What are we goin' to do?" asked Toby, almost in despair.

"I know what I'm goin' to do," said Ben, as he again placed the hen under the basket; "I'm goin' to crawl under the barn an' try to catch that cat, an' then I'm goin' home with my hen."

It seemed to be the desire of all the partners to get home with what remained of their pets, and as Ben went under the barn on his hands and knees, Leander started off with his rabbits, Bob went to look for his calf, Reddy gathered up his bundle of paper, and Joe seized his pasteboard box, all going away where they could think over the ruin in solitude.

But high up on the post the cause of all this trouble chattered and scolded, while his master sat on the ground, looking at him as if he wondered whether or not it would ever be possible to reform such a monkey.


Chapter XX

Abner's Death


After Toby was left alone in the tent, he remained for some time looking at the triumphant monkey, and listening to Ben's attempts to crawl around under the barn as fast as the cat could, when suddenly, as if such a thought had not occurred to him before, he cried out:

"Don't you want me to come an' help you, Ben?"

"You keep that monkey back, that's all the helpin' I want," Ben replied, almost sharply, and then the sounds indicated that the cat had suddenly changed her position to one farther under the barn, while the boy was trying to frighten her out.

"Give it up, Ben," shouted Toby, after waiting some time longer, and not seeing any sign of success on the part of his friend. "If you come up here about dark you'll have a chance to catch her, for she'll have to come out for something to eat."

"You take the monkey into the house, an' I'll get along all right," was the almost savage reply. "She smells him, an' jest as long as he's there she'll stay under here."

It seemed to Toby almost cruel to desert his friend and partner just at a time when he needed assistance; but he could do no less than go away, since he had been urged so peremptorily to do so, and, catching his pet without much difficulty, he carried Mr. Stubbs's brother away from the scene of the ruin he had caused.

Ben's remark, that the monkey had "broke the show all up," seemed to be very near the truth; for the boys would not think of going on with so small a number of animals; and, even if they decided to do without the menagerie, Bob's calf had wrecked one side of the tent so completely that that particular piece of canvas was past mending.

"I don't know what we'll do," said Toby, mournfully, after he had finished telling the story to Aunt Olive. "The boys act as if they blamed me, because Mr. Stubbs's brother is so bad, and Joe's squirrels an' Bob's mice are all gone. Ben's hen don't look as if she'd ever 'mount to much, an' it don't seem to me that he can get Mrs. Simpson's cat an' every one of the kittens out from under the barn."

"Now don't go to worryin' about that, Toby," said Aunt Olive, as she patted him on the head, and gave him a large piece of cake at the same time. "You can get a dozen cats for Mrs. Simpson if she wants 'em; and as for mice, you tell Bob to set his trap out in the granary two or three times, an' he'll have as many as he can take care of. I'm glad the squirrels did get away, for it seems such a sin to shut them up in a cage when they're so happy in the woods."

Toby was cheered by the very philosophical view that Aunt Olive took of the affair, and came to the conclusion that matters were not more than half so bad as they might have been.

"You be careful that your monkey don't get out again, an' go to cuttin' up as he did last night, for I shall get provoked with him if he hurts my ducks any more," and, with this bit of advice, Aunt Olive went up-stairs to see Abner.

Toby went out to the shed to assure himself that Mr. Stubbs's brother was tied so that he could not escape, and while he was there Uncle Daniel came in with an armful of strips of board.

"There, Toby, boy," he said, as he laid them on the floor, and looked around for the hammer and nails, "I'm going to build a pen for your monkey right up here in one corner, so that we sha'n't be called up again in the night by a false alarm of burglars. Besides, it's almost time for school to begin again, an' I'm 'most too old to commence chasing monkeys around the country in case he gets out while you're away."

Had it been suggested the day before that Mr. Stubbs's brother was to be shut up in a cage, Toby would have thought it a very great hardship for his pet to endure; but the experience he had had in the last twenty-four hours convinced him that the imprisonment was for the best.

He helped Uncle Daniel in his labor to such purpose that, when it was time for him to go to the pasture, the cage was built, and Mr. Stubbs's brother was in it, looking as if he considered himself a thoroughly abused monkey, because he was not allowed to play just such pranks as had roused the household as well as broken up the circus scheme.

On his way to the pasture, Toby met Joe, and the two had a long talk about the disaster of the afternoon. Joe believed that the enterprise must be abandoned -- for that summer at least -- as it would take them some time to repair the damage done, and his short experience in the business caused him to believe that they could hardly hope to compete with real circuses until they had more material with which to work.

Joe promised to see the other partners that evening or the next morning; and, if they were of the same opinion, the tent should be taken down and returned to its owner.

"Perhaps we can fix it all right next year, an' then Abner will be 'round to help," said Toby, as he parted with Joe that night; and thus was the circus project ended very sensibly, for the chances were that it would have been a failure if they had attempted to give their exhibition.

During that afternoon Toby had worried less about Abner than on any day since he had been sick; he had felt that his friend's recovery was certain, and a load was lifted from his shoulders when he and Joe had decided regarding the circus; for, that out of the way, he could devote all his attention to his sick friend. Surely, with the ponies and the monkey they could have a great deal of sport during the two weeks that yet remained before school would begin, and Toby felt thoroughly happy.

But his happiness was changed to alarm very soon after he entered the house, for the doctor was there again, and, from the look on the faces of Uncle Daniel and Aunt Olive, he knew Abner must be worse.

"What is it, Uncle Dan'l? is Abner any sicker?" he asked, with quivering lip, as he looked up at the wrinkled face that ever wore a kindly look for him.

Uncle Daniel laid his hand affectionately on the head of the boy, whom he had cared for with the tenderness of a father since the day he repented and asked forgiveness for having run away, and his voice trembled as he said:

"It is very likely that the good God will take the crippled boy to Himself to-night, Toby, and there in the heavenly mansions will he find relief from all his pain and infirmities. Then the poor-farm boy will no longer be an orphan or deformed, but, with his Almighty Father, will enter into such joys as we can have no conception of."

"Oh, Uncle Dan'l! must Abner really die?" cried Toby, while the great tears chased each other down his cheeks, and he hid his face on Uncle Daniel's knee.

"He will die here, Toby, boy, but it is simply an awakening into a perfect, glorious life, to which I pray that both you and I may be prepared to go when our Father calls us."

For some time there was silence in the room, broken only by Toby's sobs; and, while Uncle Daniel stroked the weeping boy's head, the great white-winged messenger of God came into the chamber above, bearing away with him the spirit of the poor-farm boy.

<eob>

Brotherly Love

By

Mary Martha Sherwood, Emily Streeten



It was at that time of year when leaves begin to lose their green hue, and are first tinctured with a brown shade that increases rather than decreases their beauty, that Mr. and Mrs. Mortimer received a letter from a brother of Mrs. Mortimer's, at Portsmouth, requiring such immediate attention that it was thought advisable that the answer should be given in person and not in writing, and without a day's loss of time. So it was determined that Mr. and Mrs. Mortimer should leave their home, even as soon as the following morning, to visit their brother at Portsmouth, and that they then should settle the business for which they went as quickly as possible, that their absence from home need not be prolonged unnecessarily, nor indeed for any length of time. It did not take long to arrange this part of the affair, and what packing was requisite was also done quickly, but the point which required most attention and thought was, what was to become of Marten and his young brother Reuben while their papa and mamma were away. "I have never left them before," said their mamma, "and I feel somewhat anxious about their being left now."

"Anxious, dear mamma," exclaimed Marten, who had overheard the remark. "Anxious," he repeated, "why I am a great boy now, and I shall soon be a man, when I shall have to take care of myself altogether; and if I cannot take care of myself for a week, what is to become of me when I am grown up? Indeed, mamma, I think you forget how old I am. I was thirteen on the 21st of April."

"Tirteen," lisped little Reuben -- "Marten tirteen -- April -- Oh, Marten very old mamma -- very, very wise;" and Reuben opened his eyes quite wide and looked so very earnestly in his mother's face, that one would have thought he was trying to read therein what she could mean about being anxious as to leaving Marten, -- the Marten who appeared so very old and so very wise to him, -- to take care of himself for a few days without his parents protection. "Thirteen," repeated Mrs. Mortimer, "thirteen no doubt seems very, aye very old, to you Reuben, for you are not yet half that age; but I am more than three times that age," she added, smiling, "and that you know must make me very, very much wiser than Marten, and now once again I say I am anxious about leaving you without your father or myself, and I should be more anxious than I am if I did not believe it is our duty to go at once to Portsmouth; and that it being right for us to go, I can leave you, my boys, in God's care, who is the tenderest of fathers to his children."

"But mamma," asked Marten, "why do you fear for me? Am I not steady, mamma? Do not I like to do what you and papa tell me to do? Am I ever obstinate or rebellious to you? Indeed, mamma, I feel quite grieved; I think it is unjust to mistrust me, mamma, really I do."

"If you feared for yourself, I should have less fear for you, Marten," replied Mrs. Mortimer, "for I know well that the heart of man is by nature prone to sin, and that our thoughts and desires while we are on earth are like our natures, full of imperfections. Temptations are ever before us -- they press upon us every minute, and it is not in our own strength we can resist or overcome even one of them, and while this life lasts we are not safe, unless we acknowledge their powerful influence and trust in the Divine Spirit alone to be able to withstand them."

"I have not been thought a disobedient boy till now," said Marten somewhat sulkily. "I think my usual conduct should plead for me."

"Every child has temptations, Marten," replied his mamma, "and every well behaved child, though not a pious one, resists them: and in truth these temptations are so numerous, that one scarcely thinks of them, unless we witness the conduct of a spoiled baby, as shame prevents grown up persons giving way to many things. But I want you to see that in this life we are in a state of constant trial, and as St. Paul says, if it were only for this life, a Christian is of all men most miserable; for added to these outward temptations, which assail all mankind daily and hourly, the Christian knows he must resist inward temptations, which perhaps are known to none but himself and his God. These temptations are more pressing than other temptations, on account of their peculiar nature: for the one, if indulged in, brings the displeasure or frowns of the world -- the other, as I said before, is perhaps unknown to all human beings but oneself."

"Well, but mamma," said Marten impatiently, "I do know all this, for you have taught it me before. It is not like as if I had to learn the thing now for the first time. I think you are too severe, mamma, indeed I do; and when you come back, I believe you will say so. Trust me, mamma, and do not be anxious about me. I shall do very well, and I promise to take good care of Reuben. I will see to his lessons, and do my own, and he shall sleep with me while you are away, and I will attend carefully to him and never leave him, and when I am learning my Latin, he can be in the room with me, and we shall do very well together, I promise you. So trust me, mamma, without anxiety of any sort."

"I will trust you," replied Mrs. Mortimer smiling kindly, "but not with yourself Marten, for I see clearly you have a lesson to learn, my boy, and I hope you will learn it shortly, without much trouble to yourself. You think you are going to fulfil all your duties in your own strength, as they ought to be fulfilled. You will see that you cannot. Could human nature, unassisted by the Divine nature, have done so, then what need would there have been for the Son of God to have taken our form and purified our nature in himself? By grace alone are we saved, for there is none good -- no, not one; but as God is holy, we must be holy, ere we can dwell with Him, and the work of the Divine Spirit is to make us pure; and while we are in the flesh, to uphold us in the right and straight road, till being made one with God our sanctification is accomplished. Now then is our hour of temptation. Marten -- and believe me, my boy, if you attempt to withstand that temptation in your own strength, you are like one putting fire to tow, and expecting it will escape conflagration."

Marten made no reply, for he was tired of the subject; but after Mrs. Mortimer had left the room, he said to Reuben -- "Well, we shall see what we shall see, and mamma shall acknowledge I am right after all." So the carriage came to the door next morning betimes, and Mr. and Mrs. Mortimer got into it, and Marten and Reuben stood in the coach drive to hold the gate open for the carriage to pass through; and the great dog Nero stood by them very much excited, not knowing whether to go with the carriage or to stay with the boys.

"Be sure you see Nero has a run every day, Marten," said Mr. Mortimer, as the carriage passed through the gate -- "that dog wants plenty of exercise."

"Oh! don't fear, papa, I shall not forget him," replied Marten, running a step or two after the carriage; "and mamma, I will attend to your doves -- you had forgotten to speak about them, had you not, mamma? I will remember them and Nero too, papa, and Reuben also. Yes, I will attend to all -- I shall have plenty of time for all. Have you anything more you wish done, papa?" and Marten was obliged to stop speaking, as the carriage was now going on rapidly, and he found he could not talk and keep up with it at the same time.

"No, no, Marten," replied Mr. Mortimer laughing -- "No, no, my boy -- you have got more on your hands now than will suffice you: so off with you home, and take care that when we return we do not find the doves flown, Nero lost, or Reuben with black eye or bruised leg, and yourself in some unlucky plight, my boy. Now go home, and God bless and watch over you, my sons. We hope it will not be long before we return," and he waved his hand to bid good bye. Marten had run himself out of breath, so he was not able to answer his father, and he was not sorry to stand still an instant or two to watch the carriage out of sight, and give time for Reuben to overtake him, for the child could not keep up with his brother's quick running. And even now Marten might have read this lesson, had he been wise enough so to do that already, he had been led away by temptation to forget his brother, and that though he had done so, Nero had been more faithful than himself; for Nero, though he could have outran Marten, yet would not forsake the child, but restrained his impatience that he might keep near the little one, who ever needed a protector by his side, for the child was young, and his mother had perhaps reared him too delicately.

Reuben had never before been separated from his mamma, and he was half inclined to cry, and perhaps fret at her absence; but Marten, who was a very kind brother, and really loved the child tenderly, contrived so to divert his attention that he soon forgot his troubles.

Marten was so bent upon behaving well during his mamma's and papa's absence and of fulfilling every duty, that though Reuben wished to stay out all morning and play, his brother would not allow it, but persuaded him to go in with him and say his lessons, as if his mamma had been at home. But Marten had taken upon himself much more than was required of him by his parents, and it was not without difficulty, even on the first day, determined as he was upon the point, that he could fulfil all his intentions, for Marten had not taken into consideration that if he thoroughly devoted himself to Reuben, he could not spend his time in learning his own lessons, which usually occupied the best hours of the morning. The doves could be fed whilst Reuben was by his side -- indeed Reuben could be very useful in this matter, for he had been accustomed to visit the aviary daily with his mamma, and the pretty birds knew him and were not as afraid of him as they were of his big brother Marten. So Reuben fed the doves himself, and stroked their soft feathers, and washed out their little tin in which the water was put for them to drink; and he placed the food for them in its right corner, and he swept out the floor of the aviary, for he was small enough to stand upright within it, and he knew how to do it without frightening the birds. So far all was well, and all was well too whilst Reuben was saying his lessons; but when Marten wanted to study his Latin exercise, the child was so restless and troublesome, that it was only by speaking very decidedly to him -- indeed almost crossly -- that Marten could get a moment to himself.

But even then Marten had to shut up his book somewhat hastily, for Reuben began to cry for his mamma, who never spoke sharply to him, and was always ready to attend to the little one by a kind look or tender word.

Marten was, however, so satisfied with himself in having accomplished all his plans for the day, that he did not see how he had given way to temptation in being cross when provoked; and as he put Reuben to bed, for he chose to do it himself, he could not help saying aloud, "I wish mamma could have followed me unseen all day: how pleased she would have been with me, for I have done all I meant to do, even though I was tempted more than once to leave something undone."

The next morning Marten arose, perhaps not quite so earnest in his intentions as the day before, but still there was only a slight disinclination to fulfil all his duties -- so slight, indeed, that he would have been very angry if any one had spoken to him about it, and hinted at the truth. In this frame of mind, though most things were done, some few were slurred over, particularly the Latin Exercise and Grammar, for Marten's papa had not set him any task, and had even said Marten might have a holiday during his absence; and at any other time the boy would have been glad of this indulgence, but now he fancied himself so good, that he believed he could do everything, and everything well.

"I will do an exercise to-morrow, Reuben," said Marten. "Papa does not expect any done, and if I have one for every other day to shew him, he will be very much pleased, I know."

Reuben, as may be supposed, could not make a suitable reply to this; for all he understood about it was, that Marten was going out with him instead of staying at home to do that troublesome Latin. So Reuben was pleased and Marten was thoughtless, and out together they went and enjoyed themselves not a little, in the pleasant autumn weather.

Thus hours passed on, and the third day brought a letter from Mrs. Mortimer, which was not quite satisfactory, for it said that the business which took her and her husband from home could not be easily settled, and they feared they would be detained a whole fortnight at Portsmouth. Mrs. Mortimer, however, was not uneasy about her boys, for she knew that the servants, with whom she had left them, were quiet steady persons, who would not allow them to do what was wrong without speaking to them; and then Reuben was such an universal favourite, that she felt sure no one would be wilfully unkind to him. But above all, Mrs. Mortimer trusted her children with Him who "knoweth our frame and remembereth we are but dust." Psal. ciii. 14.

Mrs. Mortimer had been absent about a week, and Marten was still in ignorance of the weakness of human nature, at least as far as he was himself personally concerned, when one morning Reuben came running to him in great distress, to say that the doves were missing -- his mamma's own pretty birds that she loved so much; and Reuben, whose tears were somewhat too ready, began to cry, for he feared, poor child, the cat had eaten them, or some other misfortune equally distressing had befallen them.

"Was the door of the aviary open?" asked Marten. "Are you sure it was open, Reuben? or did you open it yourself?"

"It was open," said Reuben, "wide, wide open -- so wide, Marten;" and he made his brother understand that he had gone inside without stirring it the least little bit.

"It was open, you say," replied the elder boy, "but how could that be? You or some one have been careless, very careless, Reuben; for it is certain the birds could not open it for themselves." Reuben was about to cry again, but Marten soothed him, for all at once Marten remembered that the careless -- very careless person was none other than himself; for on the day before, whilst Reuben was sweeping out the aviary, Marten had called him hurriedly, and though the child had once proposed to return, his brother had kept him by his side for some trifling purpose, and so they had both forgotten the aviary door was open. However, the doves were gone, and they must be reclaimed, if alive, but if dead -- what a sad story would there be for Mrs. Mortimer. So the books were put by, and the two boys went out in search of the birds, and Reuben, who understood their ways, took the precaution to carry with him the box in which their food was usually placed. On this occasion there was a nice piece of cake put into the box, which was to be crumbled for the doves, and Reuben knew that they liked cake as well as he did himself, and more especially the kind of cake which cook had given him.

Have you ever heard of a person who it is said once looked for a needle in a pottle of hay? for if so, you may picture to yourself the feelings of Marten when he started to find the ringdoves. But perhaps you will say, anyhow, the needle would lie still, unless the man who was searching for it should shake the straw too roughly, and throw it out, therefore the space of its concealment, being a limited space, supposing the pottle the very largest ever made, there would be a chance in time of its discovery, but not so the case of the birds. They had wings to fly with, and miles of lovely blue sky to fly through, and green branches to rest on, and harvest fields to alight in, that is if they were in the land of the living; but, perhaps, after all, mistress pussy had destroyed them, and their pretty feathers, perhaps their only relics left, might be so scattered by the wind, that already they might be yards and yards separated from each other. With these sad forebodings clouding his brow, Marten set off with Reuben on his search, feeling that it was a hopeless one, and not one word did the boy utter to all Reuben's lamentations as they crossed the meadow which was spread in front of their house towards a little wood, which was the home of many a bird of the pigeon or dove species, and therefore Marten thought would be the most likely place to go first to look after the strayed ones. Think, then, what must have been his joy as they entered the second meadow not far from the stile, absolutely to behold the ringdoves, his mamma's own ringdoves walking upon the grass cooing and billing, and turning about their soft eyes in this direction and the other, as if half afraid of the freedom they had acquired for themselves. As to Reuben, he was so pleased, that the little foolish fellow clapped his hands and shouted for joy, which so alarmed the doves, that they took to their wings and soared high, but flutteringly in the air, as if in their fright they did not know what they ought to do for their own safety. Marten was very angry with Reuben for his folly -- very angry indeed, and I hardly know what it was he said; only this I do know, that he took the box of cake from the child's hand, and bade him stand at a particular spot -- about twenty yards or so, in a direction farthest from the wood, and from the stile leading to their home; "and there," he added, "remain till I tell you you may stir, if you are so stupid as not to know that clapping your hands and shouting loud will frighten any birds, particularly timid ones like doves -- tame doves, especially, who have strayed from their home."

Marten looked so cross, that Reuben did not even like to cry, for he felt he had been very silly; so the poor little fellow stood where his brother had bade him stand, half afraid to breathe, and quite afraid of moving -- lest by any noise he should again drive away the doves, and Marten should again be angry. And there we will leave him to speak of how his brother set himself to work to reclaim his mother's birds.

I have said before that he had some cake in a box in his hand, and having tossed off his hat -- lest by any accident it should fall off when he was stooping forwards, he threw himself upon the grass his full length, and as he rested on his right hand; with his left he sprinkled some of the cake he had with him on the ground, to attract the doves near to him, in the hope he would catch one; and the second, he rightly guessed, would not then be long out of his power. Marten relied on the tame habits of the doves, who had been accustomed not only to eat out of his brother's hands, but also from his mother's, and occasionally of late from his own; but it is a different thing feeding birds in their own aviary, and when they have escaped half wild to their native haunts. And now, whilst the boy stretched upon the ground, was wholly occupied in the earnest desire of reclaiming the wanderers, Reuben's attention after awhile was diverted by seeing that some one was approaching towards them from a hill, in a direction farthest from their home. This person was riding at no slow pace, and as I said before, as his road led him down hill, he seemed not to spare his horse; meeting the wind, as Reuben thought gloriously, and passing along at a pace, the child considered more glorious still. "When I am a man," the little fellow said to himself, "I will ride so, I will have a horse, and I will ride very very fast, -- yes, -- that I will."

Now it seemed that the rider from the elevated road could look over the meadows below, and probably having good eyes, for they certainly were young and sharp ones, he soon spied out Marten and Reuben, and as it came out afterwards that Marten was the person he sought after, he caused his pony to leap over a small ditch that was in his way, and then guiding it to a gate he dismounted and fastened the animal to the post by its bridle. In leaping the ditch his hat had fallen off, and making signs to a large Newfoundland dog that had accompanied him, the noble animal was by him directed to lie down near the horse and take charge of the hat, whilst his master stepped lightly along the grass in the direction where Marten lay extended, so occupied about the doves as to regard nothing that was passing round him. The new comer was a youth of about Marten's own age, the only child of a gentleman who lived about four miles from Marten's father, and the most constant companion that Marten possessed. His name was Edward Jameson, and he shall himself say the cause of his present visit. Reuben knew Edward well, and he recognized him before he had tied his pony to the gate post, but he had not seen the fine Newfoundland dog before, and Reuben was so fond of dogs. The little fellow remembered that Marten had forbidden him to leave the tree or to speak, but he could not keep his small feet from moving up and down restlessly, nor could he scarce command himself not to call out and tell his brother of Edward's arrival. But Edward wanted to see what Marten was doing in the very odd attitude he had taken, so he crept noiselessly on, his head turned somewhat sideways to Reuben, and his hand held up threateningly to the child, for he saw he had been recognised, and he was afraid of some hasty word, which would cause Marten to start up, and then he feared he should not surprise his friend. Edward was able to get quite close to Marten, and even to touch him before Marten was aware of his presence; and he stepped up so quietly, that the doves were so little frightened, that they hardly stopped a moment from picking up the crumbs.

"Why Marten, old fellow, what are you doing here?" asked Edward. "Whose doves are those, I say? are they your mother's? have you let them loose -- Eh?" Edward spoke softly, but not so softly that he did not cause Marten to start at the unexpected sound of his voice; still, as the birds were at some little distance, and were accustomed to the human voice, they scarcely were alarmed, and hardly moved a step or two away from the crumbs scattered for them, and Marten recovering himself quickly, said -- "Oh! Edward, do help me to catch these doves: they have escaped from their aviary, and my mother will be so vexed if they fly away."

"To be sure I will," replied Edward; "but my boy, who is in the habit of feeding them, for that person would best know how to catch them I should say."

"My mother feeds them herself chiefly," said Marten, "and Reuben sometimes attends to them when she is engaged."

"Well, set Reuben to decoy them now, for I am in a hurry and have got something to say to you as quickly as possible, and it is very important. Anyhow, the child can watch them whilst you are attending to me."

So Reuben was called from his station at the tree, and Marten gave him directions what he was to do; and the now little important one lay down on the grass, as Marten had done before him; and as might have been expected, the doves, accustomed to his baby voice and small figure, soon drew nearer and nearer to him, so that when the conference was over between the two elder boys, Reuben was able proudly to shew not one, but both doves, so wrapped up in his pinafore, that though they fluttered about a little, they were quite secure. "Come here a step or two from the child," said Edward, "and don't think of those troublesome birds just now, but tell me at once, can you come and pay me a visit for a couple of days? my cousins William Roscoe and Jane and Mary are expected at our house to night on their way to London. You know William Roscoe, Marten, and what a fine fellow he is and I have asked my father and mother, and they have allowed me to get as many young ones together as the short time would allow, and we are to have splendid fun. Won't you come, Marten? I promise you a glorious time of it, if you will but come."

"My father is from home," replied Marten thoughtfully, "and so is my mother, but I don't think that matters, Edward: they have never refused my visiting you, and I do not think they would now. Indeed, I am sure they would not, if they were at home, but what am I to do with Reuben? I have taken charge of Reuben whilst mamma is away, and what can I do about him?"

"About Reuben," returned Edward? "can't the servants take care of him at home? he will do very well at home, and be very contented, I know."

"But I have undertaken the charge of him," said Marten, "and I should not like, after what I have said, to leave him, even for a couple of days. I must either bring him with me, Edward, or stay at home with him -- indeed, I must."

"Well, then, bring the little fellow," replied Edward kindly; "anything so as you come, Marten; and remember there will be plenty of girls invited, for Jane and Mary Roscoe, and Reuben can surely play with them, and they will take care of him, no doubt. So bring him, by all means, if that is the only hindrance; but still, I say, you would do better to leave him at home with the servants; however, that's your business, not mine. I reckon on you to-morrow, about eleven o'clock -- to stay all night, next day, and the night following, if you like; so good bye, till then. I have half the country to ride over to beat up my recruits;" and without waiting another word from his friend, Edward ran across the meadow, snatched up his hat from where the faithful dog was carefully guarding it, sprang upon his pony, and then once again leaping the ditch, he cantered off at a pace so rapid, he was soon lost to Marten's sight.

How pleased was Reuben to shew his brother that he had caught the doves, and Marten was also pleased: for any how he need not distress himself about them, as they were secured, but he thought it advisable to take them under his own charge, as he considered he could hold them firmer than the little one. And now the boys ran home as quickly as they could, and the pretty birds were shut up in their aviary, and Marten hastened to the kitchen to find the house-maid, who was called nurse, as she had been Reuben's nurse before she had changed her occupation in the family, the child no longer requiring a personal attendant. In the kitchen Marten learnt that she was gone out into the garden to gather some herbs for the cook, and thither he followed her to tell her that his friend Edward Jameson had been with him, and what had been the purport of his visit.

"Nurse," said Marten, when he found her, "I am come to ask you to get mine and Reuben's things ready to-night, for I am going to take him with me to spend a couple of days at Mr. Jameson's; and there will be company there in the evenings, so we must have our best things, nurse, and will you be so kind as to see after the doves, and tell Thomas to loosen Nero's chain every day, that he may have a good scamper over the fields, for papa says he should have plenty of exercise."

"Stop, stop, master Marten," replied nurse, "what is all this about? your things and master Reuben's, do you say, are to be got ready for two day's visit -- and the doves fed? am I to find them before I feed them, master Marten?" and nurse laughed.

"They are found, nurse," answered the boy, "and they are now safe in the aviary, and I will take care the door shall not be opened again while mamma is away. I mean to put a padlock on, nurse, so you see no one can let them out, and I shall keep the key myself."

"Oh! master Marten, master Marten!" said nurse, laughing again -- "I see, if it depended upon you, we should all be in a bad way, and so the poor birds are to be locked up, are they: and master Reuben is not to be allowed to go into the aviary to talk to them, as the little one loves to do -- and all for what? Give me a steady ruler, if you please -- not such as you, master Marten -- a fine head of a family you will make, if one may judge of your boasted management of the doves in the first part of the story, and then the leaving the aviary door open and finishing with locking them up and keeping the key yourself. Well for their happiness -- mistress will soon be at home to attend to them herself; but what are you going to do with the child, my own darling? I can't have any tricks played with him, I tell you."

"Tricks, nurse," repeated Marten passionately. "What? do you mean to say I would play tricks with my own brother? No one loves Reuben, I am sure, better than I do, unless it is mamma. What do you mean, nurse?"

"What do you mean, then, master Marten, by saying you are going to take the child amongst strangers, neither me nor his mamma being with him, and he never accustomed to strangers -- and company in the house too -- I don't half like it -- and I know I feel half inclined to say he shan't go."

"And pray under whose charge was he left?" asked Marten. "Your's or mine, nurse? I should like to know."

"It was much of a muchness," replied the good woman. "Missis said to you, take care of your brother; but missis knew I loved the sweet darling too dearly to require even half a word on the subject. And supposing he does go with you, master Marten, who is to put the dear child to bed at nights? I must insist, indeed I must, that you see to it yourself. I know how frightened he will be amongst strangers at bed time."

"To be sure I will, nurse," said Marten, glad to see the good woman was so far giving in to his wishes. "I promise not only to sleep with him, but to take him to bed myself and stay with him till he is asleep."

"Well, well, master Marten," exclaimed nurse impatiently -- "Well, well, don't undertake too much and then do nothing; and I must say again," she continued warming with her subject, "that the child had better be left at home where there are plenty to look after him, and not be carried off to that strange house, away from us all."

"Oh! me go with Marten, nurse, dear nurse! me go with Marten!" said little Reuben imploringly, for the child had just joined them in time to hear nurse's last remark. "Oh! Reuben so like to go with Marten."

"You don't know what is best for you, silly one," replied nurse, "nor who is your truest friend either, but your little head is bent upon being a man soon, and you must ever be trying to do what your brother does. But, master Marten, how can you play or go about with master Jameson, and yet attend to this child too?"

"Oh! I can take care of Reuben, and yet have plenty of time for myself, nurse, I am sure," said Marten.

"That's according," answered nurse, "for if you are always giving your company to this little one here, and she patted Reuben on the back, he will keep you smartly to it whenever he is awake, I promise you. Won't you, my pet? Are you not a weary little fellow, darling?" she added, as she stooped to kiss him, "that is when you can get folks to be wearied with you."

"No, nurse," answered the child stoutly; -- "no -- me not weary -- me not tired -- me don't want to go to bed."

"Bless your pretty tongue," exclaimed nurse; "but here, take this parsley to cook, and say it is the finest double parsley I can find, there's a darling."

As Reuben ran away on his errand, nurse addressed herself to Marten in a kind motherly manner, for nurse was not a young woman, and she was also a pious one. "Master Marten," she said, "I am sure you will be kind to the little one -- you always are -- for I must say you are one of the very best brothers I know, and that is saying a deal for you -- for I believe there are many good brothers and sisters in the world, and yet, pardon your old nurse, young master, when she tells you you are doing wrong, though I think your intention is good. Look to your own heart, master Marten, and ask yourself why are you dragging this poor child after you to Mr. Jameson's. I was in the room with Missis when she was speaking to you the day before she left, and I heard what she said about temptation, and how we are tempted every hour in the day. You did not believe her, master Marten, and you do not believe her now, and you are going to try temptation to the very utmost, and you think you will stand it, and I know you won't, for I remember what my dear lady said, that no one can resist temptation in their own strength. This is the reason why I don't like my baby to go with you, but if you, my dear young master, will just think over what your mamma said, and ask for the approval of your Saviour and the direction of his Holy Spirit in all things -- why then, as I said before, I will trust my darling with you any where, for I know that you love him dearly, and would not willingly hurt a hair of his precious little head."

"Nurse," exclaimed Marten indignantly, "one would imagine I had been very unkind to Reuben whilst mamma has been away; now I don't think it is fair, and if I were to leave my brother at home and stay out a couple of days enjoying myself, papa and mamma might both justly think I had neglected him; No, I have undertaken the care of him till their return, and I mean to fulfil my undertaking: and I must say, unless you have any unkindness to charge me with, I consider you have no business to speak to me as you have done." And Marten walked away with a heart determined to resist the wise advice of nurse.

And now nurse had nothing for it but to get the things ready for the boys the next day, for nurse knew that Marten was always allowed, if convenient, to go to Mr. Jameson's when invited, and as the houses were about four miles apart, she also knew he was in the habit of staying there all night, if asked so to do. As regards Reuben, he too had been there once or twice to stay with his mamma, but nurse considered very wisely, that it was a very different thing, a child of the little one's age going from home with or without his mamma; but still she could not interfere more than she had done, for Reuben had certainly been put under his brother's care. She did, however, try to persuade the little one that he would be better at home with her, but any person who knows the ways of children might easily guess nurse might as well have spoken to a post as to Reuben, for all the good she did, for the boy began to cry, and begged so hard to go with his brother to play with the big boys at Mr. Jameson's, that she thought it as well to say no more on the subject.

And now I must pass over some hours till the time came for John to drive the boys over in the pony carriage to Mr. Jameson's. Marten could have walked the four miles very well, or he could have rode there on his own pony, but Reuben could not have walked half so far, and thus it happened, that as John had something to do he could not leave undone, it was quite twelve o'clock before the three arrived at Mr. Jameson's house, and thus it chanced that they were almost the last comers of the party of children invited to meet the Roscoes.

It was a lovely day, and as warm as any summer day, though the autumn was just setting in, and such a group of young children were at play on the grass plat, near the house, that the like Marten nor Reuben had never seen before. It was such a very pretty sight, that John quite forgot to give out of the carriage the parcel nurse had made of the young gentlemen's clothes; and the consequence was, he had all the trouble to come back half a mile of the road, when he suddenly bethought himself of his forgetfulness. But as to the pretty sight John saw, I wish I could draw you a picture of it; if I could I would, I promise you, and I would put it in this very page for you to see. Fancy, then, a beautifully soft velvet lawn, in front of a large handsome house, upon which lawn the sun shines warmly but kindly, and the blue sky looks most pleasingly there and here, broken by white clouds that relieve the eye without obscuring the light. At the farthest end of the lawn from the house were some fine trees, under the shelter of which two girls were playing at battledore and shuttlecock, and very well they played too. A little nearer this way, that is where John and the carriage stood, in the direction of the house, was a young child seated on the turf holding a dog, whilst two other children were trying to make it jump to catch a flower, one held in her hand. There was also a big boy on a pony talking to a great girl, who was lying on the grass; but the prettiest group of girls were standing or kneeling round a pet lamb which they were decking with wreaths of flowers. They none of them wore bonnets nor walking dresses, and even the boy on the pony was without a hat. Why they had all agreed to uncover their heads, I cannot say exactly, but I know they had been having some joke about it before the young Mortimers arrived; and the great girl on the turf had even then got her brother's cap and had hidden it somewhere, and it was to ask her about it he had ridden up to her on his pony, as she rested on the grass.

"Oh! they are all girls but one," exclaimed Marten in a disappointed tone, "and I am afraid I shall not find the boys easily, and I hate playing with girls."

"As much as we girls dislike playing with rude boys, master Mortimer," said Jane Roscoe, advancing forwards and replying to Marten's speech, which had really been addressed to John; "but understand we are the fairies of this lawn -- this is our territory, and my aunt Jameson has bestowed it upon us. We take tribute if you intrude on our premises, so either be off to your own mates, or lay down your cap as owning our sway as ladies and queens of the lawn."

"I am sure I would rather go to your brother, or Edward, Miss Roscoe," replied Marten, "if you would but tell me where I should find them."

"No doubt near the stables, or at the dog kennels," she answered pertly, "so you had better go, for I tell you we don't want boys amongst us; we have had some trouble in ridding ourselves of them just now."

"And if they are all like you, I am sure I for one don't want to stay," thought Marten; and he took Reuben's hand to seek his friends, where the young lady had so uncourteously directed him to find them.

And here, before I would follow Marten to find his young friends, I would wish to remark that it is such girls as Jane Roscoe who make rude boys, and such young women that make rude men. Boys and men generally take their manners from the females with whom they associate, and when one sees a very rude boy, it does not speak well for his sisters at home, or at least for the young ladies with whom he may happen to be most intimate. As to regular schoolboys, they are rude, because schoolboys in general are famed for bad manners, and young gentlemen seem to like to bring this odium on schools, fancying rudeness is manliness, when in reality it is a decided sign of the contrary. Think of the bravest men that have been known, that is bravest in their own persons, and I will venture to say they have been gentle and courteous in female society, for they know and feel they can dare to be so, as their credit for manly daring is known and acknowledged by every one. Take one of your rough ones, and I for one set him down as a mere bully, that hides his cowardice under blustering words. But I have wandered somewhat from my point, for I was saying rude girls make rude boys, as shewn in the case of Jane Roscoe; and civil girls make civil boys, as evinced in her sister Mary, as I am going to relate.

"Me want to go to the pretty lamb," said Reuben, hanging heavily on his brother: -- "Me go to the lamb -- me don't like horses."

"But you shall see the great big Newfoundland, Reuben, that you admired so much yesterday," said his brother. "Should you not like to see the large black dog?"

"Reuben wants to go to lamb," replied the child, and he resolutely stood still. "Pretty lamb, Reuben, go to lamb now."

"You can't go to the lamb, Reuben," said his brother impatiently, "so you must be content to go with me to see the large black dog. I am not going to give up my cap to any one, I promise you; so come on now, and don't keep me staying here all day."

But Reuben, as nurse had said, was a weary little fellow when bent upon any thing, and now he was bent upon going to play with the lamb, so he was determined not to move, or if he did it should only be in the direction of the lawn. Marten was, however, almost as determined to go the other way, on account of Jane Roscoe, and for a moment there seemed a doubt which boy should carry the day. The elder had the most strength, and he was inclined to use it, for Miss Roscoe had offended him, and lifting the child from the ground he was about to run off with him in the direction of the stables, when Reuben, not accustomed to opposition of this description, set up a loud cry of passion, which at once drew the attention of all near to himself and his brother.

"There," exclaimed Jane, "what are you teasing the little one so for? why not let him have his own way and come amongst us, if he will?"

"Well, go," said Marten angrily, "go, Reuben, if you like; but I tell you I will not come with you."

But this was not what Reuben desired, and he stood at a little distance from his brother looking, I am sorry to say, very naughty and selfish, for he was really wishing Marten to give up his own desires to attend to and humour his; and so now he stood moving neither one way nor another, his face turned towards the lamb so finely bedecked with flowers. His cry, however, had aroused the young girls from their occupation, and Mary Roscoe, whom one would have supposed had been really kissing the lamb, so close was her face to it, when Marten had first seen her; sprang from her knees, and running across the lawn to the gravel path, now stooped down to Reuben, and looking him kindly in the face -- "Little boy," she said, "what did you cry for? what did you want? tell me, little boy, and I will see what I can do. I am a fairy, little boy. We are all fairies on that turf, and I will take you with me to fairy land and shew you some fairy wonders."

Reuben at once and without hesitation put his hand in hers, saying -- "Me go see pretty lamb me go with you -- me will go."

"Then come along," said Mary, and turning her head over her shoulder towards Marten, she added, "I will take care of him; so you may go to Edward and William if you like, and I dare say you will like it better than playing with girls."

"Oh! thank you, Miss Mary, thank you," replied Marten most gratefully to the kind little girl, "thank you, I am so much obliged to you."

But Marten spoke aloud, and thus drew Reuben's attention to the fact that he was going to be left with strangers, and once more he raised a cry as much of passion as of fear. So Marten, to soothe him, made a step towards the lawn with the child, though Mary still held his hand, giving a private sign to Marten that he might slip away on the first opportunity.

"Your tribute, your tribute," exclaimed Jane Roscoe: "not one step upon the grass, Master Mortimer, without giving up your cap as a sign you own us 'The ladies of the lawn.' Give it up, I command, or stay where you are."

"Will you give it me again in a minute or two, as I come back," asked Marten?

"Ask Frank Farleigh there if he has got his," said Jane. "You shall have yours when he has found his, that is if we can hide it as securely."

"Then you may get it as you can," retorted Marten rudely, stepping upon the grass, and on Jane's springing after him setting off on a race as fast as he could across the lawn, in utter defiance of the young girls. A cry was raised instantly, and all the children left their sports to pursue the boy, who had thus boldly defied their power; and lucky was it for him that he was agile and could twist and turn in his course as rapidly as a hare. But when there is at least twelve to one and a clear space, the raced has little chance, and thus it came about that the boy in self defence was forced to fly towards the stables as the only place of safety, having no leisure even to think that he was leaving his brother amongst strangers, proving himself unable to withstand temptation, even during one short hour of his visit. Marten, too, had raised a war between himself and the young girls of the party, which was not likely to be settled peacefully during the time of their stay at Mrs. Jameson's, and thus he had, to a certain sense, separated himself either from Reuben or from the bigger boys, without intending to do so for the two parties, as might be foreseen by any experienced eye, were of too different a sort to get on hourly together, as their tastes and amusements were utterly at variance.

As my story is intended to shew that temptations hourly assail us, and that in our own strength we cannot often resist them, else wherefore did Our Lord teach his disciples to pray that they might not be led into temptation, but because he knew that man of himself never turns away from the forbidden fruit. I shall not here speak much of how after a good run hither and thither, Marten at last found Edward and his companions in an open field, most of the horses and dogs from the stables being collected together, and such a scene of excitement going on that the boy had no leisure to think of anything that was not passing before his eye; and therefore, as Reuben did not appear, he, like the rest being unseen, was forgotten. In excuse for Marten I must say that he first ran to the stables, and there learnt from a boy whom he found there, that Master Jameson had had permission that morning from his papa to have out one or two of the horses and ponies, on condition that Chambers, the old coachman, and Rogers, the groom, were present with the young gentlemen, and that every obedience were paid to their directions, so that if they saw anything wrong they might enforce attention to their requests.

As many of the young gentlemen too had ridden over on their ponies to Mr. Jameson's, there were a goodly collection of horses assembled together, and the races that ensued, and the leaping over low fences that followed, so quickly passed away the time that when the first bell rang, announcing that dinner would shortly be served, Marten was quite astonished to find that it was nearly three o'clock, and that almost two hours had passed since he had seen his brother. But now, as the boys were taking the horses and dogs to the stables, he hastened towards the house as fast as he could, for he saw the lawn was tenant-less, and knowing the way to the room where he usually slept when at Mrs. Jameson's, he hurried up the stairs only to find that his things had been placed there, and that Reuben's little parcel had been taken elsewhere and was probably where the child also was, for no Reuben was to be seen. As Marten could meet with no servant, he ran along the gallery trying to distinguish amongst the many voices he heard on all sides that of his brother's, but in vain, so many were the sounds that reached his ear, and as he did not like to open any of the doors, or push those farther open that were not quite closed, he raised his voice and called aloud "Reuben, Reuben, I want you -- Reuben come to me in the passage -- here I am -- come to me Reuben."

To Marten's annoyance, instead of his brother replying to his call, Jane Roscoe stepped out into the gallery, exclaiming -- "Oh! it is you, is it? Whom do you want? What are you come here for? these are the girl's rooms! those are our bedrooms, and this is our sitting room. Are you come to make an apology for your rudeness this morning? If so, I will call the rest out to hear what you have to say."

"I want my brother, Miss Roscoe," replied Marten, trying to speak civilly. "May I go into your sitting room, or would you have the goodness to tell him to come to me here."

"I shall do no such thing," answered Miss Jane, "you may get him as you can, though I do not know how you will manage to do that either; for Mary has taken such a fancy to the little fellow, that she will not give him up easily."

"Would you tell me if Reuben is content?" asked Marten, "for if so I would rather leave him with Miss Mary."

"Just pop your head inside that door," said the rude girl, "and judge for yourself, that is, if you dare to do so -- for your brother is there, and Mary and a dozen more girls. Do you dare?" she inquired mockingly, "come let me see you do it, then."

"Dare," repeated Marten indignantly, "and why should I not dare -- I want my brother."

"Do it then," said Jane, "if you are not a coward, which I strongly suspect you are;" and when was a spirited boy of thirteen so urged on that had the prudence to know where to stop with propriety to himself. Marten, choking with rage, did advance to the door pointed out, and put his head inside, and there, on beholding a group of young ladies of all ages, from eight to fourteen, and no little brother, and finding all eyes turned upon himself as an impertinent intruder, he drew his head back quickly, and was met with a loud laugh from Jane, which so annoyed him, that without stopping to think, he ran off to his own room as fast as he could. The voice of Mary Roscoe however reached him as he ran along the gallery, uttering these words: "I'll take care of Reuben, Master Marten -- I'll take care of Reuben, he is very happy." And so Marten allowed himself to be content, and as he knew dinner would shortly be ready, he lost no more time, but set to dress himself in his best as quickly as he could. Mr. and Mrs. Jameson did not dine with the young people, but Mrs. Jameson came in and walked round the table, and spoke to most of the young ladies and gentlemen, and asked after their papas and mammas, and she said she hoped they would be good children and enjoy themselves very much, and in the evening she and Mr. Jameson would come in to see them at play. She told Jane Roscoe she expected her and Mary to take care of the young ladies and see that they had everything they wanted, and she said much the same to her son and William Roscoe about the boys.

There was a very long dining table laid out, and, as might be expected, all the boys got together at the end where Edward sat, and all the girls got round Jane Roscoe, for it must be remembered that hostilities had begun in the morning between the boys and girls, and Jane was not the kind of girl to make peace, or desire to make peace and conduct herself as would be becoming a young lady. Frank Farleigh, indeed, crossed the barrier, and once again demanded his cap from his sister, but he pleaded in vain, and I do not know how the matter would have been settled if good-natured Mary Roscoe had not proposed that it should be considered as a forfeit, and that the cap should be cried with the other forfeits in the evening games. "And I promise you it shall be hardly won," cried Jane, and Frank's sister then whispered to her as if they were settling what Frank was to do for it, and then Jane laughed -- her teasing laugh -- and if Frank did give his sister a most cruel schoolboy pinch, I can't but say she had only herself and her rude companion to thank for it. "I don't care," he said, as he joined the boys, "I can wear that old cap of Edward's, and when I go home they must give it back to me."

During this time Marten was looking about for Reuben, and soon he saw that the little fellow was seated by Mary Roscoe, as happy as possible, for Mary was a kind-hearted girl, and loved every thing and every body, and every body loved her, and now she was taking care that the child was helped before herself, and with what he liked, and when she met Marten's eye, she kissed Reuben very earnestly, and called him a sweet darling and her own pet, and she asked the little one if he did not love Mary. Reuben returned the kiss and looked so smilingly up at Marten, that his brother could not but be contented, and having thanked Mary most heartily for her very great kindness, he was only too glad to get away once more to where the boys were seated. Poor Marten was not aware, and I do not exactly see how he should have been aware, that the easy kindness of Mary Roscoe was but too likely now to bring his brother into trouble, for Mary did not like to refuse the little fellow any thing; and as the child was hungry and more than ready for the meal, for it was past his usual dinner hour, I am obliged to confess he ate greedily of the good things set before him, one after another without moderation or discernment, pudding following meat, and cheese after pudding, and fruit after that, till quantity and diversity were so mingled together, that it was a wonder the babe endured himself as well as he did. He was, however, so satisfied and even cloyed, that towards the end of the time he contented himself with a taste of this and that, and under the easy rule of Miss Mary, the remnants of his desert were transferred to his pockets, to serve to regale him at some future moment. I have said that Marten could not have been aware of this foolish weakness of Mary Roscoe, but Marten was not free of blame in the affair, for he had started wrongly as regarded Reuben, and in his self conceit he had placed himself in circumstances where the temptations that surrounded him were more than his nature unaided could resist. Marten would not listen to those who would have taught him that our blessed Saviour verily took not on him the nature of angels, but he took on him the seed of Abraham, wherefore in all things it behoved him to be made like unto his brethren, that he might be a merciful and faithful high priest in things pertaining to God, to make reconciliation for the sins of the people, for in that he himself hath suffered being tempted, he is able to succour those that are tempted. Heb. ii. 16, 17, 18. But we shall soon see from Marten's story a verification of the words of St. Paul addressed to the children of God. "Wherefore let him that thinketh he standeth, take heed lest he fall. There hath no temptation taken you but such as is common to man; but God is faithful, who will not suffer you to be tempted above that ye are able; but will, with the temptation, also make a way to escape that ye may be able to bear it." 1 Cor. x. 12, 13.

And now, -- to return to Reuben, he had ate and ate so much, that I am almost ashamed even to think of it; and silly Mary Roscoe, who should have put a bridle on his little mouth, never once thought of doing so, and how should she, for she had never had one on her own? till the poor child felt so uncomfortable that he was half ready to cry -- for, added to the over quantity he had contrived to swallow, he was very weary, for he was but a young one, and he had been out in the air all the morning and undergoing more active exercise than even he was accustomed to go through, for he had moved about at the direction of others, and not by his own voluntary will. So feeling uneasy, he was just about to raise a cry, which I believe would have recalled Marten to a sense of his duty, when the whole troop of children rose from table to amuse themselves as best they liked till six o'clock, when tea was to be served in a large room for them, and the evening was to be finished in games of whatever description they chose, Mr. and Mrs. Jameson having promised to be present.

Marten just stopped to see Mary Roscoe lead off his brother, who accompanied her very contentedly, and then I am obliged to own he thought no more of the little fellow for such a length of time, that we who take an interest in poor little Reuben must banish Marten from our thoughts and follow the child, the poor little victim of his brother's self conceit. The young ladies on leaving the dining room ascended the stairs and went to the room with which Marten had so daringly put his head in the morning, and here they divided into groups of two or three, as chance might be, and a chattering began, the like of which could never be heard again, unless under the like circumstances. It seems a cruel thing to try to put down any of the nonsense, and perhaps worse than nonsense, that was then and there talked; and I would not do so if I did not hope it would prove a warning to some girls that persons do listen to their conversation sometimes when they fancy no one hears, and that those same persons do think them very silly and ignorant, and occasionally wrong. And first, I will take a party of three girls, who all went to the same school, and these three, I am sorry to say, were talking of their governess and teachers in a way they ought never to have done. It was not Mrs. Meredith and Miss Williams, and Miss Smith, but it was "Meredith, that cross old thing," and "pretty little Smith," and that "detestable Williams." And then one asked the other if she remembered how funnily Fanny Adams had managed in the affair, of laughing at the French Master, how six of them had been sent up to their bedrooms in disgrace, and when that detestable Williams came in and found them still laughing, how she scolded them all, and how Fanny Adams put some Eau-de-Cologne to her eyes, which nearly blinded her, and made her eyes water very much, and so deceived Miss Williams that she pardoned her, though all the rest were left in disgrace.

And here, because there was no better disposed person to speak to these poor girls upon their light and improper discourse, I would just say one word: -- My dear school boys and school girls, our Saviour says, "Love thy neighbour as thyself." Let me then ask you, do you in any way follow this kind command when you so treat your teachers and governors? Think you, for an instant, of the labour, the anxiety, the perpetual self-denial, the patience required by an instructor of childhood, even when the children do their best; but when deceit, hypocrisy, and hardness of heart is also added to the giddiness and thoughtlessness of youth, what must be the teacher's suffering?

Remember that our Lord himself was subject to his parents. Luke ii. 57. Though what could they, poor human creatures, have taught him? Then follow, as a loving child should do, his holy example, and remember his precept, of "love thy neighbour as thyself," and inquire of yourself how would I like to be treated as I treat my governess or tutor?

But perhaps you would wish to listen to another couple of girls, who soon drew a larger party round them, and what folly were they about, you would ask? Why, one child, who was very vain about her figure, must needs get a piece of string, or tape, and begin to measure her companion's wrist, thumb, neck, waist, and height, saying -- "Twice round the thumb, once round the wrist, twice round the wrist, once round the neck, twice round the neck, once round the waist, and twice round the waist, once the height." As Louisa Manners well knew of old that this measurement suited herself, she was always disposed to try any young girl by her rule, knowing well her own turn would come, and that she would be able to appear with satisfaction to herself; and here again I would say, was our Lord's precept followed, of love thy neighbour as thyself? did Louisa desire a rival? This couple, as I said, soon drew a party round them, and after the measurement, which lasted some time and led to a discussion of dress, most of the frocks and sashes coming in for notice, one of the three school girls, mentioned at first, named some new step in dancing, just introduced at her school the last dancing day, and then such a practising and trying of this step commenced amongst the young ladies as made a pretty sight to look on, the young ladies being all nicely dressed, and for the nonce thinking more of their occupation than of themselves.

In the meanwhile Reuben had been supplied with something that served the purpose of a plaything by Mary Roscoe, and being seated in a corner of the room away from harm or interference, the little fellow shortly became so drowsy, that before long, notwithstanding the noise and chattering about him, his head drooped on his bosom, and he was so sound asleep that he was unconscious of his uncomfortable position. He had slept full a quarter of an hour when he was discovered by one of the elder girls, who proposed that they should lift him from his seat and take him to a bed in an adjoining chamber, where he would be more comfortable. And here I must again remark, for want of some one else to do so, that of the twelve or fourteen girls there assembled, there was not one present who would have been unkind to the little fellow intentionally; but yet I am afraid, that with the exception of the good-natured Mary Roscoe, there was hardly one who would have put themselves out of the way on his account, or have given up a pleasure or amusement of even five or ten minutes to comfort the boy, who ought in truth never to have been amongst them, so little had he been accustomed to the ways of other children, even of his own age.

Reuben slept on, and that so soundly, that when tea was ready he was not awake, and he would probably have been wholly forgotten if the young ladies on their way down stairs had not made so much noise by the door of his room, that startled and alarmed, he began to cry violently, and his good friend Mary could not easily appease him. However, the child was really refreshed from his sleep, and the kind girl having washed his face and hands herself, and smoothed his pretty curling hair, led him down with her to the room where the tea was served, and provided him with all he wanted, and withal with such a large lump of sugar, the like of which he had never perhaps, not even in his dreams, possessed before. Whoever has read of Mrs. Indulgence in "The Infant's Progress" may have some idea of Mary's management of Reuben, but if the little one could have spoken or reasoned on the point, how heartily would he have said that he pined for his own dear mamma's judicious kindness and controul, under which he used to sport all day happy and joyful as a butterfly on a bright summer's morning.

After tea, which did not last very long, the tables were cleared away and the plays began -- the elder children, as might be expected, taking the lead, and for awhile all was order and propriety. Fortunately for the young ones they had no lights near them from which they could be in danger, for the lamp hung from the ceiling and the fire was allowed to go out in the grate. The tables, as I said before, were moved away, and the seats were piled one above another so that a good space was left in the room for the games, and only two chairs were kept for Mr. and Mrs. Jameson, who had sent word to say they were coming down to see the sport, and as they were very fond of a dance, they expressed a wish that the evening's amusement should begin in that way.

The boys were somewhat annoyed at this, as they wanted more active games, and Frank Farleigh absolutely proposed to change the dance to leap-frog; however, as Mrs. Jameson wished for dancing, no one was bold enough openly to speak against it, and Miss Farleigh and Jane Roscoe, who were intimate friends, played a duet together very nicely, to which the rest danced.

And now it was that Mary Roscoe first felt the annoyance she had incurred by her kindness to Reuben, for the child did not wish to leave her, and seeing all were dancing, or jumping to the music as he thought, he believed he could do the same, and clinging to her she found that to appease him she must take him for her partner, and thus this really good-natured girl was unable to dance with any pleasure to herself, as the little one was unable to make his way alone. However, Mary was truly kind-hearted, and not one cloud was on her fair brow when the dance was finished, and she told her little partner to sit down amidst the piled up chairs at one end of the room. But as nurse had said Reuben was a weary little fellow, and Mary little knew the truth, if she thought she was so easily to get rid of him, for the child was half alarmed at the numbers of strange faces thronging around him; he was not well, too, with the many sweet things and fruits he had eaten, and now it was approaching his usual bed-time, and though he had had a sleep, yet he had been roused from it suddenly and improperly, fed with sweet cake since, and any experienced person present might know that shortly the child would get so excited in the scene before him, it would be no easy matter to soothe or calm him.

Now it happened that Marten, feeling exceedingly obliged to Mary for her kindness to his brother, and equally disliking her sister, and Miss Farleigh and some of the other young ladies, was very anxious to dance with Mary, to thank her for her kindness to Reuben, but he little thought that by doing so, the child finding both his friends together must insist upon being with them, and the second set of quadrilles was danced by poor Mary as the first had been, the little fellow clinging to her, for both Marten and Mary were afraid of a burst of tears if they opposed the child in this matter. Marten, however, spoke somewhat sharply to him, saying he was teasing Miss Mary, and if they allowed him to dance this time, he must promise to sit still afterwards, and not be troublesome again. Reuben knew that he must obey his brother, so when that dance was finished he went and sat himself down, as directed, though his young heart was very sad, as he longed to be jumping about with the other children. Mary was now able to enjoy herself, and I do not hesitate to say she was very glad to get rid of Reuben and be at liberty to run about where she would, for she was a happy girl, and this evening she was the happiest of the happy, for she was a favourite of all.

After the dancing had continued some time, a game was fixed upon, which game being one that kept the children seated, they soon got tired of it, and blindman's buff was proposed and entered into with great spirit, though, as will presently be seen, this spirit, for want of some less indulgent to controul it, became at last almost unbearable.

It was whilst Edward Jameson was blindfolded that the first rudeness began, for Miss Jane seized hold of a newspaper and began rustling it so about Edward's head, that being blindfolded he became so annoyed by it, that he began to toss his arms about, making such rushes hither and thither, that the girls had to run away, lest they should be struck. Whilst Jane was teasing Edward, one of the boys seized hold of the handkerchief that blindfolded him, and another boy made a thrust at him in front, and it was only a wonder that Mr. and Mrs. Jameson, who were sitting by, did not speak to the children, to advise a little more quietness in the play. But there were a party of young girls whispering together behind Jane, and when Edward turned in her direction, though she escaped, he fell amongst these girls, and, as might be expected, such a romping scene ensued, as may often be seen at blindman's buff. Just at this moment a servant came in to say a gentleman had called on some business, and both Mr. and Mrs. Jameson left the room together, to see this gentleman. They were scarcely gone before the noise increased to such an extent, that one or two of the servants came to the parlour door; and well was it, as we shall shew presently, that they did so, but Mr. and Mrs. Jameson being gone to another part of the house, were not disturbed by the sounds. So, as I said, Edward found himself amongst the group of young girls, who all struggled to get away from him; and then such a scene of running and screaming, and shouting and romping followed, as the like of which I have no desire to see. Every one ran, and no one knew whither they were going, and it so chanced that some ran in the direction of where Reuben had been seated by Marten, amidst the piled-up chairs. The child, who had been sitting there sometime, and who did not understand the game, for he had never seen it before, was doubtful whether to be frightened or not; but as Edward, whom he knew so well, and who was always kind to him, was the pursuer, and as the children were laughing, he thought he might laugh too, and not liking sitting still when all were running and jumping round him, he slid down from his high seat and joined the group that had fled to that end of the room from Edward. As ill luck would have it, Edward turned in that direction somewhat suddenly, and there was a loud cry of one and all to run, and instantly all did run, Reuben too obeying the call, and setting off as fast as his little legs would let him.

As might have been expected, the elder children escaped, and Edward caught the boy, whom he instantly named, and tearing off the handkerchief from his eyes, he was going to tie it round those of Reuben, when Marten interposed, and said "he would not understand the game." Edward was, however, tired of being blinded and of being buffetted about, and not thinking how very young Reuben was, for he knew very little about children, as he had no little brothers nor sisters of his own, he only said he had caught the child, and that it was but fair he should be blinded, as he was caught and had absolutely prevented him from catching one of the others when they were close to him. As Reuben himself thought it was manly to be blinded, and believed all he had to do was to run about with the handkerchief round his head, he was very anxious to do as Edward had done, and Mary, to whom he pleaded for permission so to do, blinded him herself, and as she tied the handkerchief round him she said, "Now, young gentlemen, don't hurt the little fellow, pray be gentle with him, for he's very young."

Mary then took his hand, and leading him into the centre of the room she slightly directed him where to go. It must be understood that Reuben knew no one in the room but Marten, Edward, and Mary, and as he did not know the rules of the game, the elder boys and girls, soon wearied of the little fellow running hither and thither, for they did not wish to hurt the child, and so they ceased for awhile their boisterous play; but, as might be expected, this would not last long, and Marten stepping forwards on the little one laying hold of some boy near him, said, "My brother does not know any one here by name, is it not enough that he has caught some one? He does not know, I am sure, who his hand is upon, even if he were unblinded."

"Oh! it is a boy," replied Reuben. "Me know it is a boy, and a large boy. Yes, it is a large boy."

"That is enough, is it not?" asked Marten, looking round, "surely that's enough;" and he unbound Reuben, telling; the child he had done very well.

No one seemed inclined to dispute the point, for all saw the child was too young to play with them; and William Stewart, the boy caught, and who was desirous of being blindfolded, was quite pleased to have the handkerchief tied round his head, and now the play became more boisterous than ever, owing to the cessation before, and probably all would have gone on well if little Reuben, elated by his brother's telling him he had done very well, had not chosen to join in the play, saying over and over again to any one who would listen to him, "Me knew it was a boy -- a large boy -- me knew it was a boy -- me said a large boy -- yes, me felt his coat -- me knew it was a large boy." This too might have passed, and the child might have repeated his story over and over again without much harm if he could have got a listener, or he even might have been content without one, if he had not fancied he understood the game as well as the oldest present, so he entered into it with all his little spirit, and intruded his small person where others could not go -- now here, now there, till excited and heated and confused by those around him flying in all directions, he was thrown down, and as he did not fall alone, the poor little fellow was rather severely hurt. And now in that one moment of downfall was assembled all the troubles of the day, -- weary, excited, hurt, and overfed, he began to cry, and that so violently, that those who lifted him up trusted to his being not really injured by the very noise he made in his distress. Marten and Mary ran to him, but they were as strangers to him, for his eyes were dimmed by tears, and his ears closed by his own wailings; and luckily for all three one of the servants, for, as I said before, they had come to see the young people at play, and who was a motherly kind of woman, advanced into the room and offered to take the charge of the child and comfort him before she put him to bed. Marten was most thankful for this offer, and you may be sure Mary was not sorry to part with the sobbing boy, and thus Marten put it out of his own power to keep his voluntary boast to Nurse at home about sleeping with his brother, for when the riotous evening closed, for it was a very riotous evening, Reuben had been asleep some hours, and in a quarter of the house appropriated to the use of the young ladies where beds were as plentiful as requisite on an occasion like the present. Marten then had nothing for it but to beg Mary to see after his brother, which the young lady as thoughtlessly promised to do, and then he accompanied his young companions to that department of the house appropriated to the use of the boys, where, as might be expected after a little more rude sport, he fell into a sleep so profound and long, that every thought of Reuben was banished from his mind. And now, to return to the poor baby, the victim of mismanagement, or of his brother's self-conceit. Sobbing and roaring he was carried or dragged up stairs, undressed, and put to bed, where the extreme violence of his grief proved its own relief, for he fell asleep with the tear in his eye, and long long after the cause of sorrow was forgotten, his sobs might be heard proclaiming that the effect even now had not passed away. By and bye, however, the calm of sleep restored him more to himself again, and before the motherly woman who had taken pity on him left the chamber, he was sleeping the refreshing sleep of childhood.

As the young people had gone to bed so late the evening before, for it was quite twelve o'clock, and the next day was also to be a day of indulgence, it was nearly half-past eight before Marten awoke, and what with one thing and another it was quite nine before he had an opportunity of asking any one after Reuben, or indeed of discovering that no one knew anything of the little one farther than that he had awoke at his usual hour, seven o'clock; that the kind woman who had attended him the night before had helped to wash and dress him, and having told him to be quiet, lest he should awake the children asleep in his bed room, she left him as she thought safe in the young ladies' sitting room, to amuse himself as best he might. Two hours nearly had passed since then, and no further information could be obtained of the little boy; but he was gone, that was certain for he was nowhere to be found in any part of Mr. Jameson's large house. It so happened that breakfast had commenced, and Marten and some of the bigger boys had nearly finished the meal before all the young ladies came down, and as Mary Roscoe chanced to be late, for this good natured girl had been helping others as usual, Marten did not discover the absence of his brother till she entered the room and seated herself at the table. Then he stepped round to her and asked if Reuben would soon be down. "Oh! dear little fellow," exclaimed Mary, starting up, "He did not sleep in my room, so I know nothing about him; but now I will run to find him to bring him to breakfast. I dare say he has overslept himself, or I should have heard of him before now."

"If you are speaking of the little boy who cried so bitterly at blindman's buff, Mary," said a Miss Lomax, "he was put to sleep in a little bed by himself in our room. Maria and myself noticed how soundly he slept through all the noise we made when we went to our rooms, but when we got up this morning the little fellow was gone, and we wondered who had drest him and taken him away so quietly as not to disturb us."

"Oh! then I'll find him in a minute," said Mary, "if he has been drest so long he must be sadly in want of his breakfast, poor little darling," and Mary was half way up stairs before she had finished her speech.

And now how shall I describe what a fearful state the whole house was in before ten minutes more had passed away: the child was lost, the fearful question of where and how he might be found was on everybody's lips. Poor Marten, it was dreadful to see his terror and grief, and Mary, oh! how negligent Mary felt herself, for had she not assisted greatly to his loss by taking him from his brother, and had she not promised that brother the evening before to see him in his bed and look after him, which she had forgotten to do. Jenkins, too, the motherly female who had so kindly attended the little one the night before, how did she blame herself for not taking the child with her after she had dressed him, when she was obliged to go to her work, which was much increased that morning by the state in which the young people had left the room, the scene of the last night's revels.

And here I would make a remark, which I must beg no one to reject, without well weighing the idea. The most amiable females of the party assembled at Mrs. Jameson's, Mary Roscoe and Jenkins, who had put themselves most out of their way, and had really acted the kindest by the child, were those who felt the most in the affair, and most blamed themselves for their own conduct, whereas if all had tried their best, as they did, the little fellow would have ever had some kind heart beside him to soothe and comfort him, and some one might have anticipated his uneasiness at finding himself alone amongst strangers. Anyhow they would not have been as strangers to him, for he afterwards acknowledged, on being questioned, that had Miss Mary been sleeping in the room, he should not have done as he did. But now to my remark, those who strive to do best have the most tender consciences, and the more one strives after right the more scrupulous and tender does the conscience become, and the more does it aspire after noble feelings and honourable thoughts and actions. This is a work of the Divine Spirit and of no mortal power, and it is a training for glory, purifying our hearts for a divine home, obtained for us through our Saviour's death and righteousness, and in familiar language we will liken it after this manner. Supposing two children stand side by side in the open street, one is the child of a king, nicely drest and delicately clean, as would be expected from his noble birth and expectation, the other is the little hedge-side vagrant, to whose young face water or cleansing has probably been unknown. Imagine, then, ought passing these two children, which could pollute their persons, what would be their feelings? the one might even laugh at the filth or mud that bespattered him, the other would shrink with loathing or disgust, and would not be easy or comfortable till every effort was taken to remove the stain. And we are children of the King of kings, we are washed and clothed by Him, and the more our garments are fitted for our future station, the fairer are our inward persons; the more do we feel annoyed and grieved by any foul spot, which could sully their purity and disfigure their beauty. My young readers remember this, and smile no more at sin; aye, and shun carefully its stains that would pollute you, and when they do alight upon you, remember whose blood alone it is can purge away their slightest trace.

Poor Mary had no breakfast that morning, nor no comfort nor rest either, for after searching for the child all over the house, she must needs look for him in the gardens, the pleasure grounds, the lawn, behind each tree and shrub, and even in the stables and offices, but no Reuben was to be met with, and the dear little girl, when wearied out with searching sat down to weep and lament herself, starting up occasionally when some fresh place came to her mind, and running to it, but to meet with disappointment and increased alarm. But Mary was not alone in the search, for both Mr. and Mrs. Jameson were full of anxiety respecting the child, and trusty men were sent in all directions to look after the lost one; and when Mr. Jameson spoke to his lady on the imprudence of having invited so young a child, she replied, that having given permission to their son to ask a certain number of young people, she had not attended to him when he named the bidden guests, taking it for granted that a boy of thirteen would prefer companions of his own size to a child of Reuben's tender age. And now it came out from Edward how Marten had refused to come without his brother, and that Mr. and Mrs. Mortimer were from home, and this, as might be expected, added not a little to the distress of Mr. and Mrs. Jameson, for hitherto they had thought the child had visited them with the permission of his parents, and now that they heard that those parents were at Portsmouth, they were more and more uneasy, and they blamed themselves not a little for having been so indulgent in their direction to Edward. "But, indeed," said Mrs. Jameson, "one could not have foreseen these circumstances, and when I saw little Reuben seated by Mary at the dinner table, though I wondered at his presence, yet he seemed so happy I believed all was right with him." But the lesson was not lost upon Mr. and Mrs. Jameson, nor on Edward, and I am happy to say, in future the latter was more ready to ask advice of his parents than before this affair, for he too was very uneasy about Reuben. As to Marten, without thinking of his hat, on learning that the child could not be found in the house nor in the pleasure grounds, he told one of the men who was sent with him by Mr. Jameson, that he should go home as fast as he could to see if his brother might not have made his way there, or at least be met with upon the road. The distance from one house to the other was, as I said before, four miles, and though poor Marten had little expectation that the tender child could find his way so far, even if he knew the right road, yet he understood the little one so well, that he felt convinced he would at least attempt to get to his home, so that he considered it useless to look for him in any other direction. And now we must leave the unhappy and alarmed brother to speak of little Reuben, who was left, as we mentioned, by Jenkins in the sitting-room with a few toys near him. Never had Reuben been so left to himself before, but still for a short time, though it was for a very short time he was content, then came a wish for his breakfast, and with it the remembrance that if his mamma had been with him he would even then be in her dressing-room. She would be listening to his prattle, or he would be occupied in doing something for her which he considered was useful, but which in reality she could herself have done with half the time that she was obliged to give to her baby boy. The thoughts of his mamma made the forlorn one cry, and call upon her name, but no one heard his sobs or saw his tears, and with it came a recollection of the sorrows of yesterday, and he suddenly thought "Where is Marten? Where can Marten be? Is he gone? Has he left Reuben?" The idea was not to be borne by the poor child in a state of quietness, he rose from his seat, dropped his toys from his lap, and without looking back he went to the door, which being ajar he opened wider and passed through into the gallery. His friends, he believed, had left him; they were at home. His mamma, too, he thought, might be there with his papa and Marten, and, anyhow, he was sure Nurse was there, Nurse who loved him so, and whom he loved so dearly. So down the stairs stepped the sorrowing baby, holding the banisters with both small hands, for it was necessary for him in descending the steps to have both feet at one time on each, and noiselessly almost did he proceed, for his fairy tread made no sound, and his sobs were tried to be suppressed, in the earnest determination to attempt to find his way to his home. And now he reached the last step, and lightly did he run across the hall to the great door, which was open, and with some difficulty, for there were more steps; he arrived at the carriage drive between the house and lawn, whereon he had seen the lamb the day before.

And now would I could picture the little one, as he stood in his short red frock, blown by the breeze which showed his dimpled knee, for his white sock did not extend much above his shoe. His arms, neck, and head were without covering, and his pretty curls played around his face in graceful confusion. Calling on his mamma and upon Marten, he took the carriage drive towards the gates, so far not having a doubt he was in the direction of his home, and unseen by any one, he passed through a small gate into the high road. Here he might have been puzzled which way to take, if it had not been for a clump of eight elm trees on the left hand road, and he had often heard John and Marten talk of those elm trees, for they were called the "Nine Elms," and yet Marten had said there were only eight now, and whenever he had gone to Mr. Jameson's with his papa and mamma, and John who drove them, John had kept the carriage waiting under the elms, and he used to put Reuben out of the carriage amidst the trees, to run in and out amongst them, touching one after the other, whilst John taught him to count them, saying one, two, three, four, and so on. So Reuben knew he must pass the elm trees, and as he was just awake, and the morning fresh and pleasant, his small feet carried him along some way nicely, and even swiftly, and for a few minutes, they were not many, all seemed promising, and the inexperienced one believed he should soon be at his home. After the clump of trees, the baby so confidently considered he was in the right way, that when he came to a place where two roads joined the one up which he had ran, he never looked about him, fancying they must both go to his home, and not yet being weary, he took, as might be feared, the wrong turn, and soon he heard distinctly the roaring of a cascade, much famed in those parts, as it dashed over the rocks in the direction in which he was going Now Reuben knew the sound of the cascade, for he had lived near it all his young life, and he knew it was not far from his home; but he did not consider that he never passed it on his way from his father's house to Mr. Jameson's, but still, not mistrusting the road he was going, he ran along till he suddenly found by a turn of the lane, that he was in full front of the stream. The child however was not disconcerted by this, and the fresh air meeting him, and for the moment raising his spirits, he stepped on over the loose stones brought down at different times by the waters, boldly, and even gaily, though his course was impeded by the unevenness of the way. He must have stepped on some distance, when all of a sudden he was unable to proceed farther along the path, by the jutting out of a rock into the stream, for the water was pouring down rapidly and more profusely than was general, for there had been heavy rains in the mountains, and thus the bed of the torrent was fully covered, its width being very inconsiderable beneath the rock. The spot was one wholly unknown to the child, and surely it was a terrible sight to meet the eye of a babe, who hitherto had not known what it was to be left without a mother's or nurse's care. The place was in the heart of a mountain gorge, famed for its rare beauty, and the cascade came dashing from the rocks, which were very bold and picturesque in the little creek or gully where the child stood. The water, as I said, was pouring down white with foam, and majestically pursuing its course, shaking the earth around with its terrible roarings.

Fancy our little forlorn one then standing under the shelter of the rock, which, hanging over him in rough masses, threatened to fall an crush his baby form, the stream rushing impetuously at his feet, and one little place beneath the rock, in fact part of the rock itself being somewhat elevated from the bed of the stream below, forming his only secure and dry resting place. I have said before, he had no covering on fit for walking attire, his arms, neck, and head being fully exposed to the breezes which now blew cruelly on his young figure, so that he could scarcely keep his feet, and glad was he to creep under the shelter of the threatening rock. There he stood looking around him in wild despair, for he had raised his voice to cry for pity, and its infant tones were not heard amidst the roaring waters; again and again he looked round him, but no help was there, and he trembled more from fear than cold. He was frightened at the roaring waters, for they seemed to him to be approaching, and wholly overcome with fear and wretchedness, and quite incapable of contending against his unhappy situation, he crouched beneath the threatening rock, too miserable to shed a tear. "Mamma, mamma," he said, -- "Mamma, mamma," and that weak cry was repeated again and again, though no human ear could hear his sorrows or soothe his cries. Poor baby, what availed it then? your earthly father was the tenderest of parents -- he could not have foreseen this trouble, and therefore he could not have been armed against it, but your heavenly Father's eye was on you, little one, and his eyes are ever on infants, the loveliest beings of his creation, and he who spared Nineveh, because there were in that wicked city more than six score thousand souls, who knew not their right hands from their left, still watches over his babies now, for has he not said of "Such is the kingdom of heaven."

But observe the little one, what makes his cry of 'Mamma, Mamma,' cease? the babe has heard a sound, a pleasant sound, and he forgets his trouble. It is the sweet song of a bird upon a branch of a tree on the rock above him, and the bird likes the morning air and the sound of the waters, and he is singing his song of joy, and Reuben listened to him and was pleased, and then the little bird hopped down from his high perch and came lower and lower till he was quite close to the child, so close that the little one held out his hand, which frightened away the pretty bird, and Reuben was once more alone again, and commenced his cry of "Mamma, Mamma, come to Reuben, Mamma." But the bird had come to the rock because it had seen some bright berries on the bushes there, and before it had began its song it had pecked off one or two with its bill, or perhaps it might have been that other birds had pecked them off, and then rejected them, or the wind might have blown them from the parent bush; be that as it may, there were about as many as a dozen red berries scattered on the ground, where the little bird had hopped, and Reuben had seen them in looking at the bird, and now he began to collect them, looking here and there to find some more, and he thought if he put them into a nice heap together, their bright red colour would draw thither another singing bird to visit him. So he collected his berries, and tried to pile them together, and thus more time passed, for whilst doing so, every little thing seemed to divert his attention -- a skeleton leaf, a small flower, a smooth pebble, a drop of water sparkling in the sunshine, all attracted his infant eye, and thus, as we might say, his heavenly Father watched over the boy and soothed him from the real sorrows of his situation, till the time of his deliverance was at hand. And are we not children of a large growth? are not our sorrows soothed and relieved by our Creator's mercies? and are not innocent pleasures and consolations put in the way of every child of God? and it is our own fault, yes, our own fault, and very much are we to blame when we reject the blessings of consolations offered us. "When our Saviour left us, he promised to send us a comforter to abide with us for ever." John xiv. 16; and as the Divine Spirit never fails in his fulfilment of his promises, be assured, you mourners, if you are not comforted, it is because you will not accept the consolation offered to you; for he has said, "I will not leave you comfortless, for he shall dwell with you, and shall be in you." John xiv. 17 and 18.

But why does little Reuben suddenly move his curls from off his cheek? why does he listen, as he never listened before? and why does a merry little laugh escape his lips? and then he listens again, and now he does not laugh, but springing to his feet, with arms extended, he calls out "Nero, Nero." It is not that Nero hears that baby voice, it is not that the noble dog responds to the call, for the soft sound is lost amidst the roar of the waters; but he who fed Elijah by the means of ravens, and taught the dove to bear the olive leaf to Noah, has guided hither to the child a sure and safe conductor to his home. Look, look there! across the stream stands Nero. Nero let out by Thomas for a wild run for exercise as directed first by Mr. Mortimer, and then by Marten; there he stood, his eyes red with eagerness, his tongue protruding, and panting and impatient as not knowing where next to turn his agile bounds. But not for another moment did this hesitation continue, for Reuben ran to the edge of the rock, both arms extended, and scarcely able for the breeze to keep his little feet firm upon the ground. "Nero, Nero," he cried, and almost ere his lips had closed, after the appeal, the noble dog, with a glorious bound sprang from stepping-stone to stepping-stone across the stream, and had overwhelmed the boy with his caresses. What mattered it to Reuben, that his kind friend in his joy at their meeting had absolutely overturned the child upon the ground? What cared he for that? It was Nero, his own Nero, his Nero from home, and Reuben did so love him, and Nero returned his love so warmly, and they were always so happy together, and there was no danger to be feared for Reuben, whilst the faithful animal was by him, which he had power to ward off. Reuben had recognised the dog's bark even amidst the waters roar, and that had made him laugh, for he never doubted that Nero would come to him shortly. And now I don't know how to tell how the rest happened, for in truth Reuben never could explain how things went on, particularly after the arrival of Nero, and there was no other living thing in that solitude but the child and dog. All that Reuben could recollect afterwards was, that he was cold and hungry, and that he wished to get home, and that Nero, too, seemed even more anxious than himself to get home, but Reuben dared not cross the stream, and Nero seemed almost as unwilling as himself to take the child across, and yet the faithful creature would not leave the boy for more able assistance. Reuben was frightened at the threatening rock above his head, and yet he knew not how to leave it, for he had run on far enough to lose the way to the lane which led to Mr. Jameson's, and he was frightened at all around, and shivering and hungry, for he had tasted no food that morning.

At last, finding all his efforts useless to tempt the little one across the stream, a new idea seemed to strike the sensible dog, for Nero was very sensible. He seemed all of a sudden to bethink himself that there might be another road home; and taking hold of Reuben's dress in his mouth, he attempted to draw him along the road the child had come. Now to this the little one was rather inclined, for he believed it would take him home, but on attempting to walk he found that he had hurt his foot before he had reached the rock, and that the cold air had made it stiff and painful. Poor Reuben was going to cry, and then I do not know what would have happened if Nero, finding out that something was wrong, had not seated himself beside the child on the ground to comfort him; and in so doing, reminded Reuben that Marten always told Nero to sit on the ground before he told his brother to get on the dog's back for a ride, for Reuben often took a ride on Nero's back. And now, then, fancy the child seated upon Nero, who rose at once gently from the ground, and with great care and stateliness commenced his progress homewards. It is said that a white elephant will not allow any one to ride upon him who is not of royal descent, and then the king of beasts steps on with full consciousness of the honour of his kingly burthen; but what could his pride be, compared with that of Nero's, as the faithful creature stepped on and on with his infant rider? It was not, after all, so slow a progress as might have been imagined, and as it is believed the dog followed the scent of the child's footsteps, he naturally went up the lane the little one had trod that morning. On arriving where the road divided, Nero was, however, no longer at a loss, for he knew which direction his own home lay, and Nero was not likely to be tempted elsewhere than home, for if he could have reasoned he would have said, in as strong terms as nurse herself could have used, that Reuben had better be at home than anywhere else whilst he was so young. Nero, as I said, now knew the road, for he had often accompanied the different members of Mr. Mortimer's family when they went to visit Mr. Jameson's, and how carefully, on account of his young rider, did he step on his way towards home.

And now I could say a great deal upon the fidelity of Nero, the trustfulness of Reuben, and the useful lesson the little one was learning; but I am anxious to speak of Marten and nurse, and all those who loved the child and trembled for his loss. And yet I cannot talk of their distress, the deep deep remorse of Marten, his full and complete acknowledgment of his own carelessness and ignorance of himself, so that nurse could not even say one word to him, though her tears and sobs were a deep reproach. No, I cannot speak of this, I would rather tell of how in the midst of all this trouble, tears were changed to smiles, and even laughter took the place of sobs, when Reuben came riding into the court yard tired, cold, and hungry, it is true, but no little important at his wonderful adventure. And then came such kisses and caresses, such warming by the kitchen fire, such a comfortable breakfast for the child, such luxuries for the dog, which Reuben was allowed to bestow; and then such runnings hither and thither to inform all the kind searchers all was right with the child, and such congratulations, that I should never have done, if I attempt but to repeat one half of them; so let me conclude in these words of the apostle, "Let no man say when he is tempted, I am tempted of God: for God cannot be tempted with evil, neither tempteth he any man. But every man is tempted when he is drawn away of his own lust and enticed. Then when lust hath conceived, it bringeth forth sin; and sin when it is finished, bringeth forth death." James i. 13, 14, 15. But our Saviour has declared, "I will ransom them from the power of the grave. I will redeem them from death. Oh! death, I will be thy plague: Oh! grave, I will be thy destruction." Hosea xiii. 14.

By this little narrative we are taught that whoever fills himself up with the belief that he is wise and clever, will be apt, like Marten, to fall into some sort of trouble, which he did not look forward to. All the wisdom of man lies in knowing that unless he is guided in all his actions by his heavenly Father, he is sure to go wrong, let his age or condition be what it may. If little Reuben had been really lost or hurt, very severe indeed would have been the punishment of Marten for his conceit, but God in his tender love let him off for his fright only; which, however, we doubt not, was sharp enough to make him remember the lesson all his life.

It is well for poor sinful men, women, and children, however, that they have a brother, even the Lord the Saviour in his human person, who cannot forget them as Marten forgot Reuben, no, not for one moment.

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Pictures Every Child Should Know: A Selection Of The World's Art Masterpieces For Young People

By

Dolores Bacon



I

Andrea Del Sarto


(Pronounced Ahn'dray-ah del Sar'to) Florentine School 1486-1531 Pupil of Piero di Cosimo

Italian painters received their names in peculiar ways. This man's father was a tailor; and the artist was named after his father's profession. He was in fact "the Tailor's Andrea," and his father's name was Angelo.

One story of this brilliant painter which reads from first to last like a romance has been told by the poet, Browning, who dresses up fact so as to smother it a little, but there is truth at the bottom.

Andrea married a wife whom he loved tenderly. She had a beautiful face that seemed full of spirituality and feeling, and Andrea painted it over and over again. The artist loved his work and dreamed always of the great things that he should do; but he was so much in love with his wife that he was dependent on her smile for all that he did which was well done, and her frown plunged him into despair.

Andrea's wife cared nothing for his genius, painting did not interest her, and she had no worthy ambition for her husband, but she loved fine clothes and good living, and so encouraged him enough to keep him earning these things for her. As soon as some money was made she would persuade him to work no more till it was spent; and even when he had made agreements to paint certain pictures for which he was paid in advance she would torment him till he gave all of his time to her whims, neglected his duty and spent the money for which he had rendered no service. Thus in time he became actually dishonest, as we shall see. It is a sad sort of story to tell of so brilliant a young man.

Andrea was born in the Gualfonda quarter of Florence, and there is some record of his ancestors for a hundred years before that, although their lives were quite unimportant. Andrea was one of four children, and as usual with Italians of artistic temperament, he was set to work under the eye of a goldsmith. This craftsmanship of a fine order was as near to art as a man could get with any certainty of making his living. It was a time when the Italian world bedecked itself with rare golden trinkets, wreaths for women's hair, girdles, brooches, and the like, and the finest skill was needed to satisfy the taste. Thus it required talent of no mean order for a man to become a successful goldsmith.

Andrea did not like the work, and instead of fashioning ornaments from his master's models he made original drawings which did not do at all in a shop where an apprentice was expected to earn his salt. Certain fashions had to be followed and people did not welcome fantastic or new designs. Because of this, Andrea was early put out of his master's shop and set to learn the only business that he could be got to learn, painting. This meant for him a very different teacher from the goldsmith.

The artist may be said to have been his own master, because, even when he was apprenticed to a painter he was taught less than he already knew.

That first teacher was Barile, a coarse and unpleasing man, as well as an incapable one; but he was fair minded, after a fashion, and put Andrea into the way of finding better help. After a few years under the direction of Piero di Cosimo, Andrea and a friend, Francia Bigio, decided to set up shop for themselves.

The two devoted friends pitched their tent in the Piazza del Grano, and made a meagre beginning out of which great things were to grow. They began a series of pictures which was to lead at least one of them to fame. It was in the little Piazza, del Grano studio that the "Baptism of Christ" was painted, a partnership work that had been planned in the Campagnia dello Scalzo.

"The Baptism" was not much of a picture as great pictures go, but it was a beginning and it was looked at and talked about, which was something at a time when Titian and Leonardo had set the standard of great work. In the Piazza del Grano, Andrea and his friend lived in the stables of the Tuscan Grand Dukes, with a host of other fine artists, and they had gay times together.

Andrea was a shy youth, a little timid, and by no means vain of his own work, but he painted with surprising swiftness and sureness, and had a very brilliant imagination. Its was his main trouble that he had more imagination than true manhood; he sacrificed everything good to his imagination.

After the partnership with his friend, he undertook to paint some frescoes independently, and that work earned for him the name of "Andrea senza Errori" -- Andrea the Unerring. Then, as now, each artist had his own way of working, and Andrea's was perhaps the most difficult of all, yet the most genius-like. There were those, Michael Angelo for example, who laid in backgrounds for their paintings; but Andrea painted his subject upon the wet plaster, precisely as he meant it to be when finished.

He was unlike the moody Michael Angelo; unlike the gentle Raphael; unlike the fastidious Van Dyck who came long afterward; he was hail-fellow-well-met among his associates, though often given over to dreaminess. He belonged to a jolly club named the "Kettle Club," literally, the Company of the Kettle; and to another called "The Trowel," both suggesting an all around good time and much good fellowship The members of these clubs were expected to contribute to their wonderful suppers, and Andrea on one occasion made a great temple, in imitation of the Baptistry, of jelly with columns of sausages, white birds and pigeons represented the choir and priests. Besides being "Andrew the Unerring," and a "Merry Andrew," he was also the "Tailor's Andrew," a man in short upon whom a nickname sat comfortably. He helped to make the history of the "Company of the Kettle," for he recited and probably composed a touching ballad called "The Battle of the Mice and the Frogs," which doubtless had its origin in a poem of Homer's. But all at once, in the midst of his gay careless life came his tragedy; he fell in love with a hatter's wife. This was quite bad enough, but worse was to come, for the hatter shortly died, and the widow was free to marry Andrea.

After his marriage Andrea began painting a series of Madonnas, seemingly for no better purpose than to exhibit his wife's beauty over and over again. He lost his ambition and forgot everything but his love for this unworthy woman. She was entirely commonplace, incapable of inspiring true genius or honesty of purpose.

A great art critic, Vasari, who was Andrea's pupil during this time, has written that the wife, Lucretia, was abominable in every way. A vixen, she tormented Andrea from morning till night with her bitter tongue. She did not love him in the least, but only what his money could buy for her, for she was extravagant, and drove the sensitive artist to his grave while she outlived him forty years.

About the time of the artist's marriage he painted one fresco, "The Procession of the Magi," in which he placed a very splendid substitute for his wife, namely himself. Afterward he painted the Dead Christ which found its way to France and it laid the foundation for Andrea's wrongdoing. This picture was greatly admired by the King of France who above all else was a lover of art. Francis I. asked Andrea to go to his court, as he had commissions for him. He made Andrea a money offer and to court he went.

He took a pupil with him, but he left his wife at home. At the court of Francis I. he was received with great honours, and amid those new and gracious surroundings, away from the tantalising charms of his wife and her shrewish tongue, he began to have an honest ambition to do great things. His work for France was undertaken with enthusiasm, but no sooner was he settled and at peace, than the irrepressible wife began to torment him with letters to return. Each letter distracted him more and more, till he told the King in his despair, that he must return home, but that he would come back to France and continue his work, almost at once. Francis I., little suspecting the cause of Andrea's uneasiness, gave him permission to go, and also a large sum of money to spend upon certain fine works of art which he was to bring back to France.

We can well believe that Andrea started back to his home with every good intention; that he meant to appease his wife and also his own longing to see her; to buy the King his pictures with the money entrusted to him, and to return to France and finish his work; but, alas, he no sooner got back to his wife than his virtuous purpose fled. She wanted this; she wanted that -- and especially she wanted a fine house which could just about be built for the sum of money which the King of France had entrusted to Andrea.

Andrea is a pitiable figure, but he was also a vagabond, if we are to believe Vasari. He took the King's money, built his wretched wife a mansion, and never again dared return to France, where his dishonesty made him forever despised.

Afterward he was overwhelmed with despair for what he had done, and he tried to make his peace with Francis; but while that monarch did not punish him directly for his knavery; he would have no more to do with him, and this was the worst punishment the artist could have had. However, his genius was so great that other than French people forgot his dishonesty and he began life anew in his native place.

Almost all his pictures were on sacred subjects; and finally, when driven from Florence to Luco by the plague, taking with him his wife and stepdaughter, he began a picture called the "Madonna del Sacco" (the Madonna of the Sack).

This fresco was to adorn the convent of the Servi, and the sketches for it were probably made in Luco. When the plague passed and the artist was able to return to Florence, he began to paint it upon the cloister walls.

Andrea, like Leonardo, painted a famous "Last Supper," although the two pictures cannot be compared. In Andrea's picture it is said that all the faces are portraits.

Just before the plague sent him and his family from Florence a most remarkable incident took place. Raphael had painted a celebrated portrait of Pope Leo X. in a group, and the picture belonged to Ottaviano de Medici. Duke Frederick II., of Mantua, longed to own this picture, and at last requested the Medici to give it to him. The Duke could not well be refused, but Ottaviano wanted to keep so great a work for himself. What was to be done? He was in great trouble over the affair. The situation seemed hopeless. It seemed certain that he must part with his beloved picture to the Duke of Mantua; but one day Andrea del Sarto declared that he could make a copy of it that even Raphael himself could not tell from his original. Ottaviano could scarcely believe this, but he begged Andrea to set about it, hoping that it might be true.

Going at the work in good earnest, Andrea painted a copy so exact that the pupil of Raphael, who had more or less to do with the original picture, could not tell which was which when he was asked to choose. This pupil, Giulio Romano, was so familiar with every stroke of Raphael's that if he were deceived surely any one might be; so the replica was given to the Duke of Mantua, who never found out the difference.

Years afterward Giulio Romano showed the picture to Vasari, believing it to be the original Raphael, neither Andrea nor the Medici having told Romano the truth. But Vasari, who knew the whole story, declared to Romano that what he showed him was but a copy. Romano would not believe it, but Vasari told him that he would find upon the canvas a certain mark, known to be Andrea's. Romano looked, and behold, the original Raphael became a del Sarto! The original picture hangs in the Pitti Palace, while the copy made by Andrea is in the Naples Gallery.

The introduction of Andrea to Vasari was one of the few gracious things, that Michael Angelo ever did. About Andrea he said to Raphael at the time: "There is a little fellow in Florence who will bring sweat to your brows if ever he is engaged in great works." Raphael, would certainly have agreed, with him had he known what was to happen in regard to the Leo X. picture.

Notwithstanding Andrea's unfortunate temperament, which caused him to be guided mostly by circumstances instead of guiding them, he was said to be improving all the time in his art. He had a great many pupils, but none of them could tolerate his wife for long, so they were always changing.

Throughout his life the artist longed for tenderness and encouragement from his wife, and finally, without ever receiving it, he died in a desolate way, untended even by her. After the siege of Florence there came a pestilence, and Andrea was overtaken by it. His wife, afraid that she too would become ill, would have nothing to do with him. She kept away and he died quite alone, few caring that he was dead and no one taking the trouble to follow him to his grave. Thus one of the greatest of Florentine painters lived and died. Years after his death, the artist Jacopo da Empoli, was copying Andrea's "Birth of the Virgin" when an old woman of about eighty years on her way to mass stopped to speak with him. She pointed to the beautiful Virgin's face in the picture and said: "I am that woman." And so she was -- the widow of the great Andrea. Though she had treated him so cruelly, she was glad to have it known that she was the widow of the dead genius.

PLATE -- THE MADONNA DEL SACCO (Madonna of the Sack)

This picture is a fresco in the cloister of the Annunziata at Florence, and it is called "of the sack" because Joseph is posed leaning against a sack, a book open upon his knees.

Doubtless the model for this Madonna is Andrea del Sarto's abominable wife, but she looks very sweet and simple in the picture. The folds of Mary's garments are beautifully painted, so is the poise of her head, and all the details of the picture except the figure of the child. There is a line of stiffness there and it lacks the softness of many other pictures of the Infant Jesus.

Plate -- The Holy Family

In this picture in the Pitti Palace, Florence, Andrea del Sarto represents all the characters in a serious mood. There are St. John and Elizabeth, Mary and the Infant Jesus, and there is no touch of playfulness such as may be found in similar groups by other artists of the time. Attention is concentrated upon Jesus who seems to be learning from his young cousin. The left hand, resting upon Mary's arm is badly drawn and in character does not seem to belong to the figure of the child. A full, overhanging upper lip is a dominant feature in each face.

Other works of Andrea del Sarto are "Charity," which is in the Louvre; "Madonna dell' Arpie," "A Head of Christ," "The Dead Christ," "Four Saints," "Joseph in Egypt," his own portrait, and "Joseph's Dream."



II

Michael Angelo (Buonarroti)


(Pronounced Meek-el-ahn-jel-o (Bwone-ar-ro'tee)) Florentine School 1475-1564 Pupil of Ghirlandajo

This wonderful man did more kinds of things, at a time when almost all artists were versatile, than any other but one. Probably Leonardo da Vinci was gifted in as many different ways as Michael Angelo, and in his own lines was as powerful. This Florentine's life was as tragic as it was restless.

There is a tablet in a room of a castle which stands high upon a rocky mount, near the village of Caprese, which tells that Michael Angelo was born in that place. The great castle is now in ruins, and more than four hundred years of fame have passed since the little child was born therein.

The unhappy existence of the artist seems to have been foreshadowed by an accident which happened to his mother before he was born. She was on horseback, riding with her husband to his official post at Chiusi, for he was governor of Chiusi and Caprese. Her horse stumbled, fell, and badly hurt her. This was two months before Michael Angelo was born, and misfortune ever pursued him.

The father of Angelo was descended from an aristocratic house -- the Counts of Canossa were his ancestors -- and in that day the profession of an artist was not thought to be dignified. Hence the father had quite different plans for the boy; but the son persisted and at last had his way. When he was still a little child his father finished his work as an official at Caprese and returned to Florence; but he left the little Angelo behind with his nurse. That nurse was the wife of a stonemason, and almost as soon as the boy could toddle he used to wander about the quarries where the stonecutters worked, and doubtless the baby joy of Angelo was to play at chiseling as it is the pleasure of modern babies to play at peg-top. After a time he was sent for to go to Florence to begin his education.

In Florence he fell in with a young chap who, like himself, loved art, but who was fortunate enough already to be apprenticed to the great painter of his time -- Ghirlandajo. One happy day this young Granacci volunteered to take Michael Angelo to his master's studio, and there Angelo made such an impression on Ghirlandajo that he was urged by the artist to become his pupil.

All the world began to seem rose coloured to the ambitious boy, and he started his life-work with enthusiasm. At that time he was thirteen years old, full of hope and of love for his kind; but his good fortune did not last long. He had hardly settled to work in Ghirlandajo's studio than his genius, which should have made him beloved, made him hated by his master. Angelo drew superior designs, created new art-ideas, was more clever in all his undertakings than any other pupil -- even ahead of his master; and almost at once Ghirlandajo became furiously jealous. This enmity between pupil and master was the beginning of Angelo's many misfortunes.

One day he got into a dispute with a fellow student, Torregiano, who broke his nose. This deformity alone was a tragedy to one like Michael Angelo who loved everything beautiful, yet must go through life knowing himself to be ill-favoured.

In height he was a little man, topped by an abnormally large head which was part of the penalty he had to pay for his talents. He had a great, broad forehead, and an eye that did not gleam nor express the beauty of his creative mind, but was dull, and lustreless, matching his broken, flattened nose. Indeed he was a tragedy to himself. In the "History of Painting" Muther describes his unhappy disposition:

"In his youthful years he never learned what love meant. 'If thou wishest to conquer me,' in old age he addresses love, 'give me back my features, from which nature has removed all beauty.' Whenever in his sonnets he speaks of passion, it is always of pain and tears, of sadness and unrequited longing, never of the fulfilment of his wishes."

Then, too, Michael Angelo had a quarrelsome disposition, and he was harsh in his criticism of others. He hated Leonardo da Vinci more for his great physical beauty than for his genius. He quarreled with most of his contemporaries, never joined the assemblies of his brother artists, but dwelt altogether apart. His was a gloomy and melancholy disposition and he never found relief outside his work.

He was all kinds of an artist -- poet, sculptor, architect, painter -- and although he worked with the irregularity of true genius, he worked indefatigably when once he began. It is said that when he was making his "David" he never removed his clothing the whole time he was employed upon the work, but dropped down when too exhausted to work more, and slept wherever he fell.

His first flight from the workshop of Ghirlandajo was to the gardens of the great Florentine prince, Lorenzo de' Medici, who had sent to Ghirlandajo for two of his best pupils. He wished them to come to his gardens and study the beautiful Greek statues which ornamented them. The choice fell to Angelo and Granacci. Probably those statues in Lorenzo's garden were the first glimpses of really great art that Michael Angelo ever had. Certain it is that he was overwhelmed with happiness when he was given permission to copy what he would, and at once he fell to work with his chisel. His first work in that garden was upon the head of an old faun; and Lorenzo, walking by, curious to know to what use the lad was putting his opportunity, made a criticism:

"You have made your faun old," he said, "yet you have left all the teeth; at such an age, generally the teeth are wanting."

Angelo had nothing to say and the prince walked on, but when next he came that way, he found that Angelo had broken off two of the faun's teeth; and this recognition of his criticism pleased Lorenzo so much that he invited Angelo to live with him. At first his father objected. He felt himself to be an aristocrat, and sculpture and painting were indeed low occupations for his son, who he had resolved should be nothing less than a silk merchant. Nevertheless, the prince's command, united with the son's pleading, compelled the father to give up his cherished dream of making a merchant of him, and Angelo went to live in the palace.

Then indeed what seemed a beautiful life opened out. He was dressed in fine clothing, dined with princes, and possibly he was grateful to his patron. Some historians say so, and add that when Lorenzo died Angelo wept, and returned sadly to his father's house to mourn, but this tale seems at odds with what else we know of Angelo's unangelic, envious and bitter disposition. It is quite certain, however, that with the death of Lorenzo, Angelo's, fortunes became greatly changed. Another prince followed in line -- Pietro de' Medici -- but he was a poor thing, who brought little good to anybody. He had small use for Michael Angelo's genius, but it is said that he did give him one commission. After a great storm one day, he asked him to make a snow-man for him, and Angelo obligingly complied. It was doubtless a very beautiful snow-man, but although it was Angelo's it melted in the night, even as if it had been Johnny's or Tommy's snow-man, and left no trace behind.

In Rome there was a high and haughty pope on the throne -- Julius II. -- who had probably not his match for obstinacy and haughtiness, excepting in the great painter and sculptor. When Angelo went to Rome, he was bound to come in conflict with Julius for it was popes and princes who gave art any reason for being in those days, and the Church prescribed what kind of art should be cultivated. Michael was to come directly under the command of the pope and such a combination promised trouble. Kings themselves had to remove their crowns and hats to Julius, and why not Michael Angelo? Yet there he stood, covered, before the pope, opposing his greatness to that of the pope. Soderini says that Angelo treated the pope as the king of France never would have dared treat him; but Angelo may have known that kings of France might be born and die, times without number, while there would never be born another Michael Angelo. There could be nothing but antagonism between Angelo and Julius, and soon after the artist returned to Florence; but the necessity for following his profession enabled Julius to tame him after all, and it is said that the pope led him back to Rome, later, "with a halter about his neck." This must have been agony to Angelo.

Back in Rome, he was commissioned to make a tomb for the pope. He had no sooner set about the preliminaries -- the getting of suitable marble for his work -- than he began to quarrel with the men who were to hew it. When that difficulty was settled, and the marble was got out, he had a set-to with the shipowners who were to transport the stone, and that row became so serious that the sculptor was besieged in his own house.

At another and later time, when he was engaged upon the frescoes of the Sistine Chapel, he was made to work by force. He accused the man who had built the scaffolding upon which he must stand, or lie, to paint, of planning his destruction. He suspected the very assistants whom he, himself, had chosen to go from Florence, of having designs upon his life. He locked the chapel against them, and they had to turn away when they went to begin work. Because of his insane suspicion he did alone the enormous work of the frescoes. Doubtless he was half mad, just as he was wholly a genius.

By the time he had finished those frescoes he was so exhausted and overworked that he wrote piteously to his people at home, "I have not a friend in Rome, neither do I wish nor have use for any." This of course was not true; or he would not have made the statement. "I hardly find time to take nourishment. Not an ounce more can I bear than already rests upon my shoulders." Even when the work was done he felt no happiness because of it, but complained about everything and everybody.

If Angelo thought this an unhappy day, worse was in store for him. Julius II. died and in his place there came to reign upon the papal throne, Leo X. If Michael Angelo had been restricted in his work before, he was almost jailed under Leo X. Julius had been a virile, forceful man, and Michael Angelo was the same. Since he must be restrained and dictated to, it was possible for the artist to listen to a man who was in certain respects strong like himself, but to be under the thumb of a weak, effeminate person like Leo, was the tragedy of tragedies to Angelo. That was a marvellous time in Rome. All its citizens had become so pleasure-loving that the world, stood still to wonder. When the pope banqueted, he had the golden plates from which fair women had eaten hurled into the Tiber, that they might never be profaned by a less noble use than they had known. From all this riot and madness of pleasure, Michael Angelo stood aside with frowning brow and scornful mien. He approved of nothing and of nobody -- despising even Raphael, the gentle and loving man whom the pleasure-crazed people of Rome paused to smile upon and love. The pope said that Angelo was "terrible," and that he filled everybody with fear.

Finally, Rome so resented his frowning looks and his surly ways that work was provided for him at a distance. He was sent to Florence again to build a facade. While there, the city was conquered, and Angelo was one who fought for its freedom, but even so, he fled just at the crisis. Thus he ever did the wrong thing -- excepting when he worked. In Florence he had planned to do mighty things, but he never accomplished any one of them. He planned to make a wonderful colossal statue on a cliff near Carrara, and also he resolved to make the tomb of Julius the nucleus of a "forest of statues."

Michael Angelo never married, but he was burdened with a family and all its cares. He supported his brothers and even his nephews, and took care of his father. All of those people came to him with their difficulties and with their demands for money. He chided, quarreled, repelled, yet met every obligation. He would sit beside the sick-bed of a servant the night through, but growl at the demands of his near relatives -- and it is not unlikely that he had good reason.

At last he withdrew himself from all human society but that of little children, whom he cared to speak with and to please. He would have naught to do with men of genius like himself; and when he fell from a scaffolding and injured himself, the physician had to force his way through a barred window, in order to get into the sick man's presence to serve him.

An illustration of his determined solitude is given in the "Young People's Story of Art:"

"There had long been lying idle in Florence an immense block of marble. One hundred years before a sculptor had tried to carve something from it, but had failed. This was now given to Michael Angelo. He was to be paid twelve dollars a month, and to be allowed two years in which to carve a statue. He made his design in wax; and then built a tower around the block, so that he might work inside without being seen."

Everything Angelo undertook bore the marks of gigantic enterprise. Although he never succeeded in making the tomb of Julius II. the central piece in his forest of statues, the undertaking was marvellous enough. His original plan was to make the tomb three stories high and to ornament it with forty statues, and if St. Peter's Church was large enough to hold it, the work was to be placed therein; but if not, a church was to be built specially to hold the tomb. When at last, in spite of his difficulties with workmen and shipowners, the marbles were deposited in the great square before St. Peter's, they filled the whole place; and the pope, wishing to watch the progress of the work and not himself to be observed, had a covered way built from the Vatican to the workshop of Angelo in the square, by which he might come and go as he chose, while an order was issued that the sculptor was to be admitted at all times to the Vatican. No sooner was this arrangement completed than Angelo's enemies frightened the pope by telling him there was danger in making his tomb before his death; and with these superstitions haunting him Julius II. stopped the work, leaving Angelo without the means to pay for his marbles. With the doors of the Vatican closed to him, Angelo withdrew, post haste to Florence -- and who can blame him? Nevertheless, the work was resumed after infinite trouble on the pope's part. He had to send again and again for Angelo and after forty years, the work was finished. There the sequel of the sculptor's forty-years war with self and the world stands to-day in "Moses," the wonderful, commanding central figure which seems to reflect all the fierce power which Angelo had to keep in check during a life-time.

The command of Julius that he should paint the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel aroused all his fierce resistance. He did it under protest, all the while accusing those about him of having designs upon his life.

"I am not a painter, but a sculptor," he said.

"Such a man as thou is everything that he wishes to be," the pope replied.

"But this is an affair of Raphael. Give him this room to paint and let me carve a mountain!" But no, he must paint the ceiling; but to render it easier for him the pope told him he might fill in the spaces with saints, and charge a certain amount for each. This Angelo, who was first of all an artist, refused to do. He would do the work rightly or not at all. So he made his own plans and cut himself a cardboard helmet, into the front of which he thrust a candle, as if it were a Davy lamp, and he lay upon his back to work day and night at the hated task. During those months he was compelled to look up so continually, that never afterward was he able to look down without difficulty. When he had finished the work Julius had some criticisms to make.

"Those dresses on your saints are such poor things," he said. "Not rich enough -- such very poor things!"

"Well, they were poor things," was Angelo's answer. "The saints did not wear golden ornaments, nor gold on their garments."

After Julius II. and Leo X. came Pope Paul III., and he, like the other two, determined to have Angelo for his workman. Indeed all his life, Michael Angelo's gifts were commanded by the Church of Rome. It was for Paul III. he painted the "Last Judgment." His former work upon the Sistine Chapel had been the story of the creation. All his work was of a mighty and allegorical nature; tremendous shoulders, mighty limbs, herculean muscles that seemed fit to support the universe. These allegories are made of hundreds of figures. To-day they are still there, though dimmed by the smoke of centuries of incense, and dismembered by the cracking of plaster and disintegration of materials.

Angelo's methods of work, as well as their results, were oppressive. In his youth, while trying to perfect himself in his study of the human form, he drew or modelled, from nude corpses. He had these conveyed by stealth from the hospital into the convent of Santo Spirito, where he had a cell and there he worked, alone.

He was concentrated, mentally and emotionally, upon himself. The only remark he made after the blow from Torregiano was, "You will be remembered only as the man who broke my nose!" This proved nearly true, since Torregiano was banished, and murdered by the Spanish Inquisition.

All sorts of anecdotes have floated through the centuries concerning this man and his work. For example, he made a statue of a sleeping cupid, which was buried in the ground for a time that it might assume the appearance of age, and pass for an antique. Afterward it was sold to the Cardinal San Giorgio for two hundred ducats, though Michael Angelo received only thirty. Nevertheless, he died a rich man, after having cared for a numerous family, while he himself lived like a man without means. All the tranquillity he ever knew he enjoyed in his old age.

It was characteristic of his perversity that he left his name upon nothing that he made, with one exception. Vasari relates the story of that exception:

"The love and care which Michael Angelo had given to this group, 'In Paradise,' were such that he there left his name -- a thing he never did again for any work -- on the cincture which girdles the robe of Our Lady; for it happened one day that Michael Angelo, entering the place where it was erected, found a large assemblage of strangers from Lombardy there, who were praising it highly; one of them asking who had done it, was told, 'our Hunchback of Milan'; hearing which Michael Angelo remained silent, although surprised that his work should be attributed to another. But one night he repaired to St. Peter's with a light and his chisels, to engrave his name on the figure, which seems to breathe a spirit as perfect as her form and countenance."

If his youth had been given to sculpture, his maturity to the painting of wondrous frescoes, so his old age was devoted to architecture, and as architect he rebuilt the decaying St. Peter's. In this work he felt that he partly realised his ideal. Sculpture meant more to him, "did more for the glory of God," than any other form of art. When he had finished his work on St. Peter's, he is said to have looked upon it and exclaimed: "I have hung the Pantheon in the air!"

This colossal genius died in Rome, and was carried by the light of torches from that city back to his better loved Florence, where he was buried. His tomb was made in the Santa Croce, and upon it are three female figures representing Michael Angelo's three wonderful arts: Architecture, sculpture and painting. No artist was greater than he.

His will committed "his soul to God, his body to the earth, and his property to his nearest relatives."

Plate -- Daniel

This wonderful painting is a part of the decoration of the Sistine Chapel in Rome. The picture of the prophet tells so much in itself, that a description seems absurd. It is enough to call attention to the powerful muscles in the arm, the fall of the hand, and then to speak of the main characteristics of the artist's pictures.

It is extraordinary that there is no blade of grass to be found in any painting by Michael Angelo. He loved to paint but one thing, and that was the naked man, the powerful muscles, or the twisted limbs of those in great agony. He loved only to work upon vast spaces of ceiling or wall. Look at this picture of Daniel and see how like sculpture the pose and modelling appear to be. First of all, Michael Angelo was a sculptor, and most of the painting which fate forced him to do has the characteristics of sculpture.

One critic has remarked that he loves to think of this strange man sitting before the marble quarry of Pietra Santa and thinking upon all the beings hidden in the cliff -- beings which he should fashion from the marble.

It was said that in Michael Angelo's hands the Holy Family became a race of Titans, and where others would have put plants or foliage, Angelo placed men and naked limbs to fill the space. When his subject made some sort of herbage necessary, he invented a kind of medieval fern in place of grass and familiar leaves. Everything appears brazen and hard and mighty, suggestive of Angelo's own throbbing spirit and maddened soul. Most of his work, when illustrated, must be shown not as a whole but in sections, but one can best mention them as entire picture themes. On the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel are nine frescoes describing "The Creation of The World," "The Fall of Man" and "The Deluge." "The Last Judgment" occupies the entire altar wall in the same chapel of the Vatican. "The Holy Family" is in the Uffizi Gallery, Florence.



III

Arnold Böcklin


(Pronounced Bek'-lin) Modern German School (Düsseldorf) 1827-1901

This splendid artist is so lately dead that it does not seem proper yet to discuss his personal history, but we can speak understandingly of his art, for we already know it to be great art, which will stand the test of time. His imagination turned toward subjects of solemn grandeur and his work is very impressive and beautiful.

He was born in Basel, "one of the most prosaic towns in Europe." His father was a Swiss merchant, and not poor; thus the son had ordinarily good chances to make an artist of himself. He was born at a time when to be an artist had long ceased to be a reproach, and men no longer discouraged their sons who felt themselves inspired to paint great pictures.

When Böcklin was nineteen years old he took himself to Düsseldorf, with his merchant father's permission, and settled down to learn his art, but in that city he found mostly "sentimental and anecdotal" pictures being painted, which did not suit him at all. Then he took himself off to Brussels, where again he was not satisfied, and so went to Paris. But while in Brussels he had copied many old masters, and had advanced himself very much, so that he did not present himself in Paris raw and untried in art.

At first he studied in the Louvre, then went to Rome, seeking ever the best, and being hard to satisfy. He found rest and tranquillity in Zurich, a city in his native country, but it was Italy that had most influenced his work.

He loved the Campagna of Rome with its ruins and the sad grandeur of the crumbling tombs lining its way, and therefore a certain mysterious, grand, and solemn character made his pictures unlike those of any other artist. He loved to paint in vertical (up-and-down) fines, rather than with the conventional horizontal outlines that we find in most paintings. This method gives his pictures a different quality from any others in the world.

He loved best of all to paint landscape, and it is said of him that "as the Greeks peopled their streams and woods and waves with creatures of their imagination, so Böcklin makes the waterfall take shape as a nymph, or the mists which rise above the water source wreathe into forms of merry children; or in some wild spot hurls centaurs together in fierce combat, or makes the slippery, moving wave give birth to Nereids and Tritons."

Muther, art-critic and biographer, calls our attention to the similarity between Wagner's music and Böcklin's painting. While Wagner was "luring the colours of sound from music," Böcklin's "symphonies of colour streamed forth like a crashing orchestra," and he calls him the greatest colour-poet of the time.

In appearance Böcklin was fine of form, healthy and wholesome in all his thoughts and way of living. In 1848 he took part in revolutionary politics and later this did him great harm. Only the influence of his friends kept him from ruin. After the Franco-Prussian war he was made Minister of Fine Arts. In this office he rendered great service; but because he had to witness the wrecking of the Column Vendôme in order to save the Louvre and the Luxembourg from the mob, he was censured; indeed so heavy a fine was imposed that it took his whole fortune to pay it; and he was banished into the bargain. From 1892 to 1901 he lived in or near Florence, and he died at Fiesole, January 16th, 1901.

Plate -- The Isle Of The Dead

This picture is perhaps the greatest of the many great Arnold Böcklin paintings, and it is both fascinating and awe-inspiring.

It best shows his liking for vertical lines in art. The Isle of the Dead is of a rocky, shaft-like formation in which we may see hewn-out tombs; and there, tall cypress trees are growing.

The traces of man's work in the midst of this sombre, ideal, and mystic scene add to the impressiveness of the picture. The isle stands high and lonely in the midst of a sea.

The water seems silently to lap the base of the rocks and the trees are in black shadow, massed in the centre. It looks very mysterious and still. There is a stone gateway touched with the light of a dying day. It is sunset and the dead is being brought to its resting place in a tiny boat, all the smaller for its relation to the gloomy grandeur of the isle which it is approaching. One figure is standing in the boat, facing the island, and the sunlight falls full upon his back and touches the boat, making that spot stand out brilliantly from all the rest of the picture.

Among Böcklin's paintings are "Naiads at Play," which hangs in the Museum at Basel, "A Villa by the Sea," "The Sport of the Waves," "Regions of Joy," "Flora," and "Venus Dispatching Cupid."



IV

Marie-Rosa Bonheur


(Pronounced Rosa Bon-er) French School 1822-1895 Pupil of Raymond B. Bonheur

Rosa Bonheur, Landseer, and Murillo maybe called "Children's Painters" in this book because they painted things that children, as well as grown-ups, certainly can enjoy. To be sure, Murillo was a very different sort of artist from Rosa Bonheur or Landseer, but if the two latter painted the most beautiful, animals -- dogs, sheep, and horses -- Murillo painted the loveliest little children.

Rosa was the best pupil of her father; Raymond B. Bonheur. In Bordeaux they lived together the peaceful life of artists, the father being already a well known painter when his daughter was born. She became, as Mr. Hamerton, who knew her, said, "the most accomplished female painter who ever lived ... a pure, generous woman as well and can hardly be too much admired ... as a woman or an artist. She is simple in her tastes and habits of life and many stories are told of her generosity to others."

After a time the Bonheurs moved to Paris where young Rosa could have better opportunities; and there she put on man's clothing, which she wore all her life thereafter. She wore a workingman's blouse and trousers, and tramped about looking more like a man than a woman with her short hair. This, made everybody stare at her and think her very queer, but people no longer believe that she dressed herself thus in order to advertise herself and attract attention; but because it was the most convenient costume for her to get about in. She went to all sorts of places; the stockyards, slaughter houses, all about the streets of Paris, to learn of things and people, especially of animals, which she wished most to paint. She could hardly have gone about thus if she had worn women's clothing.

Rosa Bonheur exhibited her first painting at the Salon in 1841, and this was twelve years before her beloved father died; thus he had the happiness of knowing that the daughter whom he had taught so lovingly was on the road to success and fortune. He knew that when fortune should come to her she would use it well. The year that she exhibited her work in the Salon she painted only two little pictures -- one of rabbits, the other of sheep and goats -- but they were so splendidly done that all the critics knew a great woman artist had arrived.

It was then that her enemies, those who were becoming jealous of her work, said that she was wearing men's clothing in order to attract attention to herself.

Soon her work began to be bought by the French Government, which was a sure sign of her power. She was already much beloved by the people. In the meantime we in America and others in England had heard of Mademoiselle Bonheur, but we heard far less about her painting than we did about her masculine garb. We thought of her mostly as an eccentric woman; but one day came "The Horse Fair," and all the world heard of that, so the artist was to be no longer judged by the clothes she wore but by her art. Finally, she received the cross of the Legion of Honour, and also was made a member of the Institute of Antwerp.

She lived near Fontainebleau; her studio a peaceful retired home, till the Franco-Prussian war came about. Then she and others began to fear that her studio and pictures would be destroyed, so the artist was forced to stop her work and prepared to go elsewhere. But the Crown Prince of Prussia himself ordered that Mademoiselle Bonheur should not even be disturbed. Her work had made her belong to all the world and all the world was to protect her if need be.

Rosa Bonheur had a brother who, some critics said, was the better artist, but if that were true it is likely that his popularity would in some degree have approached that of his sister. Rosa Bonheur did not paint many large canvases, but mostly small ones, or only moderately large; but when she painted sheep it seems that one might shear the wool, it stands so fleecy and full; while her horses rampage and curvet, showing themselves off as if they were alive.

Plate -- The Horse Fair

This picture was exhibited all over the world very nearly. It was carried to England and to America, and won admiration wherever it was seen. Finally it was sold in America. It was first exhibited in 1853, the year in which the artist's father died. Mr. Ernest Gambart was the first who bought the picture, and he wrote of it to his friend, Mr. S.P. Avery: "I will give you the real history of 'The Horse Fair,' now in New York. It was painted in 1852, by Rosa Bonheur, then in her thirtieth year, and exhibited in the next Salon. Though much admired it did not find a purchaser. It was soon after exhibited in Ghent, meeting again with much appreciation, but was not sold, as art did not flourish at the time. In 1855 the picture was sent by Rosa Bonheur to her native town of Bordeaux and exhibited there. She offered to sell it to the town at the very low price 12,000 francs ($2,400). While there, I asked her if she would sell it to me, and allow me to take it to England and have it engraved. She said: 'I wish to have my picture remain in France. I will once more impress on my countrymen, my wish to sell it to them for 12,000 francs. If they refuse, you can have it, but if you take it abroad, you must pay me 40,000 francs.' The town failing to make the purchase, I at once accepted these terms, and Rosa Bonheur then placed the picture at my disposal. I tendered her the 40,000 francs and she said: 'I am much gratified at your giving me such a noble price, but I do not like to feel that I have taken advantage of your liberality; let us see how we can combine in the matter. You will not be able to have an engraving made from so large a canvas. Suppose I paint you a small one from the same subject, of which I will make you a present.' Of course I accepted the gift, and thus it happened that the large work went travelling over the kingdom on exhibition, while Thomas Landseer was making an engraving from the quarter-size replica.

"After some time (in 1857 I think), I sold the original picture to Mr. William P. Wright, New York (whose picture gallery and residence were at Weehawken, N.J.), for the sum of 30,000 francs, but later I understood that Mr. Stewart paid a much larger price for it on the breaking up of Mr. Wright's gallery. The quarter size replica, from which the engraving was made, I finally sold to Mr. Jacob Bell, who gave it in 1859 to the nation, and it is now in the National Gallery, London. A second, still smaller replica, was painted a few years later, and was resold some time ago in London for £4,000 ($20,000). There is also a smaller water-colour drawing which was sold to Mr. Bolckow for 2,500 guineas ($12,000), and is now an heirloom belonging to the town of Middlesbrough. That is the whole history of this grand work. The Stewart canvas is the real and true original, and only large size 'Horse-Fair.'

"Once in Mr. Stewart's collection, it never left his gallery until the auction sale of his collection, March 25th, 1887, when it was purchased by Mr. Cornelius Vanderbilt for the sum of $55,000, and presented to the Metropolitan Museum of Art."

And thus we have the whole story of the "Horse-Fair." The picture is 93-1/2 inches high, and 197 inches wide, and it contains a great number of horses, some of which are ridden, while others are led, and all are crowding with wild gaiety toward the fair where it is quite plain they know they are about to be admired and their beauty shown to the best advantage. Other well-known Rosa Bonheurs are "Ploughing," "Shepherd Guarding Sheep," "Highland Sheep," "Scotch Deer," "American Mustangs," and "The Study of a Lioness."



V

Alessandro Botticelli


(Pronounced Ah-lays-sahn'dro Bo't-te-chel'lee) Florentine School, 1447-1510 (Vasari's dates) Pupil of Filippo Lippi and Verrocchio

Botticelli took his name from his first master, as was the fashion in those days. The relation of master and apprentice was very close, not at all like the relation of pupil and teacher to-day.

Botticelli's father was a Florentine citizen, Mariano Filipepi, and he wished his son to become a goldsmith; hence the lad was soon apprenticed to Botticelli, the goldsmith. As a scholar, the little goldsmith had not distinguished himself. Indeed it is said that as a boy he would not "take to any sort of schooling in reading, writing, or arithmetic." It cannot be said that this failure distinguished him as a genius, or the world would be full of genius-boys; but the result was that he early began to learn his trade.

Fortunately for him and us, Botticelli, the smith, was a man of some wisdom and when he saw that the lad originated beautiful designs and had creative genius he did not treat the matter with scorn, as the master of Andrea del Sarto had done, but sent him instead to Fra Filippo (Lippo Lippi) to be taught the art of painting. So kind a deed might well establish a feeling of devotion on little Alessandro's part and make him wish to take his master's name.

Fra Filippo was a Carmelite monk, merry and kindly; simple, good, and gifted, but his temperament did not seem to influence his young pupil. Of all unhappy, morbid men, Botticelli seems to have been the most so, unless we are to except Michael Angelo.

After studying with the monk, Botticelli was summoned by Pope Sixtus IV. to Rome to decorate a new chapel in the Vatican. Before that time his whole life had been greatly influenced by the teachings of Savonarola who had preached both passionately and learnedly in Florence, advocating liberty. From the time he fell under Savonarola's wonderful power, the artist grew more and more mystic and morbid. In Rome it was the custom to have the portraits of conspirators, or persons of high degree who were revolutionary or otherwise objectionable to the state, hung outside the Public Palace, and in Botticelli's time there was a famous disturbance among the aristocrats of the state. In 1478 the powerful Pazzi family conspired against the Medici family, which then actually had control. It was Botticelli who was engaged to paint the portraits of the Pazzi family, which to their shame and humiliation were to be displayed upon the palace walls.

One peculiarity of this artist's pictures was that he used actual goldleaf to make the high lights upon hair, leaves, and draperies. The effect of the use of this gold was very beautiful, if unusual, and it may have been that his apprenticeship as a goldsmith suggested to him such a device.

Also it was he who created certain characteristics of painting that have since been thought original with Burne-Jones. This was the use of long stiff lily-stalks or other upright details in his compositions. Examples of this idea, which produced so weird an effect, will be found in his allegory of "Spring," where stiff tree-trunks form a part of the background. In the "Madonna of the Palms" upright lily-stalks are held in pale and trembling hands. Like Michael Angelo, who came years afterward, Botticelli was a guest of the great Lorenzo the "Magnificent," in Florence. It was by Botticelli's hand that the greater painter sent a letter to Lorenzo from a duchess friend who was also his patron. This was in Angelo's youth; in Botticelli's old age.

All his life was a drama of morbid seeking after the unattainable, and finally he became so poor and helpless that in his old age he would have starved had Lorenzo de' Medici not taken care of him. Lorenzo and other friends who in spite of his gloominess admired his real piety, gathered about him and kept him from starvation.

On his "Nativity," Botticelli wrote: "This picture I, Alessandro, painted at the end of the year 1500 in the troubles of Italy, in the halftime after the time, during the fulfilment of the eleventh of John, in the second woe of the Apocalypse, in the loosing the devil for three and a half years. Afterward he shall be chained according to the twelfth of John, and see him trodden down as in this picture." All of this is interesting because Botticelli himself wrote it, but it is not very easily understood by any child, nor by many grown people.

Botticelli did some very extraordinary things, but whether they are beautiful or not one must decide for himself. They are paintings so characteristic that one must think them very beautiful or else not at all so.

PLATE -- LA PRIMAVERA (Spring)

In this picture we have the forerunner of a modern painter, because we see in it certain, qualities that we find in Böcklin. Look at the effect of vertical lines; the tree trunks, and the poses of the slender women. Over all hovers a cupid who is sending love-shafts into the hearts of all in springtime.

Notice the lacy effect of the flowers that bestar the wind-blown gown of "La Primavera," the fern-like leaves that fleck the background; the draperies that do not conceal the forms of the nymphs of the lovely springtime.

The very spirit of spring is seen in all the half-floating, half-dancing, gliding, diaphanous figures of the forest. The flowers of "La Primavera's" crown are blue and white cornflowers and primroses. She scatters over the earth tulips, anemones, and narcissus. The painting is allegorical and unique. Never were such fluttering odds and ends of draperies painted before, nor such fascinating effects had from canvas, paint, or brush. The picture hangs in Florence in the Uffizi Gallery. A German critic tells us that the "Realm of Venus," is a better title for this picture, and that it was painted after a poem of that name.

Other pictures by this artist are: "The Birth of Venus," "Pallas," "Judith," "Holofernes," "St. Augustine," "Adoration of the Magi," and "St. Sebastian."



VI

William Adolphe Bouguereau


(Pronounced W. A'dolf Bou-gair-roh) French (Genre) School 1825-1905 Pupil of Picot and the Ecole des Beaux-Arts

Bouguereau's business-like father meant his son also to be business-like, but he made the mistake of permitting him to go to a drawing school in Bordeaux and there, to his father's chagrin, the youngster took the annual prize. After that there seemed nothing for the father to do but grin and bear it, because the son decided to be an artist and had fairly won his right to be one.

Young Bouguereau had no money, and therefore he went to live with an uncle at Saintonge, a priest, who had much sympathy with the boy's wish to paint, and he left him free to do the best he could for himself in art. He got a chance to paint some portraits, and when he and his uncle talked the matter over It was decided that he should take the money got for them, and go to Paris. It was there that he sought Picot, his first truly helpful teacher; and there, for the first time he learned more than he already knew about art.

All Bouguereau's opportunities in life were made by himself, by his own genius. No one gave him anything; he earned all. He longed to go to Italy, and in the Ecole des Beaux-Arts he won the Prix de Rome, which made possible a journey to the land of great artists. The French Government began to buy his work, and he began to receive commissions to decorate walls in great buildings; thus, gradually, he made for himself fame and fortune.

When this artist undertook to paint sacred subjects, of great dignity, he was not at his best; but when he chose children and mothers and everyday folk engaged about their everyday business, he painted beautifully. Americans have bought many of his pictures and he has had more popularity in this country than anywhere outside of France.

Some authorities give the birthplace of Bouguereau as La Rochelle; at any rate he died there at midnight, on the nineteenth of August, 1905.

Plate -- The Virgin As Consoler

The main distinction about this artist's pictured faces is the peculiarly earnest expression he has given to the eyes. In this picture of the Virgin there is great genius in the pose and death-look of the little child whose mother has flung herself across the lap of Mary, abandoned to her agony. This painting is hung in the Luxembourg. Others by the same master are called "Psyche and Cupid" "Birth of Venus," "Innocence," and "At the Well."



VII

Sir Edward Burne-Jones


English (Pre-Raphaelite) School 1833-1898 Pupil of Rossetti

This artist has been called the most original of all contemporaneous artists. He has also been called the "lyric painter"; meaning that he is to painting what the lyric poet is to literature. His work once known can almost always be recognised wherever seen afterward. He did not slavishly follow the Pre-Raphaelite school, yet he drew most of his ideas from its methods. He was, in the use of stiff lines, a follower of Botticelli, and not original in that detail, as some have seemed to think.

PLATE -- CHANT D'AMOUR (The Love-Song)

This is a picture in the true Burne-Jones style: a beautiful woman in billowy draperies, playing upon a harp forms the central figure of the group of three -- a listener on either side of her. There is the attractiveness of the Burne-Jones method about this picture, but after all there seems to be no very good reason for its having been painted. The subject thus treated has only a negative value, and little suggestion of thought or dramatic idea.

Another picture of this artist, in which his use of stiff draperies is specially shown, is that of the women at the tomb of Christ, when they find the stone rolled away and, looking around, see the Saviour's figure before them. The scene is low and cavern-like, with a brilliant light surrounding the tomb. This artist also painted "The Vestal Virgin," "King Cophetua and the Beggar Maid," "Pan and Psyche," "The Golden Stairs," and "Love Among the Ruins."



VIII

John Constable


English School 1776-1837 Pupil of the Royal Academy

John Constable was the son of a "yeoman farmer" who meant to make him also a yeoman farmer. Mostly we find that the fathers of our artists had no higher expectations for their sons than to have them take up their own business; to begin as they had, and to end as they expected to. But in John Constable's case, as with all the others, the father's methods of living did not at all please the son, and having most of all a liking for picture-making; young John set himself to planning his own affairs.

Nevertheless, the foundation of John's art was laid right there in the Suffolk farmer's home and conditions. He was born in East Bergholt, and the father seems to have believed in windmills, for early in life the signs of wind and weather became a part of the son's education. He learned a deal more of atmospheric conditions there on his father's windmill planted farm than he could possibly have learned shut up in a studio, French fashion. As a little boy he came to know all the signs of the heavens; the clouds gathering for storm or shine; the bending of the trees in the blast; all of these he loved, and later on made the principal subjects of his art. He learned to observe these things as a matter of business and at his father's command; thus we may say that he studied his life-work from his very infancy. All about him were beautiful hedgerows, picturesque cottages with high pitched roofs covered with thatch, and it was these beauties which bred one other great landscape painter besides Constable, of whom we shall presently speak, Gainsborough.

At last, graduating from windmills, John went to London. He had a vacation from the work set him by his father, and for two years he painted "cottages, studied anatomy," and did the drudgery of his art; but there was little money in it for him, and soon he had to go into his father's counting house, for windmills seemed to have paid the elder Constable, considerably better than painting promised to pay young John.

John doubtless liked counting-house work even less than he had done the study of windmills and weather in his father's fields. He was a most persistent fellow, however, and finally he returned to London, to study again the art he loved, this time in the Royal Academy, which meant that he had made some progress.

His father gave him very little aid to do the things he longed to do, but after his father's death he found that a little money was coming to him from the estate -- £4,000. He had already triumphed over his difficulties by painting his first fine pictures; he now knew that he was to become a successful artist, and be able to take care of himself and a wife. Though in love, he had hitherto been too poor to marry. His first splendid work was "Dedham Vale."

Though things were going very well with him, it was not until Paris discovered him that he achieved great success. In 1824 he painted two large pictures which he took to Paris, and there he found fame. The best landscape painting in France dates from the time when Constable's works were hung in the Louvre, to become the delight of all art-lovers.

He received a gold medal from Charles X., and became more honoured abroad than he had ever been at home.

Constable had many enemies, and made many more after he became an Academician. Some artists, who would have liked that honour and who could not gain it for themselves, declared that Constable painted "with a palette knife," though it certainly would not have mattered if he had, since he made great pictures.

He painted things exactly as he saw them, and was not a popular artist. Most of all, he loved to paint the scenes that he had known so well in his youth, and he did them over and over again, as if the subject was one in which he wished to reach perfection.

When he died he left a picture, "Arundel Castle and Mill," standing with its paint wet upon his easel for he passed away very suddenly, on April 1st, leaving behind him many unsold paintings.

He was a sensitive chap, and throughout his youth was greatly distressed by the differences of opinion between himself and his father. He was torn asunder between a sense of duty and his own wish to be an artist; and his greatest consolation in this situation was in the friendship he had formed for a plumber, who, like himself, dearly loved art. The plumber's name was John Dunthorne, and the two men wandered about the country, when not employed at their regular work, and together, by streams and in fields, painted the same scenes. At one time they hired a little room in the neighbouring village which they made into a studio. Constable was a handsome fellow in his youth and was known to all as the "handsome miller." His father, the yeoman farmer with the windmills, was also a miller.

In London he became acquainted with one John Smith, known as "Antiquity Smith," who taught him something of etching. After he was recalled to his father's business, his mother wrote to "Antiquity Smith," that she hoped John "would now attend to business, by which he will please me and his father, and ensure his own respectability and comfort" -- a complete expression of the middle-class British mind. Her satisfaction was short-lived, for her son soon returned to London.

When his first pictures were rejected by the Royal Academy he showed one of them to Sir Benjamin West, who said hopefully: "Don't be disheartened, young man, we shall hear of you again; you must have loved nature very much before you could have painted this."

About that time he tried to paint many kinds of pictures, such as portraits and sacred subjects, but he did not seem to succeed in anything except the scenes of his boyhood, which he truly loved. Hence he gave up attempting that which he could do only passably, and kept to what he could do supremely well.

When his friends wished him to continue portrait painting, the only thing that was well paid at that time, Constable wrote: "You know I have always succeeded best with my native scenes. They have always charmed me, and I hope they always will. I have now a path marked out very distinctly for myself, and I am desirous of pursuing it uninterruptedly."

About the time he fell in love and before his father's death, his health began to fail, and the young woman's mother would have none of him. Her father was in favour of Constable, but he could not hold out against the chance of his daughter losing her grandfather's fortune by marrying the wrong man.

The lady was not so distractingly in love as young Constable was, and she did not entirely like the idea of poverty, even with John, so she held off, and with so much anxiety Constable became downright ill. For five years the pair lived apart, and then the artist and the young woman, whose name was Maria Bicknell, lost their mothers about the same time, This drew them very closely together; and to help the matter on, John's attendance upon his father in his last illness brought him to the same town as Miss Bicknell. After his father's death, he urged the young lady so strongly to be his wife that she consented They were married and her father soon forgave her, but not so her grandfather, who declared that he never would forgive her, but he really must have done so from the first, for when he died it was found that he had left her a little fortune of £4,000. This was about the same amount the artist had received from his father, so that they were able to get on very well.

After Constable's marriage he went on a visit to Sir George Beaumont, and there an amusing incident occurred which is known to-day as the story of Sir George's "brown tree." It seems that Constable's ideas of colour for his landscapes were so true to nature that a good many people did not approve of them, and one day while painting, Sir George declared that the colour of an old Cremona fiddle was the best model of colour tone that a landscape could have. Constable's only answer was to place the fiddle on the green lawn in front of the house. At another time his host asked the artist, "Do you not find it very difficult to determine where to place your brown tree?" "Not at all," was Constable's reply, "for I never put such a thing into a picture in my life."

In painting one picture many times he declared, "Its light cannot be put out because it is the light of nature." A Frenchman called attention to one of his pictures thus: "Look at these landscapes by an Englishman. The ground appears to be covered with dew."

Notwithstanding the little fortune of his wife and himself, Constable was not quite carefree, because he had to raise a good sized family of six children so that when his wife's father died and left his daughter £20,000 he said to a friend: "Now I shall stand before a six-foot canvas with a mind at ease, thank God!" In the very midst of this happiness, his beloved wife became ill with consumption, and was certain to die. He no longer cared very much for life and wrote very sadly:

"I have been ill, but am endeavouring to get work again, and could I get afloat upon a canvas of six feet, I might have a chance of being carried from myself." When he became a member of the Royal Academy, he said: "It has been delayed until I am solitary and cannot impart it," meaning that without his dear wife to share his good fortune, it seemed an empty honour to him.

Strange things are told which show how little his work was valued by his countrymen. After he had become a member of the Academy one of his small pictures was entered but rejected; nobody knowing anything about it. It was put on one side among the "outsiders." Finally, one of his fellow members glancing at it was attracted.

"Stop a bit! I rather like that. Why not say 'doubtful'?" Later Constable acknowledged the picture as his, and then they wished to hang it, but he refused to let them. Another Academy story is about his picture "Hadleigh Castle." On Varnishing Day, Chartney, a brilliant critic, told Constable that the foreground of the picture was "too cold," and so he undertook to "warm it," by giving it a strong glaze with asphaltum with Constable's brush which he snatched from the artist's hand. Constable gazed at him in horror. "Oh! there goes all my dew," he cried, and when Chartney's back was turned he hurriedly wiped the "warmth" all away and got back his "dew."

Even the amusing things that happened to him, seem to have a little sadness about them. He wrote to a friend: "Beechey was here yesterday, and said: 'Why d -- n it Constable, what a d -- n fine picture you are making; but you look d -- n ill, and you've got a d -- n bad cold!' so," added Constable, "you have evidence on oath of my being about a fine picture and that I am looking ill."

An illustration of his painstaking and truthfulness to nature is that he once took home with him from a visit bottles of coloured sand and fragments of stone which he meant to introduce into a picture; and on passing some slimy posts near a mill, he said to his host, "I wish you could cut those off and send their tops to me."

Constable was a loyal friend, the most persistent of men, and several anecdotes are told of his characteristics. His friend Fisher said to him:

"Where real business is to be done, you are the most energetic and punctual of men. In smaller matters, such as putting on your breeches, you are apt to lose time in deciding which leg shall go in first."

Plate -- The Hay Wain

This picture was first called "Landscape," and it was painted in 1821. In his letters about it, however, Constable also called it "Noon," and others wrote of it as "Midsummer Noon." This tells us what a wealth of hot sunlight is suggested by the painting.

It shows a little farmhouse upon the bank of a stream, a spot well known as "Willy Lott's Cottage." The owner had been born there and he died there eighty-eight years later, without ever having left his cottage for four whole days in all those years. Upon the tombstone of Lott, which is in the Bergholt burial ground, his epitaph calls the house "Gibeon Farm." It was a favourite scene with Constable, and he painted it many times from every side. It is the same house we see in the "Mill Stream," another Constable painting, and again in "Valley Farm." In this last picture he painted the side opposite to the one shown in the "Hay Wain."

The stream near which the house stands spreads out into a ford, and in the picture the hay cart, with two men upon it, is passing through the ford. The horses are decked out with red tassels. On the right of the stream there is a broad meadow, golden green in the sunlight, "with groups of trees casting cool shadows on the grass, and backed by a distant belt of woodland of rich blues and greens." On the right is a fisherman, half hidden by a bush, standing near his punt.

Constable wrote to his friend, Fisher, "My picture goes to the Academy on the tenth." This was written on April 1st, 1821. "It is not so grand as Tinney's." This shows us, that Constable had not vanity enough to interfere with his self-criticism. Again in a letter written to him by a friend: "How does the 'Hay Wain' look now it has got into your own room again?" adding that he wished to see it there, away from the Academy which to him was always "like a great pot of boiling varnish."

Later Fisher wrote: "I have a great desire to possess your 'Wain,' but I cannot now reach what it is worth;" and he begged Constable not to sell it without giving him a chance to try once more to raise the money to buy it. He wrote that the picture would become of greater value to his children if the artist left it hanging upon the walls of the Academy, "till you join the society of Ruysdael, Wilson, and Claude. As praise and money will then be of no value to you, the world will liberally bestow both."

Later a Frenchman wished to buy it for exhibition purposes, and when Constable wrote to Fisher of this, his friend replied that he had better sell it to the Frenchman "for the sake of the éclat it may give you. The stupid English public, which has no judgment of its own, will begin to think there is something in it if the French make your works national property. You have long lain under a mistake; men do not purchase pictures because they admire them, but because others covet them."

Finally, the "Hay Wain" was sold to the French dealer for £250, and Constable threw in a picture of Yarmouth for good measure. Later a friend declared that he had created a good deal of argument about landscape painting, and that there had come to be two divisions, for he had practically founded a new school. He received a gold medal for the "Hay Wain," and the French nation tried to buy it. In the Louvre are "The Cottage," "Weymouth Bay," and "The Glebe Farm." Elsewhere are "Hampstead Heath," "Salisbury Cathedral," "The Lock on the Stour," "Dedham Mill," "The Valley Farm," "Gillingham Mill," "The Cornfield," "Boat-Building," "Flatford Mill on the River Stour," besides many others.



IX

John Singleton Copley


English School 1737-1815

A little boy with a squirrel was the first picture that pointed this artist toward fame and that was painted in England and exhibited at the Society of Arts.

This American-born Irishman had no family or ancestry of account, but he himself was to become the father of Lord Chancellor Lyndhurst, and he did some truly fine things in art.

About the same time America had another painter, Benjamin West, marked out for fame, but he got his start in Europe while Copley had already become a successful artist before he left Boston, his native place.

He liked best to paint "interiors" -- rooms with fine furniture and curtains, women in fine clothing and men in embroidered waistcoats and bejewelled buckles.

In 1777 he got into the Royal Academy, and on the whole had considerable influence on European art. If we study the portraits that he painted while in Boston, we can get a very complete idea of the surroundings of the "Royalists" at the time of our colonial history.

Plate -- The Copley Family Group

In this picture there are seven figures with an open landscape forming the background. The baby of the family plays, with uplifted arms, upon grandfather's knee. The mother on the couch, surrounded by her three other children, is kissing one while another clings to her. Before her stands a prim little maid, gowned in the fashion of grown-folks of her day. A little lock of hair falling upon her forehead suggests that when she was good she was very, very good, and when she was bad she was horrid! She wears a little cap. At the back is the artist himself in a wig and other fashions of the time. A great column rises behind him, forming a part of the architecture or the landscape, one hardly knows which in so artificially constructed a picture.

Copley painted also John Hancock, Judge Graham, Jeremiah Lee, and General Joseph Warren.



X

Jean Baptiste Camille Corot


(Pronounced Zhahn Bah-teest' Cah-mee'yel Coh'roh) Fontainebleau-Barbizon School 1796-1875 Pupil of Michallon

About three hundred years before Corot's time there was a Fontainebleau school of artists, made up of the pathetic Andrea del Sarto, the wonderful Leonardo da Vinci, and Cellini. These painters had been summoned from their Italian homes by Francis I., to decorate the Palace of Fontainebleau. The second great group of painters who had studios in the forest and beside the stream were Rousseau, Dupré, Diaz, and Daubigny; Troyon, Van Marcke, Jacque; then Millet, the painter of peasants.

Corot was born in Paris and received what education the ordinary school at Rouen could give him. He was intended by his parents for something besides art, as it would seem that every artist in the world was intended. Corot was to grow up and become a respectable draper; at any rate a draper.

The young chap did as his father wished, until he was twenty-six years old, and dreary years those must have been to him. He did not get on well with his master, nor did the world treat him very well. He found neither riches nor the fame that was his due till he was an old man of seventy. At that age he had become as rich a man as he might have been had he remained a sensible draper.

Best of all, Corot loved to paint clouds and dewy nights, pale moons and early day, and of all amusements in the world, he preferred the theatre. There he would sit; gay or sad as the play might make him, weeping or laughing and as interested as a little child.

After he had anything to give away, Corot was the most madly generous of men. It was he who gave a pension to the widow of his brother artist, Millet, on which she lived all the rest of her days. He gave money to his brother painters and to all who went to him for aid; and he always gave gaily, freely, as if giving were the greatest joy, outside of the theatre, a man could have. Everyone who knew him loved him, and there was no note of sadness in his daily life, though there seems to be one in his poetical pictures. Because of his generous ways he was known as "Pere Corot." He sang as he worked, and loved his fellowmen all the time; but most of all, he loved his sister.

"Rousseau is an eagle," he used to say in speaking of his fellow artist. "As for me, I am only a lark, putting forth some little songs in my gray clouds."

It has been noted that most great landscape painters have been city-bred, a remarkable fact. Constable and Gainsborough were born and bred in the country, but they are exceptions to the rule. Corot's parents were Parisians of the purest dye, having been court-dressmakers to Napoleon I.; and when Corot finally determined to leave the draper's shop and become a painter, his father said: "You shall have a yearly allowance of 1,200 francs, and if you can live on that, you can do as you please." When his son was made a member of the Legion of Honour, after twenty-three years of earnest work, his father thought the matter over, and presently doubled the allowance, "for Camille seems to have some talent after all," he remarked as an excuse for his generosity.

It is told that when he first went to study in Italy, Corot longed to transfer the moving scenes before him to canvas; but people moved too quickly for him, so he methodically set about learning how to do with a few strokes what he would otherwise have laboured over. So he reduced his sketching to such a science that he became able to sketch a ballet in full movement; and it is remarked that this practice trained him for presenting the tremulousness of leaves of trees, which he did so exquisitely.

One learns something of this painter of early dawn and soft evening from a letter he wrote to his friend Dupré:

One gets up at three in the morning, before the sun; one goes and sits at the foot of a tree; one watches and waits. One sees nothing much at first. Nature resembles a whitish canvas on which are sketched scarcely the profiles of some masses; everything is perfumed, and shines in the fresh breath of dawn. Bing! the sun grows bright but has not yet torn aside the veil behind which lie concealed the meadows, the dale, and hills of the horizon. The vapours of night still creep, like silvery flakes over the numbed-green vegetation. Bing! bing! -- a first ray of sunlight -- a second ray of sunlight -- the little flowers seem to wake up joyously. They all have their drop of dew which trembles -- the chilly leaves are stirred with the breath of morning -- in the foliage the birds sing unseen -- all the flowers seem to be saying their prayers. Loves on butterfly wings frolic over the meadows and make the tall plants wave -- one sees nothing -- yet everything is there -- the landscape is entirely behind the veil of mist, which mounts, mounts, sucked up by the sun; and as it rises, reveals the river, plated with silver, the meadow, the trees, cottages, the receding distance -- one distinguishes at last everything that one had divined at first.

In all the world there can hardly be a more exquisite story of daybreak than this; and so beautiful was the mood into which Corot fell at eventime, as he himself describes it, that it would be a mistake to leave it out. This is his story of the night:

Nature drowses -- the fresh air, however, sighs among the leaves -- the dew decks the velvety grass with pearls. The nymphs fly -- hide themselves -- and desire to be seen. Bing! a star in the sky which pricks its image on the pool. Charming star -- whose brilliance is increased by the quivering of the water, thou watchest me -- thou smilest to me with half-closed eye! Bing! -- a second star appears in the water, a second eye opens. Be the harbingers of welcome, fresh and charming stars. Bing! Bing! Bing! -- three, six, twenty stars. All the stars in the sky are keeping tryst in this happy pool. Everything darkens, the pool alone sparkles. There is a swarm of stars -- all yields to illusion. The sun being gone to bed, the inner sun of the soul, the sun of art awakens. Bon! there is my picture done!

In writing those letters, Corot made literature as well as pictures. That little word "bing!" appears also in his paintings, as little leaves or bits of tree-trunk, some small detail which, high-lightened, accents the whole.

Plate -- Dance Of The Nymphs

There could hardly be a more charming painting than this which hangs in the Louvre. It is of a half-shut-in landscape of tall trees, their branches mingling; and all the atmospheric effects that belong to Corot's work can here be seen.

On the open greensward is a group of nymphs dancing gaily, while over all the scene is the veil of fairy-land or of something quite mysterious. At the back and side, satyrs can be seen watching the nymphs. There is here less of the blur of leaves than that seen in later pictures, but the same soft effect is found, and the little "bings" are the accents of light placed upon a leaf, a nymph's shoulder, or a tree-trunk.

This picture was painted in 1851, when Corot had not yet developed that style which was to mark all his later work.

Besides this picture he painted "Paysage," "The Bathers" "Ville d'Arvay," "Willows near Arras," "The Bent Tree," "A Gust of Wind," and others.



XI

Correggio (Antonio Allegri)


(Pronounced Cor-rage'jyo Ahl-lay'gree) School of Parma 1494(?)-1534 Pupil of Mantegna

When Correggio was a little boy, he lived in the odour of spices, which were kept upon his father's shop-shelves. He was a highly-spiced little boy and man, although the most timid and shrinking. His imagination was the liveliest possible.

The spice merchant lived in the town of Correggio, and thus the artist got his name. Correggio knew what should be inside the lovely flesh of his painted figures before he began to paint them, because he studied anatomy in a truly scientific manner before he studied painting. Probably no other artist up to that time, had ever begun with the bare bones of his models, but Correggio may be said to have worked from the inside out. He learned about the structure of the human frame from Dr. Giovanni Battista Lombardi, and showed his gratitude to his teacher by painting a picture "Il Medico del Correggio" (Correggio's Physician), and presenting it to Doctor Lombardi.

Now Correggio's childhood, or at least his early manhood, could not have been spent in poverty, because it is known that he used the most expensive colours to paint with, painted upon the finest of canvas, while greater artists had often to be content with boards. He also painted upon copper plates, and it is said that he hired Begarelli, a sculptor of much fame, to make models in relief for him to copy for the pictures he painted on the cupolas of the churches in Parma. That sculptor's services must have been expensive.

On the lovely island of Capri, in the Franciscan convent, will be found one of his first pictures, painted when Correggio was about nineteen years old.

He was highly original in many ways. Although he had never seen the work of any great artist, he painted the most extraordinary fore-shortened pictures; and fore-shortening was a technicality in art then uncommon. He also was the first to paint church cupolas. Fore-shortening produces some peculiar as well as great results, and being a feature of art with which people were not then familiar, Correggio's work did not go uncriticised. Indeed one artist, gazing up into one of the cupolas where Correggio's fore-shortened figures were placed, remarked that to him it appeared a "hash of frogs."

But when Titian saw that cupola, he said: "Reverse the cupola, fill it with gold, and even then that will not be its money's worth."

Correggio did not receive very large sums for his work, and since he was married and took good care of his family, he must have had some source of income besides his brush. He received some interesting rewards for his paintings. For example, for "St. Jerome," called "Il Giorno," he was given "400 gold imperials, some cartloads of faggots and measures of wheat, and a fat pig." That picture is in the Parma Gallery, and all the cupolas which he painted are in Parma churches.

Some of his pictures are signed; "Leito," a synonym for his name, "Allegri." This indicates his style of art.

There is an interesting story told of how Correggio stood entranced before a picture of Raphael's, and after long study of it he exclaimed: "I too, am a painter!" showing at once his appreciation of Raphael's greatness and satisfaction at his own genius.

Doubtless a good share of Correggio's comfortable living came from the lady he married, since she was considered a rich woman for those times and in that locality. Her name was Girolama Merlini, and she lived in Mantua, the place where the Montagues and Capulets lived of whom Shakespeare wrote the most wonderful love story ever imagined. This young woman was only sixteen years old when Correggio met and loved her, and very beautiful and later on he painted a picture, "Zingarella," for which his wife is said to have been the model. It seems to have been a stroke of economy and enterprise for painters to marry, since we read of so many who made fame and fortune through the beauty of their wives.

They were very happy together, Correggio and his wife, and they had four children. Their happiness was not for long, because Correggio seems to have been but thirty-four years old when she died, nor did he live to be old. There is a most curious tale of his death which is probably not true, but it is worth telling since many have believed it. He is supposed to have died in Correggio, of pleurisy, but the story is that he had made a picture for one who had some grudge against him, and who in order to irritate him paid him in copper, fifty scudi. This was a considerable burden, and in order to save expense and time, it is said that Correggio undertook to carry it home alone. It was a very hot day, and he became so overheated and exhausted with his heavy load that he took ill and died, and he may be said literally to have been killed by "too much money," if this were true. Vasari, a biographer to be generally believed, says it is a fact.

Correggio said that he always had his "thoughts at the end of his pencil," and there are those who impudently declare that is the only place he did have them, but that is a carping criticism, because he was a very great artist, his greatest power being the presentation of soft blendings of light and shade. There seem to have been few unusual events in Correggio's life; very little that helps us to judge the man, but there is a general opinion that he was a kind and devoted father and husband, as well as a good citizen. With little demand upon his moral character, he did his work, did it well, and his work alone gave him place and fame.

He became the head of a school of painting and had many imitators, but we hear little of his pupils, except that one of them was his own son, Pompino, who lived to be very old, and in his turn was successful as an artist.

Correggio was buried with honours in the Arrivabene Chapel, in the Franciscan church at Correggio.

Plate -- The Holy Night

This painting is not characteristic of Correggio's work, but nevertheless it is very beautiful. The brilliant warm light which comes from the Infant Jesus in His mother's arms is reflected upon the faces of those gathered about, and even illuminates the angelic group hovering above him. The slight landscape forming the background is also suggestive, and the conditions of the birth are indicated by the ass which may be seen in the middle distance. The faces of all are joyous yet full of wonderment, the whole scene intimate and human.

The picture is also called the "Adoration of the Shepherds," and that title best tells the story. See the shepherdess shading her face with one hand and offering two turtle-doves with the other. The ass in the distance is the one on which Mary rode to Bethlehem, and Joseph is caring for it. Even the cold light of the dawning day is softened by the beauty of the group below. This picture is in the Royal Gallery in Dresden.

Plate -- The Mystic Marriage Of St. Catherine

The Infant Jesus sits upon His mother's lap, and places the ring upon St. Catherine's finger, while Mary's hand helps to guide that of her Child. This action brings the three hands close together and adds to the beauty of the composition. All of the faces are full of pleasure and kindliness, while that of St. Sebastian fairly glows with happy emotion. The light is concentrated upon the body of the Child and is reflected upon the faces of the women. This painting hangs in the Louvre.

Other great Correggio pictures are the "School of Cupid," which is more characteristic of his work; "Antiope," "Leda," "Danae," and "Ecce Homo."



XII

Paul Gustave Dore


French School 1833-1883

This artist died in Paris twenty-five years ago, but there is little as yet to be told of his life history. He was educated in Paris at the Lycée Charlemagne, having gone there from Strasburg, where he was born.

He was a painter of fantastic and grotesque subjects, and as far as we know, he began his career when a boy. He made sketches before his eighth year which attracted much attention, and he earned considerable money while still at school. He was at that time engaged to illustrate for journals, at a good round sum, and before he left the Lycée he had made hundreds of drawings, somewhat after the satirical fashion of Hogarth.

His work is very characteristic and once seen is likely to be always recognised.

He first worked for the Journal Pour Rire, but then he undertook to illustrate the work of Rabelais, the great satirist, whose text just suited Doré's pencil. After Rabelais he illustrated Balzac, also the "Wandering Jew," "Don Quixote," and Dante's "Divine Comedy."

He undertook to do things which he could not do well, simply for the money there was in the commissions. He had but a poor idea of colour and his work was coarse, but it had such marked peculiarities that it became famous. He did a little sculpture as well, and even that showed his eccentricities of thought.

Plate -- Moses Breaking The Tablets Of The Law

This is one of the illustrations of the Doré Bible, published in 1865-66. The story is well known of how Moses went up into the Mount of the Lord to receive the laws for the Israelites, which were written upon tables of stone. Upon his descent from the Mount he found that his followers had set up a golden calf, which they were worshipping; and in his wrath Moses broke the tablets on which the Law was inscribed. The power shown in his attitude, the affrighted faces of the cowering Jews, the thunder and lightning as an expression of the wrath of the Almighty are all painted in Doré's best manner.



XIII

Albrecht Dürer


(Pronounced Dooer-rer') Nuremberg School 1471-1528 Pupil of Wolgemuth and Schongauer

Albrecht Dürer by nationality was a Hungarian, but he was born in the city of Nuremberg. His father had come from the little Hungarian town of Eytas to Nuremberg that he might practise the craft of a goldsmith. Notwithstanding his Hungarian origin, the name is German and the family "bearing," or sign, is the open door. This device suggests that the name was first formed from "Thurer," which means "carpenter," maker of doors.

The father became the goldworker for a master goldsmith of Nuremberg named Hieronymus Holper, and very soon the new employee had fallen in love with his master's daughter. The daughter was very young and very beautiful; her name was Barbara, and as Herr Dürer was quite forty years of age, while she was but fifteen, the match seemed most unlikely, but they married and had eighteen children! The great painter was one of them.

Albrecht loved his parents most tenderly, and from first to last we hear no word of disagreement among any members of that immense household. Young Albrecht was especially the companion of his father, being brilliant, generous, and hard-working in a family where everyone needed to do his best to help along. This love and companionship never ceased until death, and after his parents died Albrecht wrote in a touching manner of their death, describing his love for them, and their many virtues. He was an author and a poet as well as a painter, and only Leonardo da Vinci matched him for greatness and versatility. We may know what Dürer's father looked like, since the son made two portraits of him; one is to be seen in the Uffizi Gallery at Florence and the other belongs to the Duke of Northumberland's collection. The latter portrait has been reproduced in an engraving, so that it is familiar to most people.

In the days when the great artist was growing up, Nuremberg was the centre of all intellectuality and art in the North. The city of Augsburg also followed art fashions, but it was far less important than Nuremberg, because in the latter city every sort of art-craft was followed in sincerity and with great originality.

In those days, the craft of the goldsmith was closely allied with the profession of the painter, because the smith had to create his own designs, and that called for much talent. Thus it was but a step from designing in precious metals to the use of colour, and to engraving. In making wood engravings, however, the drudgery of it was left almost entirely to workmen, not artists. Nuremberg was also the seat of musical learning. Wagner makes this fact pathetic, comical, and altogether charming in his "Mastersingers of Nuremberg."

Till Dürer's time, however, there had been little painting that could be regarded as art, and when he came to study it there was but little opportunity in his own land, but Dürer was destined to bring art to Nuremberg. If he went elsewhere to study, it was only for a little time, because he was above all things patriotic and dearly loved his home.

With seventeen brothers and sisters, young Dürer's problem was a serious one. His father not only meant him to become a goldsmith like himself -- a craft in which there was much money to be made at a time when people dressed with great ornamentation and used gold to decorate with -- it was highly necessary with so large a family that he should learn to do that which could make him helpful to his father. Hence the young boy entered his father's shop. If he had not been handicapped with so many to help to maintain, he would have laid up a considerable fortune, because from the very beginning he was master of all that he undertook; doing the least thing better than any other did it, putting conscience and painstaking into all.

"My father took special delight in me," the son said, "seeing that I was industrious in working and learning, he put me to school; and when I had learned to read and write, he took me home from my school and taught me the goldsmith's trade."

The family were good and kind; excellent neighbours, deeply religious, and little Albrecht certainly was comely. He was beautiful as a little child, and as a man was very handsome, with long light hair sweeping his shoulders, and gentle eyes. He was very tall, stately, and full of dignity.

In his father's shop he made little clay figures which were afterward moulded in metal; also he learned to carve wood and ivory, and he added the touch of originality to all that he did. He was the Leonardo da Vinci of Germany, an intellectual man, a poet, painter, sculptor, engraver, and engineer. He approached everything that he did from an intellectual point of view, looking for the reasons of things.

After a while in his father's shop, he found mere craftsmanship irksome, and he begged to be allowed to enter a studio. This was a great disappointment to the father, even a distress, because he could see no very quick nor large returns in money for an artist, and he sorely needed the help of his son; but being kind and reasonable, he consented Albrecht was apprenticed to the only artist of any repute then in Nuremberg, Wolgemuth.

To his studio Albrecht went, at the age of fifteen, and if he did not learn much more of painting, under that artist's direction, than his own genius had already taught him, he learned the drudgery of his work; how to grind colours and to mix them, and he studied wood engraving also.

In Wolgemuth's studio he remained for the three years of his apprenticeship, and then he fled to better things. For a time he followed the methods of another German artist, Schongauer, but finally he went forth to try his luck alone. He wandered from place to place, practising all his trades, goldsmithing, engraving, whatever would support him, yet always and everywhere painting.

It is thought that he may have gone as far as Italy, but it is not certain whether he went there in his first wanderings or later on. However, he was soon recalled home, for his father had found a suitable wife for him. She was the daughter of a rich citizen and her name was Agnes Frey. She was pretty as well as rich, but had she been neither Albrecht would have returned at his father's bidding. There was never any resistance to the fine and proper things of life on Albrecht Dürer's part. He was the well balanced, reasonable man from youth up.

There have been extraordinary tales told of the artist's wife. She has been called hateful and spiteful as Xantippe, the wife of Socrates, but we think this is calumny. The stories came about in this way: Dürer had a life-long friend, Wilibald Pirkheimer, who in his old age became the most malicious and quarrelsome of old fellows. He lived longer than Dürer did, and Dürer's wife also outlived her husband. Pirkheimer wanted a set of antlers which had belonged to Dürer and which he thought the wife should give him after Dürer was dead, but Agnes thought otherwise and would not give them up. Then, full of rage, the old man wrote the most outrageous letters about poor Agnes, saying that she was a shrew and had compelled Dürer to work himself to death; that she was a miser and had led the artist an awful dance through life. This is the only evidence against her, and that so sane and sensible a man as the artist lived with her all his life and cherished her, is evidence enough that Pirkheimer didn't tell the truth. When Dürer died he was in good circumstances and instead of being overworked, he for many years had done no "pot-boiling," but had followed investigations along lines that pleased him. After his death, the widow treated his brothers and sisters generously, giving them properties of Dürer's and being of much help to them. During the artist's life he and she had travelled everywhere together and had appeared to love each other tenderly; hence we may conclude that the old Pirkheimer was simply a disgruntled, gouty old man without a good word for anybody.

If Dürer's father and mother had eighteen children, Albrecht and Agnes struck a balance, for they had none. Whether or not Dürer went to Italy before his marriage in 1494, certain it is that he was in Venice, the home of Titian, in 1506. Titian was six years younger than Dürer, who was then about thirty-five years old. It is said that he started for Italy in 1505 and that he went the whole of the way, over the Alps, through forests and streams, on horseback. Who knows but it was during that very journey, while travelling alone, often finding himself in lonely ways, and full of the speculative thoughts that were characteristic of him, that he did not think first of his subject, "Knight, Death, and the Devil," which helped make his fame. In that picture we have a knight, helmeted, carrying his lance, mounted upon his horse, riding in a lonely forest, with death upon a "pale horse" by his side, holding an hour glass to remind the knight of the fleeting of time. Behind comes the devil, with trident and horn, represented as a frightful and disgusting beast, which follows hot-foot after the lonely knight, who looks neither to right nor left, but persistently goes his way.

Titian's teacher, Bellini, was still living, and he was one of Dürer's greatest admirers. Especially did he believe that he could paint the finest hair of any artist in the world. One day, while studying Dürer's work, and being especially fascinated by the hair of one of his figures, the old man took Dürer's brush and tried to reproduce as beautiful a tress. Presently he put down the brush in despair, but the younger artist took it up, still wet with the same colours, and in a few brilliant strokes produced a lovely lock of woman's hair.

While luxuriating in Venetian heat, Dürer wrote home to his friend Pirkheimer: "Oh, how I shall freeze after this sunshine!" He was a lover of warm, beautiful colour, gay and tender life. Most of all he loved the fatherland, and all the honours paid him and all the invitations pressed upon him could not keep him long from Nuremberg. The journey homeward was not uneventful because he was taken ill, and had to stop at a house on his way, where he was cared for till he was strong enough to proceed. Before he went his way he painted upon the wall of that house a fine picture, to show his gratitude for the kind treatment he had received. Imagine a people so settled in their homes that it would be worth while for an artist who came along to leave a picture upon the walls to-day -- we should have moved to a new house or a new flat almost before Dürer could have washed his brushes and turned the corner.

Back in Nuremberg, he settled down into the life of a responsible citizen, lived in a fine new house, in time became a member of the council, and his studio was a veritable workshop. Studios were quite different from those of to-day. Then the pupils turned to and ground colours, did much of their own manufacturing, engaged at first in such commonplace occupations, which were nevertheless teaching them the foundation of their art, while they watched the work of the master. Such a studio as Dürer's must have been full of young men coming and going, not all working at the art of painting, but engraving, preparing materials for such work, designing, and executing many other details of art work.

After this time Dürer made his smallest picture, which is hardly more than an inch in diameter. On that tiny surface he painted the whole story of the crucifixion, and it is now in the Dresden Gallery. To those of us who see little mentality in the faces of the Italian subjects, the German art of Dürer, often ugly in the choice of models, and so exact as to bring out unpleasing details, is nevertheless the greater; because in all cases, the faces have sincere expressions. They exhibit human purposes and emotions which we can understand, and despise or love as the case may be.

They say that his Madonna is generally a "much-dressed round-faced German mother, holding a merry little German boy." That may be true; but at any rate, she is every inch a mother and he a well-beloved little boy, which is considerably more than can be said of some Italian performances.

Dürer made a painting of "Praying Hands," a queer subject for a picture, but those hands are nothing but praying hands. The story of them is touching. It is said that for several years Dürer had won a prize for which a friend of his had also competed, and upon losing the prize the last time he tried for it, the friend raised his hands and prayed for the power to accept his failure with resignation and humility. Dürer, looking at him, was impressed with the eloquence of the gesture; thus the "Praying Hands" was conceived.

Dürer was also called the Father of Picture Books, because he designed so many woodcuts that he first made possible the illustration of stories.

He printed his own illustrations in his own house, and was well paid for it. The Emperor Maximillian visited Nuremberg, and wishing to honour Dürer, commanded him to make a triumphal arch.

"It was not to be fashioned in stone like the arches given to the victorious Roman Emperors; but instead it was to be composed of engravings. Dürer made for this purpose ninety-two separate blocks of woodcuts. On these were represented Maximillian's genealogical tree and the principal events of his life. All these were arranged in the form of an arch, 9 feet wide and 10-1/2 feet high. It took Dürer three years to do this work, and he was never well paid," so says one who has compiled many incidents of his life.

"While the artist worked, the Emperor often visited his studio; and as Dürer's pet cats often visited it at the same time, the expression arose, 'a cat may look at a King!'"

On the occasion of one of these kingly visits, Maximillian tried to do a little art-work on his own account. Taking a piece of charcoal he tried to sketch, but the charcoal kept breaking and he asked Dürer why it did so.

"That is my sceptre; your Majesty has other and greater work to do," was the tactful reply. It is a question with us to-day whether the King ever did a greater work than Albrecht Dürer, king of painters, was doing.

After this, Maximillian gave Dürer a pension, but when the Emperor died the artist found it necessary to apply to the monarch who came after him, in order to have the gift confirmed. This was the occasion for his journey to the Low Countries, and he took his wife Agnes with him. In the Netherlands he was received with much honour and was invited to become court painter; and what was more, his pension was fixed upon him for life. The great work of his life was his illustration of the Apocalypse. For this he made sixteen extraordinary woodcuts, of great size.

On his journey to see Charles V., Maximillian's successor, Dürer kept a diary in which he noted the minutest details of all that happened to him. He told of the coronation of Charles; of hearing about a whale that had been cast upon the shore; of his disappointment that it had been removed before he had reached the place. He wrote with great indignation about the supposed kidnapping of Martin Luther, while he was on his way home from the Diet of Worms.

While Dürer was in the Low Countries, a fever came upon him, and when he returned home, it still followed him. Indeed, although he lived for seven years after his return, he was never well again. Among his effects there was a sketch made to indicate to his physician the seat of his illness.

Dürer did not paint great frescoes upon walls as did Raphael, Michael Angelo, and all great Italian artists; but instead he painted on wood, canvas, and in oils.

In all the civilised world Dürer was honoured equally with the great Italian painters of his time. He was a man of much conscientiousness, dignity, and tenderness. He was devoted to his home and country, and regarded the problems of life intellectually. When he came to die, his end was so unexpected that those dearest to him could not reach his bedside. He was buried in St. John's cemetery in Nuremberg. After his death, Martin Luther wrote as follows to their mutual friend, Eoban Hesse:

"As for Dürer; assuredly affection bids us mourn for one who was the best of men, yet you may well hold him happy that he has made so good an end, and that Christ has taken him from the midst of this time of troubles, and from yet greater troubles in store, lest he, that deserved to behold nothing but the best, should be compelled to behold the worst. Therefore may he rest in peace with his fathers, Amen."

Plate -- The Nativity

Our description of this painting calls attention to the fact that the columns and arches of the picturesque ruin belong to a much later period in history than the birth of Christ. Dürer was not acquainted with any earlier style of architecture than the Romanesque and therefore he used it here. "The ruin serves as a stable. A roof of board is built out in front of the side-room which shelters the ox and ass, and under this lean-to lies the new born babe surrounded by angels who express their childish joy. Mary kneels and contemplates her child with glad emotion. Joseph, also deeply moved, kneels down on the other side of the child, outside the shelter of the roof. Some shepherds to whom the angel, who is still seen hovering in the air, has announced the tidings, are already entering from without the walls." (Knackfuss). The picture is the central panel of an altar-piece now in the Old Pinakothek at Munich. Dürer's oil painting of the four apostles -- John, Peter, Mark, and Paul -- is in the same gallery. Other Dürer pictures are: "The Knight, Death and the Devil," "The Adoration of the Magi," "Melancholy," and portraits of himself.



XIV

Mariano Fortuny


(Pronounced Mah-ree-ah-no' For-tu'ne) Spanish School 1838-1874 Pupil of Claudio Lorenzalez

Fortuny won his own opportunities. He took a prize, while still very young, which made it possible for him to go to Rome where he wished to study art. He did not spend his time studying and copying the old masters as did most artists who went there, but, instead, he studied the life of the Roman streets.

He had already been at the Academy of Barcelona, but he did not follow his first master; instead, he struck out a line of art for himself. After a year in Rome the artist went to war; but he did not go to fight men, he was still fighting fate, and his weapon was his sketch book. He went with General Prim, and he filled his book with warlike scenes and the brilliant skies of Morocco. From that time his work was inspired by his Moorish experiences.

After going to war without becoming a soldier, Fortuny returned to Paris and there he became fast friends with Meissonier, so that a good deal of his work was influenced by that artist's genius. After a time Fortuny's paintings came into great vogue and far-off Americans began buying them, as well as Europeans. There was a certain rich dry-goods merchant in the United States who had made a large fortune for those days, and while he knew nothing about art, he wanted to spend his money for fine things. So he employed people who did understand the matter to buy for him many pictures whose excellence he, himself, could not understand, but which were to become a fine possession for succeeding generations. This was about 1860, and this man, A.T. Stewart, bought two of Fortuny's pictures at high prices. "The Serpent Charmer," and "A Fantasy of Morocco."

When Fortuny was thirty years old he married the daughter of a Spaniard called Madrazo, director of the Royal Museum. His wife's family had several well known artists in it, and the marriage was a very happy one. Because of this, Fortuny was inspired to paint one of the greatest of his pictures, "The Spanish Marriage." In it are to be seen the portraits of his wife and his friend Regnault. After a time he went to live in Granada; but he could never forget the beautiful, barbaric scenes in Morocco, and so he returned there. Afterward he went with his wife to live in Rome, and there they had a fine home and everything exquisite about them, while fortune and favour showered upon them; but he fell ill with Roman fever, because of working in the open air, and he died while he was comparatively a young man.

Plate -- The Spanish Marriage

Fortuny is said to "split the light into a thousand particles, till his pictures sparkle like jewels and are as brilliant as a kaleidoscope.... He set the fashion for a class of pictures, filled with silks and satins, bric-à-brac and elegant trifling."

Look at the brilliant scene in this picture! The priest rising from his chair and leaning over the table is watching the bridegroom sign his name. This chap is an old fop, bedecked in lilac satin, while the bride is a dainty young woman, without much interest in her husband, for she is fingering her beautiful fan and gossiping with one of her girl friends. She wears orange-blossoms in her black hair and is in full bridal array. One couple, two men, sit on an elegantly carved seat and are looking at the goings-on with amusement, while an old gentleman sits quite apart, disgusted with the whole unimpressive scene. Everybody is trifling, and no one is serious for the occasion. The furnishings of the room are beautiful, delicate, almost frivolous. People are strewn about like flowers, and the whole effect is airy and inconsequent. Fortuny painted also "The Praying Arab," "A Fantasy of Morocco," "Snake Charmers," "Camels at Rest," etc.



XV

Thomas Gainsborough


English School 1727-1788 Pupil of Gravelot and of Hayman

There seems to have been no artist, with the extraordinary exceptions of Dürer and Leonardo, who learned his lessons while at school. Little painters have uniformly begun as bad spellers.

Gainsborough's father was in the business of woolen-crape making, while his mother painted flowers, very nicely, and it was she who taught the small Thomas. There were nine little Gainsboroughs and, shocking to relate, the artist of the family was so ready with his pencil that when he was ten years old he forged his father's name to a note which he took to the schoolmaster, and thereby gained himself a holiday. There is no account of any other wicked use to which he put his talent. It is said that he could copy any writing that he saw, and his ready pencil covered all his copy-books with sketches of his schoolmasters. It was thought better for him finally to follow his own ideas of education, namely, to roam the woodlands and make beautiful pictures.

His father's heart was not softened till one day little Gainsborough brought home a sketch of the orchard into which the head of a man had thrust itself, painted with great ability. This man was a poacher, and father Gainsborough recognised him by the portrait. There seemed to be utility in art of this kind, and before long the boy found himself apprenticed to a silversmith.

Through the silversmith the artist got admission to an art school and began his studies; but his master was a dissolute fellow, and before long the pupil left him.

Gainsborough was born in the town of Sudbury on the River Stour, the same which inspired another great painter half a century later. Gainsborough is best known by his portraits, in particular as the inventor of "the Gainsborough hat," but he was first of all a truly great landscape painter, and learned his art as Constable did after him, along the beautiful shores of the river that flowed past his native town.

The old Black Horse Inn is still to be seen, and it was in the orchard behind it that he studied nature, the same in which he made the first of his famous portraits, that of the poacher. It is known to this day as the portrait of "Tom Pear-tree." That picture was copied on a piece of wood cut into the shape of a man, and it is in the possession of Mr. Jackson, who lent it for the exhibition of Gainsborough's work held at the Grosvenor Gallery, in 1885.

While Thomas was with his first master, by no means a good companion for a lad of fifteen, he lived a busy, self-respecting life, since he was devoted to his home and to his parents. Only three years after he set out to learn his art he married a young lady of Sudbury. The pair were by no means rich, Gainsborough having only eighteen years of experience in this world, besides his brush, and a maker of woolen-crape shrouds for a father -- who was not over pleased to have an artist for a son. The lady had two hundred pounds but this did not promise a very luxurious living, so they took a house for six pounds a year, at Ipswich. Thus the two young lovers began their life together. There was a good deal of romance in the story of his wife, whose name was supposed to be Margaret Burr. The two hundred pounds that helped to pay the Ipswich rent did not come from the man accepted as her father, but from her real father, who was either the Duke of Bedford, or an exiled prince. This would seem to be just the sort of story that should surround a great painter and his affairs.

While he lived at Ipswich Gainsborough used to say of himself that he was "chiefly in the face-way" meaning that for the most part he made portraits. He loved best to paint the scenes of his boyhood, as Constable afterward did, but he soon found there was more money in portraits, and so he decided to go to live in Bath, the fashionable resort of English people in that day, where he was likely to find rich folk who wanted to see themselves on canvas. He settled down there with his wife, whom he loved dearly, and his two daughters and at once began to make money. It is said he painted five hours a day and all the rest of the time studied music. As the theatre was Corot's greatest happiness, so did music most delight Gainsborough, and he could play well on nearly every known instrument; he became so excellent a musician that he even gave concerts. He had the most delightful people about him, people who loved art and who appreciated him, and then there were the other people who paid for having themselves painted. Altogether it was an ideal situation.

His studio was in the place known as the "Circus" at Bath, and people came and went all day, for it became the fashionable resort for all the fine folks.

From five guineas for half length portraits, he soon raised his price to forty; he had charged eight for full length portraits, but now they went for one hundred. He painted some famous men of the time. The very thought is inspiring of such a company of geniuses with Gainsborough in the centre of the group. He painted Laurence Sterne, who wrote "The Sentimental Journey," and a few other delightful things; also Garrick, the renowned actor.

Even the encyclopedia reads thrillingly upon this subject and one can afford to quote it, with the feeling that the quotation will be read: "His house harboured Italian, German, French and English musicians. He haunted the green room of Palmer's Theatre, and painted gratuitously the portraits of many of the actors. He gave away his sketches and landscapes to any one who had taste or assurance enough to ask for them." This sounds royal and exciting.

After that Gainsborough went up to London with plenty of money and plenty of confidence and instead of six pounds a year for his house, he paid three hundred pounds, which suggests much more comfort.

There were two other great painters of the time in London, Sir Benjamin West -- an American, by the way -- and Sir Joshua Reynolds. West was court favourite, but Gainsborough too was called upon to paint royalty, and share West's honours. Reynolds was the favourite of the town, but he too had to divide honours with Gainsborough when the latter painted Richard Brinsley Sheridan, Edmund Burke and Sir William Blackstone.

Notwithstanding, his landscapes, for which he should have been most famous, did not sell. Everybody approved of them, but it is said they were returned to him till they "stood ranged in long lines from his hall to his painting room" Gainsborough was a member of the Royal Academy and also a true Bohemian. He cared little for elegant society, but made his friends among men of genius of all sorts. He was very handsome and impulsive, tall and fair, and generous in his ways; but he had much sorrow on account of one of his daughters, Mary, who married Fischer, a hautboy player, against her father's wishes. The girl became demented -- at least she had spells of madness.

When Mary Gainsborough married, her father wrote the following letter to his sister, which shows that he was a man of tender feeling for those whom he truly loved:

" ... I had not the least suspicion of the attachment being so long and deeply seated; and as it was too late for me to alter anything without being the cause of total unhappiness on both sides, my consent ... I needs must give ... and accordingly they were married last Monday and settled for the present in a ready-furnished little house in Curzon Street, Mayfair ... I can't say I have any reason to doubt the man's honesty or goodness of heart, as I never heard anyone speak anything amiss of him, and as to his oddities and temper, she must learn to like them as she likes his person ... Peggy has been very unhappy about it, but I endeavour to comfort her." Peggy was his wife.

The abominable Fischer died twenty-years before Mary did -- she lived to be an old, old woman.

Among those whom Gainsborough loved best was the man called Wiltshire who carried his pictures to and from London. He was a public "carrier" but would never take any money for his services to the artist, because he loved his work. All he asked was "a little picture" -- and he got so many of these, given in purest affection, that he might have gone out of business as a carrier, had he chosen to sell them. Four of those little pictures are now very great ones worth thousands of pounds and known everywhere to fame. They are "The Parish Clerk," "Portrait of Quin," "A Landscape with Cattle," and "The Harvest Waggon."

We have a good many stories of Gainsborough's bad manners. The artists of his day tried to treat him with every consideration, but in return he treated them very badly, especially Sir Joshua Reynolds. Reynolds, who was then President of the Academy greatly admired Gainsborough but the latter would not return Sir Joshua's call, and when Reynolds asked him to paint his portrait for him, Gainsborough undertook it thanklessly. Sir Joshua left town for Bath for a time, and when he returned he tried to learn how soon the portrait would be finished, but Gainsborough would not even reply to his inquiry. There seems to have been no reason for this behaviour unless it was jealousy, but it made a most uncomfortable situation between fellow artists.

Gainsborough has told some not very pleasing stories about himself, but one of them shows us what a knack he had for seeing the comic side of things, and perhaps for seeing comedy where it never existed. Upon one occasion he was invited to a friend's house where the family were in the habit of assembling for prayers, and he had no sooner got inside, than he began to fear he should laugh, when prayer time came, at the chaplain. In a rush of shyness he fled, leaving his host to look for him, till he stumbled over a servant who said that Mr. Gainsborough had charged him to say he had gone to breakfast at Salisbury. Even respect for the customs of others could not make him control himself.

It was through his intimacy with King George's family that his quarrel with the Royal Academy came about. He had painted the three princesses -- the Princess Royal, Princesses Augusta and Elizabeth, and these were to be hung at a certain height in Carlton House, but when he sent the first to the Academy he asked it to be specially hung and his request was refused. Then he sent a note as follows:

"He begs pardon for giving them so much trouble, but he has painted the picture of the princesses in so tender a light that, notwithstanding he approves very much of the established line for strong effects, he cannot possibly consent to have it placed higher than eight feet and a half, because the likeness and the work of the picture will not be seen any higher, therefore at a word he will not trouble the gentlemen against their inclination, but will beg the best of his pictures back again." Immediately, the Academy returned his pictures, although it would seem that they might better have accommodated Gainsborough than have lost such a fine exhibition. He never again would send anything to them.

He was inclined to be irritated by inartistic points in his sitters, and is said to have muttered when he was painting the portrait of Mrs. Siddons, the great actress: "Damn your nose madam; there is no end to it." The nose in question must have been an "eyesore" to more than Gainsborough, for a famous critic is said to have declared that "Mrs. Siddons, with all her beauty was a kind of female Johnson ... her nose was not too long for nothing."

Notwithstanding that his landscapes were not popular, he used to go off into the country to indulge his taste for painting them, and once he wrote to a friend that he meant to mount "all the Lakes at the next Exhibition in the great style, and you know, if people don't like them, it's only jumping into one of the deepest of them from off a wooded island and my reputation will be fixed forever." An old lady, whose guest he was, down in the country, told how he was "gay, very gay, and good looking, creating a great sensation, in a rich suit of drab with laced ruffles and cocked hat."

One of the boys he saw in the country he delighted to paint, and he also grew so much attached to him that he took him to London and kept him with him as his own son. That boy's name was Jack Hill and he did not care for city life, nor maybe for Gainsborough's eccentricities, so he ran away. He was found again and again, till one day he got away for good, and never came back.

All his later life Gainsborough was happy. His daughter, who had married Fischer, the hautboy-player, came back home to live, and her disorder was not bad enough to prevent her being a cause of great happiness to her father. The other daughter never married. Gainsborough says that he spent a thousand pounds a year, but he also gave to everybody who asked of him, and to many who asked nothing, so that he must have made a great deal of money during his lifetime, by his art. It is said that the "Boy at the Stile" was bestowed on Colonel Hamilton for his fine playing of a solo on the violin. A lady who had done the artist some trifling service received twenty drawings as a reward, which she pasted on the walls of her rooms without the slightest idea of their value.

Gainsborough got up early in the morning, but did not work more than five hours. He liked his friends, his music, and his wife, and spent much time with them. He was witty, and while he sketched pictures in the evening, with his wife and daughters at his side, he kept them laughing with his droll sayings.

The last days of Gainsborough showed him to be a hero. He died of cancer, and some time before he knew what his disease was he must have suffered a great deal. There is a story that is very pathetic of a dinner with his friends, Beaumont and Sheridan. Usually, he was the gayest of the gay, but of late all his friends had noticed that gaiety came to him with effort. Upon the night of this dinner, Sheridan had been his wittiest, and had tried his hardest to make Gainsborough cheer up, till finally, the artist, finding it impossible to get out of his sad mood, asked Sheridan if he would leave the table and speak with him alone. The two friends went out together. "Now don't laugh, but listen," Gainsborough said; "I shall soon die. I know it; I feel it. I have less time to live than my looks infer, but I do not fear death. What oppresses my mind is this: I have many acquaintances, few friends; and as I wish to have one worthy man to accompany me to the grave, I am desirous of bespeaking you. Will you come? Aye or no!" At that Sheridan, who was greatly shocked, tried to cheer him, but Gainsborough would not return to the table, till he got the promise, which of course Sheridan made.

It was not very long after this that a famous trial took place -- that of Warren Hastings. It was in Westminster Hall, and Gainsborough went to listen several times. On the last occasion, he became so interested in what was happening that he did not notice a window open at his back. After a little he said to a friend that he "felt something inexpressibly cold" touch his neck. On his return home he told of the strange feeling to his wife. Then he sent for a doctor, and there was found a little swelling. The doctor said it was not serious and that when the weather grew warmer it would disappear; but all the while Gainsborough felt certain that it would mean his death. A short time after that he told his sister that he knew himself to have a cancer, and that was true.

When he felt that he must die, he fell to thinking of many things in the past, and wished to right certain mistakes of his behaviour as far as possible.

He sent to Sir Joshua Reynolds and asked him to come and see him, since he could not go to see Sir Joshua. Reynolds went and then Gainsborough told him of his regret that he had shown so much ill-will and jealousy toward so great and worthy a rival. Reynolds was very generous and tried to make Gainsborough understand that all was forgiven and forgotten. He left his brother artist much relieved and happier, and he afterward said: "The impression on my mind was that his regret at losing life was principally the regret of leaving his art." As Reynolds left the dying man's room, Gainsborough called after him: "We are all going to heaven -- and Van Dyck is of the company."

He was buried in Kew Churchyard and the ceremonies were followed by Reynolds and five of the Royal Academicians, who forgot all Gainsborough's eccentricities of conduct toward them in their honest grief over his death. He was one of the first three dozen original members of the Royal Academy.

Plate -- Portrait Of Mrs. Richard Brinsley Sheridan

This picture is now in the collection of Lord Rothschild, London. Mrs. Sheridan was the loveliest lady of her time. She was the daughter of Thomas Linley, and a singer.

She came from a home which was called "a nest of nightingales," because all in it were musicians. The father had a large family and made up his mind to become the best musician of his time in his locality in order to support them. He was successful, and in turn most of his children became musicians. His lovely daughter, Eliza (Mrs. Sheridan), he bound to himself as an apprentice and taught her till she was twenty-one, insisting that she "serve out her time" to him, that she might become a perfect singer. The story of this beautiful lady seems to belong to the story of Gainsborough's portrait and shall be told here.

When she was a very little girl, no more than eight years old, she was so beautiful that as she stood at the door of the pump room in Bath to sell tickets for her father's concerts, everyone bought them from her. When she was a very young woman her father engaged her to marry a Mr. Long, sixty years old. She did not seem to mind what arrangements her father made for her, but continued to sing and attend to her business, till after the wedding gowns were all made and everything ready for the marriage, when she happened to meet the brilliant Richard Brinsley Sheridan, whose plays were so fashionable, and she fell deeply in love with him. She told Mr. Long she would not marry him, and without much objection he gave her up, but her father was very angry and he threatened to sue Mr. Long for letting his daughter go. Then the beautiful lady ran away to Calais and married Mr. Sheridan without her father's permission; but she came home again and said nothing of what she had done, kept on singing and helping her father earn money for his family. One day, Mr. Sheridan was wounded in a duel which he had fought with one of his wife's admirers, and when she heard the news she screamed, "my husband, my husband," so that everybody knew she was married to the fascinating playwright. Sheridan for some reason did not at once come and get her, nor arrange for them to have a home together. For a good while she continued to sing; and once hearing her in oratorio, Sheridan fell in love with his wife all over again. He took her from her home and would never let her sing again in public. They remarried publicly and went to live in London. He was not at all a rich and famous man at that time -- only a poor law-student -- but he would not let his wife make the fortune she might easily have made, by singing.

This must have made his beautiful wife very sad, but she made no complaint at giving up her music and letting him silence her lovely voice, but turned all her attention to advancing his fortunes. She worked for him even harder than she had for her father, and that was saying a great deal. When he became a great writer of plays his wife took charge of all the accounts of his Drury Lane Theatre, and when he was in the House of Commons she acted as his secretary. Sheridan died in great poverty and wretchedness, and it is believed had his self-sacrificing wife not died before him she would have looked after his affairs so well that he would not have lost his fortune. Gainsborough painted the portraits of Sheridan's father-in-law, and of Samuel Linley; and it was said that this last portrait was painted in forty-eight minutes. Among his other portraits are: eight of George III., Sir John Skynner, Admiral Hood, Colonel St. Leger, and "The Blue Boy"; but he was first and last a landscape painter of highest genius.



XVI

Jean Leon Gerome


(Pronounced Zhahn Lay'on Zhay-rome) French, Semi-classical School 1824-1904 Pupil of Delaroche

One cannot write much more than the date of birth and death of a man who lived until three or four years of the time of writing, so we may only say that Gérôme was one of the most brilliant of modern French painters. He was born at Vesoul and his father was a goldsmith. Thus he probably had no very great difficulty in getting a start in his work. The prejudice against having an artist in the family was dying out, and as a prosperous goldsmith we may believe that his father had means enough to give his son good opportunities.

Gérôme, like Millet, studied under Delaroche, but became no such characteristic painter as he. While studying with Delaroche he also was taking the course in l'Ecole des Beaux-Arts.

His first exhibited picture was "The Cock Fight," and he won a third class medal by it.

Almost always this painter has chosen his subjects from ancient or classic life, and his pictures are not always decent, but he painted with much care, the details of his work are very finely done and their vivid colour is fascinating.

Plate -- The Sword Dance

This painting may be seen in the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York City. The scene is full of action and interest, but perhaps the details of dress, mosaic decoration upon the walls, patterns of the rugs, the coloured and jewelled lamps and windows are the most splendidly painted of all.

The central figure is a dancing girl, only partly draped, balancing a sword on her head, while a brilliant green veil flies from head and face. Other Oriental women squat upon the floor watching her with a half indolent expression, while their Oriental masters and their friends sit in pomp at one side, absorbed in the dance and in the girl. The expressions upon all the faces are excellent and, the jewelled light that falls upon the group, the rich clothing, the grace of the dancer -- all make a fascinating picture of a genre type. Other Gérômes are "Daphnis and Chloe," "Leda," and "The Duel after the Masked Ball."



XVII

Ghirlandajo


(Pronounced Geer-lan-da'yo) Florentine School 1449-1494 Pupil of Fra Bartolommeo

It is a good deal of a name -- Domenico di Tommaso di Currado Bigordi -- and it would appear that the child who bore it was under obligation to become a good deal of a something before he died.

Italian and Spanish painters generally had large names to live up to, and the one known as Ghirlandajo did nobly.

His father was a goldsmith and a popular part of his work was the making of golden garlands for the hair of rich Italian ladies. His work was so beautiful that it gained for him the name of Ghirlandajo, meaning the garland-twiner, a name that lived after him, in the great art of his son. Domenico began as a worker in mosaic, a maker of pictures or designs with many coloured pieces of glass or stone.

Ghirlandajo's art was no improvement on that of his teacher, but he in turn became the teacher of Michael Angelo.

The Florentine school of painting, to which Ghirlandajo belonged, was not so famous for colour as the Venetian school, but it had many other elements to commend it. One cannot expect Ghirlandajo to rank with Titian, Rubens, or other "colourists" of his own and later periods, but he did the very best work of his day and school. He attained to fame through his choice of types of faces for his models, and by his excellent grouping of figures.

Until his day, the faces introduced into paintings were likely to be unattractive, but he chose pleasing ones, and he painted the folds of garments beautifully. He was not entirely original in his ideas, but he carried out those which others had thus far failed to make interesting.

Often, in his wish to paint exactly what he saw, he softened nothing and therefore his figures were repulsive, but Fra Bartolommeo's pupil gave promise of what Michael Angelo was to fulfill.

Ghirlandajo and Michael Angelo were a good deal alike in their emotional natures. Both sought great spaces in which to paint, and both chose to paint great frescoes. Indeed Ghirlandajo had the extraordinary ambition to put frescoes on all the fortification walls about Florence. It certainly would have made the city a great picture gallery to have had its walls forever hung with the pictures of one master. Had he painted them, inside and out, when such an enemy as Napoleon came along, with his love of art, and his fashion of taking all that he saw to Paris, he would likely enough have camped outside the walls while he decided what part of the gallery he would transfer to the Louvre.

One of the reasons that Ghirlandajo is famous is that he often chose well known personages for his models, and as he painted just what he saw, did not idealise his subject, he gave to the world amazing portraits, as well as fine paintings. The same thing was done by painters of a far different school, at another period. The Dutch and Flemish painters were in the habit of using their neighbours as models.

Ghirlandajo is classed among religious painters, but let us compare some of his "religious" paintings with those of Raphael or Murillo, and see the result.

He painted seven frescos on the walls of the Santa Maria Novella in Florence, all scenes of Biblical history, as Ghirlandajo imagined them. They show him to have been a fine artist, but to have had not much idea of history, and to have had little sense of fitness.

Ghirlandajo's seven subjects are taken from legends of the Virgin, and the greatest represents Mary's visit to Elizabeth; it is called "The Visitation," and it is a fresco about eighteen feet long painted on the choir wall.

Let us imagine the possible scene. The Virgin Mary came from Cana, a little town in Galilee placed in the hills about nine miles from Nazareth, the home of the lowliest and the poorest, of a kindly pastoral people living in the open air, needing and wanting very little, simple in their habits. Elizabeth, Mary's old cousin, lived in Judea, and St. Luke writes thus: "Mary arose in those days and went into the hill country with haste, into a city of Judea; and entered into the house of Zacharias" (Elizabeth's husband) "and saluted Elizabeth."

This record had been made at least eleven hundred years before Ghirlandajo painted in the Santa Maria Novella, and from it one cannot imagine that Mary made any preparation for her journey, nor does it suggest that Elizabeth had any chance to arrange a reception for her. Even had she done so, it must have been of the simplest description, at that time among those people. One can imagine a lowly home; an aged woman coming out to meet her young relative either at her door or in the high road.

There may have been surroundings of fruit and flowers, a stretch of highroad or a hospitable doorway; but the wildest imagination could not picture what Ghirlandajo did.

He paints Elizabeth flanked with handmaidens, as if she were some royal personage, instead of a priest's wife in fairly comfortable circumstances where comfort was easily obtained. Mary appears to be escorted by ladies-in-waiting, hardly a likely circumstance since she was affianced to no richer or more important person than a carpenter of Galilee. Possibly the three ladies that stand behind Mary in, the picture are merely lookers-on, but in that case the visit of Mary would seem to have been of public importance, especially as there are youths near by who are also much interested in one woman's hasty visit to another. The rich brocades worn by Elizabeth's waiting ladies are splendid indeed and the landscape is fine -- a rich Italian landscape with architecture of the most up-to-date sort -- showing, in short, that the artist lacked historical imagination. He found some models, made a purely decorative painting with an Italian setting and called it "The Visitation." The doorway on the right is distinctly renaissance.

Such a painting as this is not "religious," nor is it historic, nor does it suggest a subject; it is merely a fine picture better coloured than most of those of the Florentine school. There is another painting of this same subject by Ghirlandajo in the Louvre, but it is no nearer truth than the one in the Santa Maria.

Ghirlandajo painted other than religious subjects, and one of them, at least, is quite repulsive. It is the picture of an old man, with a beautiful little child embracing him. The old man may have tenderness and love in his face, but his heavy features, his warty nose, do not make one think of pleasant things and one does not care to imagine the dear little child kissing the grotesque old fellow.

It was before Ghirlandajo's time that another painter had discovered the use of oil in mixing paints. Previously colours had been mixed in water with some gelatinous substance, such as the white and yolk of an egg, to give the paint a proper texture or consistency. This preparation was called "distemper," and frescoes were made by using this upon plaster while it was still wet. Plaster and colours dried together, and the painting became a part of the wall, not to be removed except by taking the plaster with it.

The different gluey substances used had often the effect of making the colours lose their tone and they presented a glazed surface when used upon wood, a favourite material with artists.

There are numberless anecdotes written of this artist and his brother, and one of these shows he had a temper. The brothers were engaged in a monastery at Passignano painting a picture of the "Last Supper." While at work upon it, they lived in the house. The coarse fare did not suit Ghirlandajo, and one night he could endure it no longer. Springing from his seat in the refectory he flung the soup all over the monk who had served it, and taking a great loaf of bread he beat him with it so hard that the poor monk was carried to his cell, nearly dead. The abbot had gone to bed, but hearing the rumpus he thought it was nothing less than the roof falling in, and he hurried to the room where he found the brothers still raging over their dinner. David shouted out to him, when the abbot tried to reprove the artist, that his brother was worth more than any "pig of an abbot who ever lived!"

It is recorded in the documents found in the Confraternity of St. Paul that:

Domenico de Ghurrado Bighordi, painter, called del Grillandaio, died on Saturday morning, on the 11th day of January, 1493 (o.s.), of a pestilential fever, and the overseers allowed no one to see the dead man, and would not have him buried by day. So he was buried, in Santa Maria Novella, on Saturday night after sunset, and may God forgive him! This was a very great loss for he was highly esteemed for his many qualities, and is universally lamented.

The artist left nine children behind him.

Ghirlandajo's pictures may be found in the Louvre, the Berlin Museum, the Dresden, Munich, and London galleries. Most children will find it hard to see their beauty.

Great men are likely to come in groups, and with Ghirlandajo there are associated Botticelli and Fra Filippo Lippi.

Plate -- Portrait Of Giovanna Degli Albizi

This lovely lady was the wife of one of the painter's patrons, Giovanni Tornabuoni, through whom he received the commission for a series of frescoes in the choir of the Santa Maria Novella, Florence. The subjects chosen were sacred, but since Ghirlandajo, no more than his neighbours, knew what the Virgin or her contemporaries looked like, he saw no reason why he should not compliment some of the great ones of his own city and his own time by painting them in to represent the different characters of Holy Writ. So, as one of the ladies attendant upon Elizabeth when Mary comes to visit her, we have this signora of the fifteenth century. The artist made another picture of her, the one here shown, but in the same dress and posed the same as she had been for the church fresco. This accounts for its dignity and simplicity. It would seem like a bas-relief cut out of marble were it not for its wonderful colouring. It is in the Rudolf Kann Collection, Paris. This artist's other pictures are "Adoration of the Shepherds," "Adoration of the Magi," "Madonna and Child with Saints," "Three Saints and God the Father," "Coronation of the Virgin," and "Portrait of Old Man and Boy."



XVIII

Giotto (Di Bordone)


(Pronounced Jot-to) Florentine School 1276-1337 Pupil of Cimabue

Giotto painted upon wood, and in "distemper" -- the mixture of colour with egg or some other jelly-like substance. We know nothing of his childhood except that he was a shepherd, as we learn from a story told of him and his teacher, Cimabue.

The story runs that one day while Giotto was watching his sheep, high up on a mountain, Cimabue was walking abroad to study nature, and he ran across a shepherd boy who was drawing the figure of a sheep, with a piece of slate upon a stone. In those days we can imagine how rare it was to find one who could draw anything, ever so rudely. Immediately Cimabue saw a chance to make an artist and he asked the little shepherd if he would like to be taught art in his studio. Giotto was overjoyed at the opportunity, and at once he left the mountains for the town, the shepherd's crook for the brush.

In those days the studio of one like Cimabue was really a workshop. Artists had to grind their own colours, prepare their own panels upon which to paint, and do a hundred other things of a workman rather than an artist kind in connection with their painting. Such a studio was crowded with apprentices -- boys who did these jobs while learning from the master. Their teaching consisted in watching the artist and now and then receiving advice from him.

It was into such a shop as this, in Florence, that Giotto went, and soon he was to become greater than his master. Even so, we cannot think him great, excepting for his time, because his pictures, compared with later art, are crude, stiff, and strange.

No pupil was permitted to use a brush till he had learned all the craft of colour grinding and the like, and this was supposed to take about six years. These workshops were likely to be dull, gloomy places, and only a strong desire to do such things as they saw their master doing, would induce a boy to persevere through the first drudgery of the work. Giotto persevered, and not only became an original painter, at a time when even Cimabue hardly made figures appear human in outline, but he designed the great Campanile in Florence, and he saw it partly finished before he died. The Campanile is a wonder of architecture, but Giotto's Madonnas had to be improved upon, as certainly as he had improved upon those of Cimabue.

There are many amusing stories of Giotto, mainly telling of his good nature, and his ugly appearance, which everyone forgot in appreciation of his truly kind heart. Once a visit was made to his studio by the King of Naples, after the artist had become famous. Giotto was painting busily, though the day was very hot. The King entered, and bade Giotto not to be disturbed but to continue his work, adding: "Still, if I were you, I should not paint in such hot weather." Giotto looked up with a laugh in his eye: "Neither would I -- if I were you, Sire!" he answered.

There is a famous saying: "As round as Giotto's "O," and this is how it came about. The pope wanted the best of the Florentine artists to do some work in Rome for him and he sent out to them for examples of their work. When the pope's messenger came to Giotto the artist was very busy. When asked for some of his work to show the pope, he paused, snatched a piece of paper and with the brush he had been using, which was full of red paint, he hurriedly drew a circle and gave it to the messenger who stared at him.

"But -- is this all?" he asked.

"All -- yes -- and too much. Put it with the others." This perfect circle and the account the messenger gave of his visit so delighted the pope that Giotto was chosen from all the Florentine artists to decorate the Roman buildings.

Thus Giotto worked till he was fifty-seven or eight years old when he put aside his brush and turned to sculpture and architecture. Meantime he had far outstripped his master in art. The arrangement of the groups is about the same, but the figures look human and the draperies are more natural, while he gives the appearance of length, breadth, and thickness to his thrones and enclosures. We shall not choose a Madonna for illustration, but another of Giotto's masterpieces, remembering that good as he was in his time, he seems amazingly bad compared with those who came after him.

Plate -- The Meeting Of St. John And St. Anna At Jerusalem.

In 1303 a certain Enrico Scrovegno had a private chapel built in the Arena at Padua and he sent for Giotto to come there and adorn the whole of its walls and ceiling with frescoes. These remain, though the chapel is now emptied of all else, and they suffice to bring scores of art-lovers to Padua. The picture here reproduced represents the meeting and reconciliation between the father and mother of the Virgin before her birth. The peculiarly shaped eyes and eyebrows that Giotto gives to all his characters are specially noteworthy here as in every one of the thirty-eight frescoes. There are three rows of pictures, one above the other and in them are portrayed the principal scenes in the lives of Christ and the Virgin. The painter here reached his high-water mark, showed the very best he could produce in sincere, restrained art.



XIX

Franz Hals


Dutch School 1580-04-1666 Pupil of Karel Van Mander

Franz Hals belonged to a family which for two hundred years had been highly respected in Haarlem in the Netherlands. The father of the painter left that town for political reasons in 1579, and it was at Antwerp that Franz was born sometime between that date and 1585. His parents took him back to Haarlem as an infant, and that is the town with which his name and fame are most closely associated.

Little is known of his early life except that he began his studies with Karel Van Mander and Cornelis Cornelissen. What we know of his family life is not to his credit. In the parish register of 1611 is recorded the birth of a son to Franz Hals and five years later he is on the public records for abusing his wife, who died shortly afterward. He married again within a year and the second wife bore him many children and survived him ten years. Five of his seven sons became painters.

Franz Hals drank too much and mixed too freely with the kind of disreputable people he loved to paint, but he never became so degraded that his hand lost its cunning, or his eye its keen vision for that which he wished to portray. In 1644, he was made a director of the Guild of St. Lucas, an institution for the protection of arts and crafts in Haarlem, but from that time onward he sank in popular esteem, deservedly. He fell into debt, then into pauperism, and when he died, about the age of eighty-six, he was buried at public expense in the choir of St. Bavon Church in Haarlem.

It was in the year 1616 that Hals first became known as a master of his art by the painting of the St. Jovis Shooting Company, one of the clubs composed of volunteers banded together for the defence of the town should occasion arise. Such guilds were common throughout Holland, and they became a favourite subject with Hals, as with other painters of the time, who vied with one another in portraiture of the different members. These groups were hung upon the walls of the chambers where meetings were held for social purposes in times of peace. The men of highest rank are always given the most conspicuous places in the pictures. The flag is generally the one bit of gorgeous colour in the scene; but Franz Hals seized the opportunity to show his wonderful skill in detail while painting the cuffs and ruffs worn by these grandees. In all his work there is an impression of strength rather than of beauty; it is the charm of expressiveness he is aiming at, rather than the charm of grace and colour to which the Italian school was devoted. He differed from that school, also, in his choice of subjects, for he was distinctly and almost entirely a portrait painter, and within his own limited range he is unsurpassed. A wonderful collection of his works is to be seen in the Haarlem Town Hall.

Plate -- The Nurse And The Child

Considering the woeful life that Franz Hals led, it is amazing to think that he of all artists is the best painter of good humour. He puts a smile on the face of nearly every one of his "leading characters," whether it be a modest young girl, a hideous old woman, a strolling musician, or a riotous soldier, and in every case the laugh suits the subject. It may have been his own easygoing shiftlessness, his way of casting care aside with a jest that enabled him to live so long and to accomplish so much in spite of his poverty and other misfortunes.

The roguish look upon the face of this baby of the house of Ilpenstein makes it appear older than the pleasant faced nurse. The dress of the child is such as Hals delighted to spend his talents upon. The picture is in the Berlin Gallery.

Among his best known paintings are "The Laughing Cavalier," "The Fool," "The Man with the Sword," and "Hille Bobbe. the Witch of Haarlem."



XX

Meyndert Hobbema


Dutch School 1637-1709 Pupil of Jacob van Ruisdael

When a man becomes famous many people claim his acquaintance, and often many places his birthplace. In Hobbema's case it has never been decided whether he was born in the little town of Koeverdam, or in the city of Haarlem or in Amsterdam. Nor is it quite certain when he was born; but what he did afterward, we are all acquainted with.

No one knows much about the life of this artist, but his master was doubtless his uncle, van Ruisdael. Hobbema was dead a hundred years before the world acknowledged his genius, thus he reaped no reward for hard work and ambition. He, like Rembrandt, died in great poverty, and with nearly the same surroundings. Rembrandt died forsaken in Roosegraft Street, Amsterdam, and Hobbema died in the same locality. We must speak chiefly about his work, since we know little of his personality or affairs.

If Böcklin's pictures seem to be composed of vertical lines, Hobbema's are as startling in their positive vertical and horizontal lines combined. We are not likely to find elevations or gentle, gradual depressions in his landscapes, but straight horizons, long trunked, straight limbed trees; and the landscape seems to be punctured here and there by an upright house or a spire. It is startlingly beautiful, and so characteristic that after seeing one or two of Hobbema's pictures we are likely to know his work again wherever we may find it.

Hobbema got at the soul of a landscape. It was as if one painted a face that was dear to one, and not only made it a good likeness but also painted the person as one felt him to be -- all the tenderness, or maybe all the sternness.

It may be that Hobbema's failure to get money and honours, or at the very least, kind recognition as a great artist, while he lived, influenced his painting, and made him see mostly the sad side of beauty, nor it is certain that his landscapes give one a strange feeling of sadness and desolation, even when he paints a scene of plenty and fulness.

The French have made a phrase for his kind of work, paysage intime -- meaning the beloved country -- the one best known. It is a fine phrase, and it was first used to describe Rousseau's and Corot's work; but it especially applies to Hobbema's.

While this artist was not yet recognised, his uncle van Ruisdael was known as a great artist. The family must have been rich in spirit that gave so much genius to the world. Hobbema certainly loved his art above all things, for he had no return during his lifetime, save what was given by the joy of work. There are those who complain that Hobbema was a poor colourist. True, he used little besides grays and a peculiar green, which seemed especially to please him; but since that colouring belonged to the subjects he chose, one cannot complain on the ground that what he did was unsatisfying. For lack of knowledge about him we can think of him as a man of moods, sad, desolate ones at that; because his work is too extreme and uniform in its character for us to believe his method was affected.

Plate -- The Avenue, Middelharnis, Holland

This perhaps is one of the most characteristic of Hobbema's pictures. Note a strange hopelessness in the scene, as well as beauty. The tall and solemn trees, the high light upon the road, suggesting to us all sorts of joys struggling through the cheerlessness of life. What other artist would have chosen such a corner of nature for a subject to paint? To quote a fine description:

"He loved the country-side, studied it as a lover, and has depicted it with such intimacy of truth that the road to Middelharnis seems as real to-day as it did over a hundred years ago to the artist. We see the poplars, with their lopped stems, lifting their bushy tops against that wide, high sky which floats over a flat country, full of billowy clouds as the sky near the North Sea is apt to be. Deep ditches skirt the road, which drain and collect the water for purposes of irrigation, and later on will join some deeper, wider canal, for purposes of navigation. We get a glimpse on the right, of patient perfection of gardening, where a man is pruning his grafted fruit trees; farther on a group of substantial farm buildings. On the opposite side of the road stretches a long, flat meadow, or "polder," up to the little village which nestles so snugly around its tall church tower; the latter fulfilling also the purpose of a beacon, lit by night, to guide the wayfarer on sea and land; scene of tireless industry, comfortable prosperity, and smiling peace. ... Pride and love of country breathe through the whole scene. To many of us the picture smiles less than it thrills with sadness. Perhaps it speaks thus only to those who find a kind of hurt in the revival of the spring, which promises so much and may fulfill so little."

Hobbema's "Watermill" is very well-known and so are his "Wooded Landscape," and "Haarlem's Little Forest."



XXI

William Hogarth


School of Hogarth (English) 1697-1764

William Hogarth, like Watteau, originated his own school; in short there never was anybody like him. He was an editorial writer in charcoal and paint, or in other words he had a story to tell every time he made a picture, and there was an argument in it, a right and a wrong, and he presented his point of view by making pictures.

English artists in literature and in painting have done some great reformatory work. Charles Dickens overthrew some dreadful abuses by writing certain novels. The one which has most interest for children is the awful story of Dotheboys' Hall, which exposed the ill treatment of pupils in a certain class of English schools. What Dickens and Charles Reade did in literature, Hogarth undertook to do in painting. He described social shams; painted things as they were, thus making many people ashamed and possibly better.

Italians had always painted saints and Madonnas, but Hogarth pretended to despise that sort of work, and painted only human beings. He did not really despise Raphael, Titian, and their brother artists, but he was so disgusted with the use that had been made of them and their schools of art, to the entire exclusion of more familiar subjects, that he turned satirist and ridiculed everything.

First of all, Hogarth was an engraver. He was born in London on the 10th December, 1697, and eighteen days later was baptised in the church of St. Bartholemew the Great. His father was a school teacher and a "literary hack," which means that in literature he did whatever he could find to do, reporting, editing, and so on.

Hogarth must early have known something of vagabond life, for his father's life during his own youth must have brought him into association with all sorts of people. He knew how madhouses were run, how kings dined, how beggars slept in goods boxes, and many other useful items.

Hogarth said of himself: "Shows of all sorts gave me uncommon pleasure when an infant, and mimicry, common to all children, was remarkable in me.... My exercises, when at school, were more remarkable for the ornaments which adorned them, than for the exercises themselves." He became an engraver or silver-plater, being apprenticed to Mr. Ellis Gamble, at the sign of the "Golden Angel," Cranbourne Alley, Leicester Fields.

Engraving on silver plate was all well enough, but Hogarth aspired to become an engraver on copper, and he has said that this was about the highest ambition he had while he was in Cranbourne Alley.

The shop-card which he engraved for Mr. Ellis Gamble may have been the first significant piece of work he undertook. The card is still among the Hogarth relics. He set up as an engraver on his own account, though he did study a little in Sir James Thornhill's art school; but whatever he learned he turned to characteristic account.

He continued to make shop-cards, shop-bills, and book-plates. Finally, in 1727, a maker of tapestry engaged Hogarth to sketch him a design end he set to work ambitiously He worked throughout that year upon the design, but when he took it to the man it was refused. The truth was that the man who had commissioned the work had heard that Hogarth was "an engraver and no painter," and he had so little intelligence that he did not intend to accept his design, however much it might have pleased him. Hogarth sued the man for his refusal and he won the suit. He next began to make what he called "conversation pieces," little paintings about a foot high of groups of people, the figures being all portraits. These were very fashionable for a time and made some money for the artist. Both he and Watteau were fond of the stage, and both painted scenes from operas and plays.

In time he moved into lodgings at the "Golden Head," in Leicester Fields, and there he made his home. He had already begun the great paintings which were to make him famous among artists. These were a series of pictures, telling stories of fashionable and other life. His own story of how he came to think of the picture series was that he had always wished to present dramatic stories -- present them in scenes as he saw them on the stage.

He had married the daughter of Sir James Thornhill, and had never been thought of kindly by his father-in-law till he made so much stir with his first series. Then Sir James approved of him, and Hogarth found life more pleasing.

There are very few anecdotes to tell of the artist's life, and the story of his pictures is much more amusing. One of his first satires was made into a pantomime by Theophilus Gibber, and another person made it into an opera. Many pamphlets and poems were written about it, and finally china was painted with its scenes and figures. There was as much to cry as to laugh over in Hogarth's pieces and that is what made them so truly great. One of his great picture series was called the "Rake's Progress" and it was a warning to all young men against leading too gay a life. It showed the "Rake" at the beginning of his misfortunes, gambling, and in the last reaping the reward of his follies in a debtor's prison and the madhouse. There are eight pictures in that set.

In this series, especially in the fifth picture, there are extraordinary proofs of Hogarth's completeness of ideas. Upon the wall in the room wherein the "Rake" marries an old woman for her money, the Ten Commandments are hung, all cracked, and the Creed also is cracked and nearly smudged out; while the poor-box is covered with cobwebs. The eight pictures brought to Hogarth only seventy guineas.

One of his pictures was suggested to him by an incident which greatly angered him. He had started for France on some errand of his own, and was in the very act of sketching the old gate at Calais, when he was arrested as a spy. Now Hogarth was a hard-headed Englishman, and when he was hustled back to England without being given time for argument, he was so enraged that he made his picture as grotesque as possible, to the lasting chagrin of France. He painted the French soldiers as the most absurd, thin little fellows imaginable, and that picture has largely influenced people's idea of the French soldier all over the English-speaking world.

As Hogarth grew old he grew also a little bitter and revengeful toward his enemies, often taking his revenge in the ordinary way of belittling the people he disliked, in his paintings.

Hogarth came before Reynolds or Gainsborough; in short, was the first great English artist, and his chief power lay in being able instantly to catch a fleeting expression, and to interpret it. An incident of Hogarth's youth illustrates this. He had got into a row in a pot-house with one of the hangers-on, and when someone struck the brawler over the head with a pewter pot, there, in the midst of excitement and rioting, Hogarth whipped out his pencil and hastily sketched the expression of the chap who had been hit.

Hogarth was friends with most of the theatre managers, and one of his souvenirs was a gold pass given him by Tyers, the director of Vauxhall Gardens, which entitled Hogarth and his family to entrance during their lives. This was in return for some "passes," which Hogarth had engraved for Tyer.

Upon one occasion Hogarth set off with some companions for a trip to the Isle of Sheppey. Incidentally Forest wrote a sketch of their journey and Hogarth illustrated it. That work is to be found, carefully preserved, in the British Museum. The repeated copying and reproduction for sale of his pictures brought about the first effort to protect his works of art by copyright. But it was not till he had done the "Rake's Progress" that he was able to protect himself at all, and even then not completely.

Just before his death he was staying at Chiswick, but the day before he died he was removed to his house in Leicester Fields. He was buried in the Chiswick churchyard; and in that suburb of London may still be seen his old house and a mulberry tree where he often sat amusing children for whom he cared very much. Garrick wrote the following epitaph for his tomb:

If Genius fire thee, Reader, stay; If Nature touch thee, drop a tear; If neither move thee, turn away, For Hogarth's honour'd dust lies here.

Farewell, great Painter of Mankind! Who reached the noblest point of art, Whose pictured Morals charm the Mind And through the Eye correct the Heart.

Plate -- The Marriage Contract

The picture used in illustration here is part of probably the very greatest art-sermon ever painted, called "Marriage à la Mode." The story of it is worth telling:

"The first act is laid in the drawing-room of the Viscount Squanderfield" -- is not that a fine name for the character? "On the left, his lordship is seated, pointing with complacent pride to his family tree, which has its roots in William the Conqueror. But his rent roll had been squandered, the gouty foot suggesting whither some of it has gone; and to restore his fortunes he is about to marry his heir to the daughter of a rich alderman. The latter is seated awkwardly at the table, holding the marriage contract duly sealed, signed and delivered; the price paid for it, being shown by the pile of money on the table and the bunch of cancelled mortgages which the lawyer is presenting to the nobleman, who refuses to soil his elegant fingers with them. Over on the left is his weakling son, helping himself at this critical turn of his affairs, to a pinch of snuff while he gazes admiringly at his own figure in the mirror. The lady is equally indifferent; she has strung the ring on to her finger and is toying with it, while she listens to the compliments being paid to her by Counsellor Silver-tongue. Through an open window another lawyer is comparing his lordship's new house, that is in the course of building, with the plan in his hand. A marriage so begun could only end in misery." This is the first act, and the pictures that follow show all the steps of unhappiness which the couple take. There are five more acts to that painted drama, which is in the National Gallery, London.



XXII

Hans Holbein, The Younger


(Pronounced Hahntz Hol'bine) German School 1497-1543 Pupil of Holbein, the Elder

There were three generations of painters in the Holbein family, and the Hans of whom we speak was of the third. His grandfather was called "old Holbein," and when more painters of the same name and family came along it became necessary to distinguish them from each other thus: "old Holbein," the "elder Holbein," and "young Holbein." The first one was not much of an artist; still, in a locality where at best there was not much art he was good enough to be remembered.

"Young Holbein" was born in Augsburg, which is in Swabia, in southern Germany; "elder Holbein" and his father, Michael, "old Holbein," had moved there from Schonenfeld, a neighbouring village, about forty three years before little Hans was born, the old Michael bringing his family to the larger town where it was easier to make a living.

The "elder Holbein" was a really good artist and well thought of in Augsburg, and when little Hans's turn came he had no teacher but his father, unless indeed we were to call him also a pupil of his elder brother, Ambrosius. His uncle Sigismund, too, taught him something of art, for the whole Holbein family seem to have been artists. Young Holbein was never regularly apprenticed to any outsider.

Art was not then taught as it is now. The work of a beginner was often to paint for his master certain details which it was thought that he might handle properly, while the master occupied himself with what he thought to be some more important part of the picture. It is said that Hans often painted the draperies of his father's figures when his father was engaged upon the altar pieces so fashionable at the time. The Holbeins one and all must have been bad managers or improvident; at any rate, Hans did not turn out well as a man and we read that his father was always in debt and difficulty although he received much money for his work and was not handicapped, like Dürer's father, by a family of eighteen children.

The story of the Holbeins is quite unlike that of the Dürers, and not nearly so attractive.

Some time before Hans was twenty years of age, the entire family had packed up and gone to live in Lucerne, while Hans and his brother, Ambrosius, went travelling together, as most young Germans went at that time before they settled down to the serious work of life. The last we hear of Ambrosius he had joined the painters' guild in Basel, and probably he died not long afterward, or at any rate while he was still young. There was in Basel a certain Hans Bar, for whose wedding occasion Hans Holbein designed a table, on which he pictured an allegory of "St. Nobody." This was very likely such work as our cartoonists do to-day, but being the work of Holbein, it had great artistic value. Besides that, he painted a schoolmaster's sign to be hung outside the door.

As an illustrator, Holbein made the acquaintance of several authors about that time and started on the high road to fame. He was a man of very little conscience or fine feeling, and there could hardly be a greater contrast than that between the clean sweet life of Dürer and the brawling, unfeeling one that Hans Holbein led.

Dürer married, had no children, but tenderly loved and cared for his wife, taking her with him upon his journeys and making her happy.

Holbein married and beat his wife; had several children and took care of none of them. His wife grew to look old and worn while he remained a gay looking sport, quite tired of one whom he had had on his hands for ten years. He wandered everywhere and left his family to shift for itself. One writer in speaking of the two men says:

"Dürer would never have deserted his wife whom he took with him even on his journey to the Netherlands; and he was bound by the same tenderness to his native town. However much he rejoiced to receive a visit from Bellini at Venice, or when at Antwerp, the artists instituted, a torch-light procession in his honour, nothing could have moved him to leave Nuremberg." Dürer loved his home; Holbein hated his.

Holbein had a cold, light-blue eye; Dürer a soft and tender glance. While Dürer lived he was the mainstay of his family -- father and brothers. Holbein's father died in misery and his brother's life was disastrous, Hans doing nothing to serve them and looking on at their sufferings indifferently.

There is a court document in existence which tells the particulars of Hans Holbein's arrest for getting into a brawl with a lot of goldsmiths' apprentices during a night of carousal. The court warned him that he would be more severely punished if he did not cease his lawless life and he was made to promise not to "jostle, pinch, nor beat his lawful spouse." When he died he made no provision in his will for his family. There is a picture of his wife, Elizabeth Schmidt, to be seen in his "Madonna" at Solothurn Holbein used her for the model. She then was young and blooming and the model for the child was his own baby; at that time he found them useful.

His life of folly can hardly be excused by impulsiveness or emotion, for his pictures show little of either. He was best at portrait painting. At that time guilds and town councils wanted the portraits of their members preserved in some way, and it was the habit of painters like Holbein to form picturesque groups and give to such dramatic groupings the features of townsmen. Rembrandt did this much later than Holbein, when he painted the "Night Watch," or as it is more properly called, "The Sortie."

Probably Holbein's first important work was to make title pages for the second edition of Martin Luther's translation of the New Testament. This MS. was made about the time that Holbein's work began to be of interest to the public, and so the commission was given to him.

After a time this artist went to England with letters of introduction to Sir Thomas More, Chancellor to King Henry VIII. Sir Thomas treated him very kindly and set him to work making portraits of his own family. During the time he was living at More's home in Chelsea, the King himself, used frequently to visit there, and on one occasion he saw the brilliant portraits of the More family and inquired about the artist. Sir Thomas offered the King any of the pictures he liked, but Henry VIII. asked to see the artist. When brought before him, Holbein's fortune seemed to be made for the King asked him to go to court and paint for him, remarking that "now he had the artist he did not care about the pictures."

Holbein seems to have been a favourite with Henry and many anecdotes are told of his life at Whitehall, where he went to live. Once while Holbein was engaged upon a portrait, a nobleman insisted upon entering his studio, after the artist had told him that he was painting the portrait of a lady, by order of the King. The nobleman insisted upon seeing it, but Holbein seized him and threw him down the Stairs; then he rushed to the King and told what had happened. He had no sooner finished than the nobleman appeared and told his story. The King blamed the nobleman for his rudeness.

"You have not to do with Holbein," he said, "but with me. I tell you, of seven peasants I can make seven lords, but of seven lords I cannot make one Holbein. Begone! and remember that if you ever attempt to avenge yourself, I shall look upon any injury offered to the painter as done to myself."

It was Holbein who, visiting a brother artist and finding a picture on the easel, painted a fly upon it. When the artist returned he tried to brush the fly off, then set about looking for the one who had deceived him.

His portrait painting was so superb that he received many commissions.

Meantime, Sir Thomas More had fallen into disfavour with the King and was to lose his head, but it is written that the artist's portraits "betray nothing of this tragedy." He was as ready to climb to fame by the favour of his generous patron's enemies as he had been to accept the offices of Sir Thomas More. He painted the portraits of several of the wives of Henry VIII., and it may be said that there was a good deal of that monarch's temperament to be found in Holbein himself. Take him all in all, Hans was as detestable as a man as he was excellent as a painter.

In his adopted home in Lucerne, Holbein had painted frescoes, both on the inside and the outside of a citizen's house, and this house stood until 1824, when it was torn down to make way for street improvements, but several artists hastily copied the frescoes so that they are not entirely lost.

Before he left Germany for England, Holbein had been commissioned to decorate the town hall in Basel, and a certain amount of money was voted for the work, but after he had finished three walls, he decided that the money was only enough to pay him for what he had already done. The councillors agreed with him, but as money was a little "close" in Basel at that time, they felt unable to give him more, and so voted to "let the back wall alone, till further notice."

He painted one Madonna whom he surrounded with the entire family of Burgomaster Meyer, including even the burgomaster's first wife, who was dead. This work is called the "Meyer Madonna."

It is said that after Holbein's return to Basel he, with others, was persecuted for his "religious principles," but if this were true, his persecutors went to considerable pains for nothing, because Holbein was never known to have any sort of principles, religious or otherwise. He was neither a Protestant, nor a Catholic but a painter, a man without convictions and without thought. He did not care for family, country, friends, politics, religion, nor for anything else, so far as any one knows.

When he was asked why he had not partaken of the Sacrament, he answered that he wanted to understand the matter better before he did so. Thus he escaped punishment, and when matters were explained to him, he did whatever seemed safest and most convenient under the circumstances.

On his return to England, he settled among the colony of German and Netherland merchants, who were in the habit of meeting at a place called "The Steelyard," as their home and warehouses were grouped in that locality, with a guild hall and a wineshop they alone patronised.

While associated with his compatriots Holbein made portraits of many of them, and these are magnificent works of art. He painted them separately or in groups; in their offices and in their guild hall, as the case might be. The men whom he thus painted were: Gorg Gisze, Hans of Antwerp, Derich Berck, Geryck Tybis, Ambrose Fallen, and many others. He designed the arch which the guild erected upon the occasion of Anne Boleyn's coronation, and he painted Henry's next Queen, Jane Seymour.

Holbein painted many portraits of Henry VIII. and probably all those dated after 1537 were either copies or founded upon the portrait which Holbein made and which was destroyed with Whitehall.

While he painted for Henry, Holbein received a sort of retainer's fee of thirty pounds a year, but he may have received sums for outside commissions which he undertook. On one occasion, when he took a journey to Upper Burgundy to paint a portrait of the Duchess whom Henry contemplated making his next wife, the King gave him ten pounds out of his own purse. We have no record of vast sums such as Raphael received.

Henry did not succeed in making the Duchess his wife, so Holbein was sent to paint another -- Anne of Cleves -- that Henry might see what he thought of her before he undertook to make her his queen. Holbein did a disastrous deed, for he made Anne a very acceptable looking woman, (the portrait hangs in the Louvre) and Henry negotiated for her on the strength of that portrait. Later, when he saw her, he was utterly disgusted and disappointed.

Holbein, notwithstanding this trick, was employed to paint the next wife of Henry, and doubtless he also made the miniature of Catherine Howard which is in Windsor Castle. Holbein finally died of the plague and no one knows where he was buried. His wife died later, and it was left for his son, Philip, who was said to be "a good well-behaved lad," to bring honours to the family. He was apprenticed in Paris, and, settling later in Augsburg, he founded a branch of the Holbein family on which the Emperor Matthias conferred a patent of nobility, making them the Holbeins of Holbeinsberg.

Plate -- Robert Cheseman With His Falcon

This is one of the best of the many splendid portraits Holbein painted. It hangs in The Hague gallery. The gentleman was forty-eight years old and in the portrait he wears a purplish-red doublet of silk and a black overcoat, which was the fashion of the day, all trimmed with fur. He has curly hair, just turning gray. His left hand is gloved and on it he holds his falcon, while with the other hand he strokes its feathers.

Of all sports at that time, falconry was the most fashionable and every fine gentleman had his sporting birds. Robert Cheseman lived in Essex. He was rich and a leader in English politics. His father was "keeper of the wardrobe to Henry VIII." and he himself served in many public offices. He was one of the gentleman chosen to welcome Anne of Cleves when she landed on English soil to marry Henry VIII. These details were first published by Mr. Arthur Chamberlain and are taken from his sketch of Holbein and his works.

Among Holbein's other famous pictures are: "The Ambassadors," "Hans of Antwerp," "Christina of Denmark," "Jane Seymour," "Anne of Cleves," and "St. George and the Dragon."



XXIII

William Holman Hunt


English (Pre-Raphaelite) School 1827 --  Pupil of Academy School

The story of the Pre-Raphaelites is all by itself a story of art. Holman Hunt was one of three who formed this "brotherhood"; and he, with one other, are the only ones whom some of us think worthy of giving a place in art. This is to be the story of the brotherhood rather than a story of one man.

The last great artist England had had before this extraordinary group, was J. M. W. Turner, truly a wonderful man, but after him England's painters became more and more commonplace, drawing further and further away from truth, There was one, J. F. Lewis, who went away to Syria and lived a lonely and studious life, trying to paint with fidelity sacred scenes, but he was not great enough to do what his conscience and desires demanded of him; and, finally, Constable declared that the end of art in England had come. But it had not, for up in London, in the very heart of the city, in Cheapside (Wood Street) there was born, in April, 1827, a child destined to be a brilliant and wonderful man, who was actually to rescue English art from death. Many do not think thus, but enough of us do to warrant the statement.

The new artist was Holman Hunt. He was the son of a London warehouseman, with no inclination whatever for learning, so that it seemed simply a waste of time to send him to school. This continually repeated history of artists who seem to know nothing outside their brushes and colours, is astonishing, but it is true that artists for the most part must be regarded as artists, pure and simple, and not as men of even reasonably good intellectual attainments, and more or less this accounts for their low estate centuries ago. One does not associate "learning" and the artist. When we have such splendid examples as Dürer and two or three others we discuss their intellectuality because they are so unusual.

Holman Hunt was like most of his brother artists in all but his art. He hated school and at twelve years of age was taken from it. His father wanted him to become a warehouse merchant like himself, and he began life as clerk or apprentice to an auctioneer. He next went into the employment of some calico-printers of Manchester. The designing of calicoes can hardly be called art, even if the department of design had fallen to Holman Hunt's lot and we have no evidence that it did, but he started to be an artist nevertheless, there in the print-shop. He found in his new place another clerk who cared for art; and this sympathy encouraged him to fix his mind upon painting more than ever. He used to draw such natural flies upon the window panes that his employer tried one day to "shoo away a whole colony of flies that seemed miraculously to have settled." This gave the clerks much amusement, and also attracted attention to Holman Hunt's genius.

His very small salary was spent, not on his support, but in lessons from a portrait painter of the city. His parents did not like this, but they could not help themselves, and thus this greatest of the Pre-Raphaelites began his work.

The Pre-Raphaelites were a little group of men who believed that artists were drawing too much on their imaginations, not painting things as they saw them, and that the painter had become incapable of close observation. He worked in his studio, did not get near enough to nature, and instead of trying to follow along this line, this group of men, with their new and partly correct ideas, meant to go back further than the great masters themselves and present an elemental art. This was a part of their scheme and partly it was justified, but of all the men who undertook to make a new school, Holman Hunt was the only one who remained, and will remain forever, a representative. He alone stuck to the original purpose of the group and developed it into a truly great school; so that it is he alone we need to know.

After he began to take lessons of the portrait painter in London, he developed so quickly that he found by painting portraits three days a week, he could pay his own expenses, and the rest of the time he devoted to study. He tried to be admitted to the Academy schools twice and was twice refused before they would receive him.

It was there in the Academy the three original Pre-Raphaelites met for the first time; they were Holman Hunt, Dante Gabriel Rossetti, and Millais. After entering the school Hunt painted and sold four excellent pictures, but they all seem to have been lost; nobody can trace them. He was not yet a "Pre-Raphaelite."

All this time Hunt was half ill because he knew that he was grieving his father of whom he was devotedly fond, and the strain of trying to work while he was unhappy nearly destroyed him. The pictures that he exhibited at the Royal Academy were so poor that the commission declared they should not only be removed but that Hunt ought really to be forbidden to exhibit any more. This must have been a great blow to the young and struggling artist, and to add to this trouble, his father was being jeered at for having such a good-for-nothing son. Hunt's pictures in the Academy were so much despised that his father was told his son was a disgrace to him, and we may be sure that did not help the young fellow, who meantime was earning a living, not by painting pictures, but by cleaning up those of another man. Dyce, who had painted on the walls of Trinity House, engaged him to clean and restore those paintings, and Hunt was doing this for his bread and butter.

At that time he became so downhearted and discouraged that he almost decided to leave England altogether and go to live in Canada away from his friends who jeered, and his family who reproached him; but just then Millais, one of the successful painters whom he had met in the Academy school, who could afford to be generous, came to Hunt's aid and gave him the means of living while he painted "The Hireling Shepherd." This was destined to be the turning point in Hunt's luck, for that painting was properly hung at the exhibition, and it received recognition. After that he painted a picture which he sold on the installment plan -- being paid by the purchaser so much a month.

Meantime he owed his landlady a large sum, and he says himself that he "suffered almost unbearable pain at passing her and her husband week after week without being able to even talk of annulling his debts." In time he not only settled that bill which distressed him, but paid back his friend Millais the money loaned by him.

Hunt rarely took a commission, because to do so meant that he must paint a picture after the manner his employer wished, and Hunt had certain ideas of art in which he believed and therefore would not bind himself to depart from them; but after a little success, which enabled him to pay his bills, he did undertake a commission from Sir Thomas Fairbairn, and it was called "The Awakened Conscience." He finished this picture on a January day late in the afternoon, and that very night he left England, setting out upon a longed-for journey to the Holy Land, where he meant to study the country and people till he believed himself able to paint a truthful picture of sacred scenes. He refused to paint pictures of Eastern Jews who should look like Parisians, with Venetian backgrounds. He meant to paint Oriental scenes as nearly as he could, as they might have taken place.

He came back to his English home just two years and one month from the time he had left it, and he brought back a picture of the goat upon which the Jews loaded their sins and then turned loose in waste-places to wander and die. "The Scapegoat" was a great picture, but before he left England he had painted a greater -- the one we see here -- "The Light of the World."

He had depended upon the sale of the "Scapegoat" to pay his way for a time after his return home, and alas, it did not sell. More than that, his beloved father died and this added to his sense of desolation, for he had not been sufficiently successful before his death to justify himself in his father's eyes. These things so overwhelmed his sensitive mind with trouble, that his condition became very serious, and if certain good friends had not stood by him loyally, he would probably never have painted again.

He began at last another ambitious picture -- "Finding of Christ in the Temple" -- but while he was engaged upon this, he had to paint mere pot-boilers also in order to get on at all, and he says that half the time the great picture "stood with its face to the wall" while he was trying merely to earn bread and butter. The wonderful Louis Blanc tried once to plan a way by which all deserving people should have in this world equal opportunity to try. This has never been "worked out." It never will be, but Holman Hunt reminds us how much the world loses by not providing that "equal opportunity." No one deserves more than his chance; but such struggles of genius tell us that all is not fair.

Hunt persevered with this Christ in the Temple and when finished he sold it for 5,500 guineas -- a larger sum than he had ever before been given for a painting.

He no sooner received his money for this great picture than off he went once more to the Holy Land. He was conscientious in everything he did, and never before had an artist painted scenes of Christ that carried such a sense of truth with them. The set haloes seen about the heads of the saints and of holy people even in Raphael's pictures and in those of the very greatest artists of his time, disappeared with Holman Hunt's coming. In the "Light of the World," the halo is an accident -- the great white moon, happening to rise behind the Christ's head -- and there we have the halo, simple, natural, only suggestive, not artificial. Then, too, in the "Shadow of Death," there is a menacing shadow of the cross -- made upon the wall by Christ's body, as he naturally stretches out his arms, after his work in the carpenter shop.

There is not one false note that shocks us, or makes us feel that after all the story itself is affected and artificial. Everything that is symbolical is brought about naturally. They are sincere, truthful pictures that speak to the mind as well as to the eye.

Hunt's colouring and many other technical matters are often far from perfect, but there is something besides technicality to be considered in judging a picture.

For a time, while the three men, Hunt, Rossetti, and Millais, kept together, their pictures were signed P. R. B., as a sign of their league; but this did not last very long, and afterward Hunt signed his pictures independently.

After the "Brotherhood" had worked against the greatest discouragements for a long time, and felt nearly hopeless of success, John Ruskin, one of the greatest of critics and most fearless of men, who was so much respected that his words had great influence, suddenly published a defence of these Pre-Raphaelites. He declared that they were the greatest artists of the time, and while scorning their critics he applauded those three young men, till he turned the tide, and everybody began to know what truly brilliant work they were doing. Ruskin's words came, Hunt said, "as thunder out of a clear sky."

When the "Brotherhood" was formed the three young men thought they should have a paper -- a periodical of some sort, in which they might tell of their purposes and express their ideas; and so Rossetti, who wrote as well as painted, proposed that they print such a periodical once a month, and call it the Germ; and the P. R. B's. were to be joint proprietors. Rossetti had first thought of a different title, Thoughts Toward Nature, and his brother, W. M. Rossetti, who was going to take charge of the monthly, thought that expressed the Pre-Raphaelites' idea; but it was finally agreed to call it the Germ. Only two numbers could be published by the Pre-Raphaelites, because nobody bought it and the young men's money gave out, but the printers came to the rescue, and put up the money to issue two or three more Germs.

Although that journal failed utterly, its four numbers were worth publishing, and are to-day worth reading. They were truly valuable, for they contained a story and poem by Dante Gabriel Rossetti, besides work of the other P. R. B's.

Above all things Hunt was conscientious in his work, trying with all his might to represent things as be believed them to be. When he made his "Scapegoat," he went to the shores of the Dead Sea to paint, accompanied only by Arab guides, and there he found the desolate, hard landscape for his picture. The hardships he experienced were very many. The wretched goat he took with him died in the desert of that dreary place after it had been no more than sketched in, but back in Jerusalem Hunt finished the goat. Ruskin's description of the picture helps one to feel all the desolation of the subject: "The salt sand of the wilderness of Ziph, where the weary goat is dying. The neighbourhood is stagnant and pestiferous, polluted by the decaying vegetables brought down by the Jordan in its floods, and the bones of the beasts of burden that have died by the way of the sea, lie like wrecks upon its edge, bared by the vultures and bleached by the salt ooze."

Even the superstitious Arabs would not go near the spot which Hunt chose as the scene of his picture, but Hunt endured all things, believing it due to his art.

When he painted "Christ in the Temple," he needed Jewish models, and it was almost impossible for him to get them. He could not let them know what they were to represent, or they would not have sat for him at all but he succeeded in painting the "first Semitic presentment of the Semitic Scriptures." In Jerusalem the Jews heard that he had come "to traffic with the souls of the faithful," and they forbade him to have any Jews come into his studio; so that he could not finish the picture there. Back in London he had to find his models in the Jewish school. He left the figures of Christ and the Virgin till the last and then painted them "from a lady of the ancient race, distinguished alike for her amiability and beauty, and a lad in one of the Jewish schools, to which the husband of the lady furnished a friendly introduction."

Thus, step by step, through the greatest difficulties, Holman Hunt established a new school of painting -- allegory with a modern treatment which all could understand.

Plate -- The Light Of The World

This is the most popular picture of a sacred subject, ever painted; and John Ruskin's description of it, here quoted, is the best ever written or that can be written. "On the left of the picture is seen the door of the human soul. It is fast barred, its bars and nails are rusty; it is knitted and bound to its stanchions by creeping tendrils of ivy, showing that it has never been opened. A bat hovers over it; its threshold is overgrown with brambles, nettles and fruitless corn.... Christ approaches in the night time, ... he wears the white robe, representing the power of the Spirit upon Him; the jewelled robe and breastplate, representing the sacredotal investitude; the rayed crown of gold, interwoven with the crown of thorns; not dead thorns, but now bearing soft leaves, for the healing of the nations.... The lantern carried in Christ's left hand is the light of conscience.... Its fire is red and fierce; it falls only on the closed door, on the weeds that encumber it, and on an apple shaken from one of the trees of the orchard, thus marking that the entire awakening of the conscience is not to one's own guilt alone, but to the guilt of the world, or, 'hereditary guilt.'...

"This light is suspended by a chain, wrapt around the wrist of the figure, showing that the light which reveals sin to the sinner appears also to chain the hand of Christ. The light which proceeds from the head of the figure -- is that of the hope of salvation; it springs from the crown of thorns, and, though itself sad, subdued and full of softness, is yet so powerful, that it entirely melts into the glow of it the forms of the leaves and boughs which it crosses, showing that every earthly object must be hidden by this light, where its sphere extends."

If you will study every detail of this reproduction, finding all the objects -- the apple, the rusty bolts -- noting how the full risen moon has formed a natural nimbus for the sacred head, and then re-read what Ruskin has said, you will discover the rarest truths in Holman Hunt's picture. The several pictures which he painted, but which cannot now be found are: "Hark!" which was first exhibited in the Royal Academy; "Scene from Woodstock," "The Eve of St. Agnes," "Jerusalem by Moonlight," "The King of Hearts," "Moonlight at Salerno," "Interior of the Mosque of Omar," "The Pathless Water," "Winter," "Afternoon," "Sussex Downs," "Penzance," "The Archipelago," "Will-o'-the-Wisp," "Ivybridge," "The Foal of an Ass," "Road over the Downs," "The Haunt of the Gazelle," "'Oh, Pearl,' Quoth I," "Miss Flamborough," "The School-girl's Hymn." Portraits: Mr. Martineau; Mr. J. B. Brice. Small sketch of the "Scapegoat," "Sunset on the Sea," "Morning Prayer," "Bianca," "Past and Present," and "Dead Mallard."

Should you ever find one of these pictures bearing the initials P. R. B. or those of Holman Hunt, you will have made an interesting discovery and should make it known to others.



XXIV

George Inness


American 1825-1897 Pupil of Regis Gignoux

George Inness was destined to keep a grocery store as his father had kept one before him, and had grown rich in it. When George was a young man he was given a grocery store in Newark, New Jersey, a very small store indeed, and it is not surprising that the young man preferred art to butter and eggs. The Inness family had just moved from Newburg, probably the elder Innes seeking in Newark a good location for his son's beginning.

The first art-work Inness did was engraving; as he had been apprenticed to that business, but afterward he studied with Gignoux, a pupil of Delaroche.

At that time there was what is known as the Hudson River School. Its ideas were set and formal, and not very inspiring, aside from the subjects treated. Church was then a young man like Inness, and he was studying in the Hudson River School, but the young grocer struck out a line for himself.

He was forty years old before he got to Paris, but once there, he turned to the men at Barbizon -- Rousseau, Millet, Corot, and the rest -- for inspiration, and began to do beautiful things indeed. Rousseau became his friend, and the art of Inness grew large and rich through such influences.

Inness had inherited much religious feeling from his Scotch ancestors, and all his work was conscientious, very carefully done.

When Inness returned from Paris he was not yet well known. He went to Montclair, New Jersey, to live and it was there that he did his best work. Finally, after he was fifty years old, he became known as a truly splendid painter. He loved best to paint quiet scenes of morning, evening sunset, and the like. His pictures began to gain value, and one that he had sold for three hundred dollars jumped in price to ten thousand and more. His work is not equally good, because his moods greatly influenced him.

Plate -- Berkshire Hills

This picture in the George A. Hearn collection is full of the sense of restfulness that the works of this artist always convey. The trees are as motionless as the distant hills, and if the oxen are moving at all it is but slowly.

Some other Inness paintings are the "Georgia Pines," "Sunset on the Passaic," "The Wood Gatherers" and "After a Summer Shower."



XXV

Sir Edwin Henry Landseer


English School 1802-1873 Pupil of his father, John Landseer

It is pleasant to speak of one artist whose good work began in the companionship of his father; the case of Edwin Landseer is most unusual.

His father was a skilful engraver who loved art, and encouraged the cultivation of it in his son, as other fathers of painters encouraged them to become priests or haberdashers or bakers, as the case might be. Little Landseer's beginning has been described by his father as he and a friend stood looking upon one of the scenes of his childhood:

"These two fields were Edwin's first studio. Many a time have I lifted him over this very stile. I then lived in Foley Street, and nearly all the way between Marylebone and Hampstead was open fields. It was a favourite walk with my boys; and one day when I had accompanied them, Edwin stopped by this stile to admire some sheep and cows which were quietly grazing. At his request I lifted him over, and finding a scrap of paper and a pencil in my pocket, I made him sketch the cow. He was very young indeed, then -- not more than six or seven years old.

"After this we came on several occasions, and as he grew older this was one of his favourite spots for sketching. He would start off alone, or with John (Thomas?) or Charles, and remain till I fetched him in the afternoon. I would then criticise his work, and make him correct defects before we left the spot. Sometimes he would sketch in one field, sometimes in the other, but generally in the one beyond the old oak we see there, as it was more pleasant and sunny."

All the Landseer men were gifted, and the mother was the beautiful woman whom Reynolds painted as a gleaner, carrying a bundle of wheat upon her head.

There were seven little Landseers, the oldest of them being Thomas, the famous engraver, whose reproduction of his brother's works will preserve them to us always, even after the originals are gone. The first of Edwin's drawings which seemed to his family worthy of publishing was a great St. Bernard dog, such a wonderful performance for a little fellow of thirteen that Thomas engraved it and distributed it all over England. Little Edwin had seen this beautiful dog one day in the streets of London in a servant's charge, and he was so delighted with its beauty, that he followed the two home and asked the dog's owner if he might sketch him. The St. Bernard was six feet four inches long "and at the middle of his back, stood two feet seven inches in height." A great critic said that this drawing was one of the very finest that any master of art had ever made, though it was done by a little child of thirteen years and it is also said that Landseer himself never did anything better than that little-boy work. A live dog who was let into the room with it -- as critic, maybe -- proved to be the most flattering of such, because he bristled instantly for a fight.

While the boy was still thirteen -- which seems to have been a magic and not a tragic number to him -- he exhibited pictures in the Royal Academy. These were a mule, and a dog with a puppy. In the stories of "Famous Artists" we are told that he was a fine, manly little chap with light curly hair and very well behaved. When he became a student of the Academy the keeper, Fuseli, used to look about among the students and cry: "Where is my little dog boy?" if Landseer was not in his place. The little chap's favourite dog was his own Brutus, which he painted lying at full length; and though the picture was small, it sold for seventy guineas. This means an earning capacity indeed, for a small boy.

When he was but seven years old he had made pictures of lions and tigers, each with a different expression from the other and each with a character of its own. Critics spoke specially of the tiger's whiskers as "admirable in the rendering of foreshortened curves." Tigers' whiskers were thought to be most difficult things to make, but in Landseer's pictures, they were as "natural as life." The great success of the artist's animal pictures was that he made them seem to have human intelligence, and it was also said that if one only saw the dog's collar, as Landseer painted it, he would know it to be the work of a great artist, that a great dog-picture must be attached to it.

At least one of his pictures had a remarkable history. He had been commissioned by the Hon. H. Pierrpont to paint a "white horse in a stable." After the painting was ready for delivery it disappeared, and for twenty-four years it could not be found. At last it was discovered in a hay-loft! It had been stolen by a servant and hidden there. In spite of the long years that had passed, Landseer sent it at once to the man for whom it had been made, with the message that he had not retouched it nor changed it in the least, "because," said he, "I thought it better not to mingle the style of my youth with that of my old age."

One of Landseer's early advisers had told him he must dissect animals to get the proper effects in painting them, as it was necessary for him to understand their construction. So, one time, when a famous old lion died in the Exeter Exchange menagerie Landseer got its body and dissected it, and immediately afterward he painted three great lion pictures: "The Lion Disturbed at His Repast," "A Lion Enjoying His Repast," and "A Prowling Lion."

Sir Walter Scott became so enchanted with Landseer's pictures that the great novelist came to London to take the young artist to his home at Abbotsford. "His dogs are the most magnificent things I ever saw," said Scott, "leaping and bounding and grinning all over the canvas."

Landseer lived in the centre of London till he was more than thirty years old, and then, looking for more quiet and space he bought a very small house and garden at No. 1, St. John's Wood. There was not much room in the house but it had a stable attached which made a fine studio, and there Landseer lived with a sister of his, for nearly fifty years. When he first wished to rent the house, the landlord asked him a hundred pounds premium which Landseer felt that he could not pay and he was about to give it up, when a friend declared that if the matter of money was all that prevented him, he was to rent it immediately, and he could repay him as he chose. Landseer then took the house, his friend paying down the premium, and Landseer returned the money twenty-pounds at a time, till all the debt was paid.

Landseer made this a famous and hospitable house, and it is said that more great people gathered under his roof than had ever gathered about any other artist with the exception of Sir Joshua Reynolds. That was the house in which Landseer's loving old father spent his last days and finally died. A story is told of the witty D'Orsay, who would call out at the door, when he went to visit the artist: "Landseer, keep de dogs off me, I want to come in and some of dem will bite me -- and dat fellow in de corner is growling furiously."

On one of his several visits to Abbotsford, where he went many times after his first invitation, to enjoy Scott's delightful hospitality, he painted a famous dog of Sir Walter's called Maida, which died six weeks afterward.

There are several such stories about dogs who died rather tragically and were also painted by Landseer. The two King Charles spaniels which he painted both died soon after sitting to the great painter. They had been pets of Mr. Vernon, who commissioned the painting, and the white Blenheim spaniel fell from a table and was killed, while the King Charles fell through the railings of a staircase and was picked up dead. The great bloodhound, Countess, belonging to Mr. Bell who gave her picture to the Academy, was watching for her master's return one dark night and when she heard the wheels of his carriage, then his voice, she leaped from the balcony, but missed her footing and fell nearly dead at Mr. Bell's feet. That gentleman loved the dog so much that he was distracted, and taking her into his gig, knowing that she must die, he raced in to London again that same night, and rousing Sir Edwin, begged him to paint the dog before it was too late. Then and there was the sketch of the dying animal made.

Sir Edwin Landseer was the most versatile and entertaining of artists. He was a wit, and could also perform all sorts of sleight of hand tricks, besides being so quick with his pencil that his doings seemed miraculous. One evening, during a conversation with many friends, someone declared that in point of time Sir Edwin could do a record-sketch. One young woman spoke up and said: "There is one thing that even he cannot do -- he cannot make two different pictures at the same time."

"Think not?" cried Sir Edwin. "Let us see!" Gaily taking two pencils, he rapidly drew a stag's head with one hand and a horse's head with the other.

Landseer became the guest of royalty, a favourite of Queen Victoria, whose dog Dash was one of the many famous dogs painted by him. Dash was the favourite spaniel of the Duchess of Kent, Victoria's mother; and the Queen's biographer says that she too loved him very much. On Coronation Day she had been away from him longer than usual, and when the great state coach rolled up to the palace steps she could hear Dash barking for her in the hall. "Oh," she exclaimed, "there's Dash," and throwing aside the ball and sceptre which she carried, she hurried to change her fine robes, in order to wash the dog. This is a very homelike and picturesque story, but it is possibly not true. Doubtless the little Queen heard the dog bark -- and was glad to see him.

At Windsor Landseer painted another royal dog, Islay, the pet terrier of Victoria; also Dandie Dinmont, belonging to the Princess Alice; then Eos, who was Prince Albert's -- King Edward's -- dog. All the last years of Sir Edwin Landseer' life, the royal family were his devoted and comforting friends. The painter suffered much and during his visits to Balmoral he wrote to his sister how the Queen used to go several times a day to his room, to look after his comfort and to inquire about his condition. He wrote:

"The Queen kindly commands me to get well here. She has to-day been twice to my room to show additions recently added to her already rich collection of photographs. Why, I know not, but since I have been in the High lands I have for the first time felt wretchedly weak, without appetite. The easterly winds, and now again the unceasing cold rain, may possibly account for my condition, but I can't get out. Drawing tires me; however, I have done a little better to-day. The doctor residing in the castle has taken me in hand, and gives me leave to dine to-day with the Queen and the rest of the royal family.... Flogging would be mild compared with my sufferings. No sleep, fearful cramp at night, accompanied by a feeling of faintness and distressful feebleness."

When he was well, he was gay and cheerful; and Dickens, Thackeray, and many other noted men were his friends. We are told that above all things. Sir Edwin was a great mimic and that one night at dinner he threw everybody into fits of laughter by imitating his friend the sculptor Sir Francis Chantry. It was at the sculptor's table, where a large party was assembled. Chantry called Sir Edwin's attention, when the cloth was removed, to the reflection of light in the highly polished table.

"Come here and sit in my place," said Chantry, "and see the perspective you can get." Then he went and stood by the fire, while Landseer sat in his place. Seated then in Chantry's chair, Landseer called out in perfect imitation of his host: "Come, young man, you think yourself ornamental; now make yourself useful, and ring the bell." Chantry did so, and when the butler came in he was confused and amazed to hear his master's voice from where Landseer sat in Chantry's place at the table. The voice of his master from the head of the table ordered claret, while his master really stood before the fire with his hands under his coat-tails.

We are told that Landseer stood his pictures on their heads, or upon one corner or looked at them from between his legs, any way, every way, to get a complete view of them from all quarters. He went to bed very late and got up very late, but in the mornings, while lying in bed he mostly thought out the subjects of his pictures.

He was not much of a sportsman, preferring to paint animals rather than to kill them, and one day when hunting, he saw a fine stag before him. Instead of firing at it, he thrust his gun into a gillie's hands, crying: "Hold that! hold that!" and whipping out his pencil and pad he began to sketch the stag. Whereupon the gillies were disgusted that he should miss so fine a shot, and they said something to each other in Gaelic, which Sir Edwin must have understood, for he became very angry.

"It was a pity," wrote one who knew all his qualities, "that Landseer, who might have done so much for the good of the animal kind, never wrote on the subject of their treatment. He had a strong feeling against the way some dogs are tied up, only allowed their freedom now and then. He used to say a man would fare better tied up than a dog, because the former can take his coat off, but a dog lives in his forever. He declared a tied-up dog, without daily exercise, goes mad, or dies, in three years."

He had a wonderful power over dogs, and he told one lady it was because he had "peeped into their hearts." A great mastiff rushed delightedly upon him one day and someone remarked how the dog loved him. "I never saw the dog before in my life," the artist said.

While teaching some horses tricks for Astley's, he showed his friends some sugar in his hand and said: "Here is my whip." His studio was full of pets, and one dog used as a model used to bring the master's hat and lay it at his feet when he got tired of posing.

This charming man suffered a great deal before his death, and had dreadful fits of depression. During one of these he wrote: "I have got trouble enough; ten or twelve pictures about which I am tortured, and a large national monument to complete." That monument was the one in Trafalgar Square, for which he designed the lions at the base. "If I am bothered about anything and everything, no matter what, I know my head will not stand it much longer." Later he wrote: "My health (or rather condition), is a mystery beyond human intelligence. I sleep seven hours, and awake tired and jaded, and do not rally till after luncheon. J. L. came down yesterday and did her best to cheer me... I return to my own home in spite of kind invitations from Mr. and Mrs. Gladstone to meet Princess Louise at breakfast." Of the many anecdotes told of this great man, his introduction to the King of Portugal furnishes the most amusing. "I am delighted to make your acquaintance," the King said, "I am so fond of beasts."

Before he died he had made a large fortune from his work, and during his illness he was tended most lovingly by his friends and sister. One day, walking in his garden, much depressed, he said sadly: "I shall never see the green leaves again," but he did live through other seasons. He wished to die in his studio, and at one time when he was much distracted the Queen wrote him not to fear, but to trust those who were doing all they could for him, that her confidence in his physicians and nurses was complete. At last with brother, sister, friends and fortune about him the great animal painter died, and on October 11, 1873, and was buried with great honours in St. Paul's Cathedral.

Plate -- The Old Shepherd's Chief Mourner

Of all the dogs Landseer loved to paint, the sheep collie has the most character; and here he shows us one expressing in every line of his face and form the most profound grief. The Glengarry bonnet on the floor beside the shepherd's staff, the spectacles lying on the Bible, the ram's horn, the vacant chair, the black and white shawl known as a "Shepherd's plaid" -- all these things have failed to comfort this humble follower. We can imagine him, not bounding ahead with a joyous bark, but walking staidly behind the coffin when it is borne away and laying himself down upon his master's grave, perhaps to die of starvation, as some of his kind have been known to do. The painting is one of the Sheepshanks Collection in the South Kensington Museum.

Among Landseer's other famous dog pictures are "Low Life and High Life," "Dignity and Impudence" and "The Sleeping Bloodhound," all in the National Gallery.



XXVI

Claude Lorrain (Gellee)


Classical French School 1600-1689 Pupil of Godfrey Wals

Of all the contrasts between the early and later lives of great artists, Claude Lorrain gives us the most complete.

He was born to make pastry. His family may have been all pastry cooks, because people of Lorrain were famous for that work; anyway as a little chap he was apprenticed to one. His parents were poor, lived in the Duchy of Lorrain and from that political division the Artist was named.

The town in which he was born was Chamagne, and his real name was Gellée. As a pastry cook's apprentice he served his time, and then, without any thought of becoming anything else in the world, he set off with several other pastry cooks to go to Rome, where their talents were to be well rewarded.

But how strangely things fall out! In Rome he was engaged to make tarts for Agostine Tassi, a landscape painter. His work was not simply to furnish his master with desserts, but to do general housekeeping, and it fell to his lot to clean Tassi's paint brushes. So far as we know, this was the first introduction of Claude Lorrain to art other than culinary.

From cleaning brushes it was but a step to trying to use them upon canvas, and Tassi being a good-natured man, began to give Lorrain instruction, till the pastry cook became his master's assistant in the studio. This led to a larger and larger life for the young Frenchman, and he copied great masters, did original things, and finally in his twenty-fifth year returned to France a full-fledged artist. He remained there two years, and then went back to Italy, where he lived till he died. The visit to France turned out fortunately because on his way back he fell in with one of the original twelve members of the French Academy, Charles Errard, who became the first director of the Academy in Rome. A warm friendship sprang up between the men, and Errard was very helpful to the young artist.

Nevertheless, Lorrain did not gain much fame till about his fortieth year, when he was noticed by Cardinal Bentivoglio, and was given certain commissions by him. He grew in Bentivoglio's favour so much that the Cardinal introduced him to the pope. The Catholic Church set the fashions in art, politics, and history of all sorts at that time, so that Lorrain could not have had better luck than to become its favourite. The pope was Urban VIII., whose main business was to hold the power of the Church and make it stronger if he could, so that he was continually building fortresses and other fortifications, and he had use for artists and decorators. Lorrain's fame outlasted the life of Urban VIII., and he became a favourite in turn with each of the three succeeding popes. All this time he was doing fine work in Italy and for Italy, besides receiving orders for pictures from France, Holland, Germany, Spain, and England, for his fame had reached throughout the world.

Besides leaving many paintings behind him when he died, he left half a hundred etchings; also a more precise record of his work than most artists have left. He executed two hundred sketches in pen or pencil, washed in with brown or India ink, the high lights being brought out with touches of white. On the backs of them the artist noted the date on which the sketch was developed into a picture, and for whom the latter was intended. The story is that his popularity produced many imitators, and that he adopted this means to establish the identity of his own work and distinguish it from the many copies made.

These sketches were collected in a volume by Lorrain and called "Liber Veritatis," and for more than a hundred years the Dukes of Westminster have owned this.

Plate -- Acis And Galatea

This picture in the Dresden Gallery is a scene from the mythical story of a goddess who fell in love with the youthful son of a faun and a naiad. Thus she excited the jealous fury of the cyclops, Polythemus, who is seen in the picture herding his flock of sheep upon the high cliff at the right. Soon he will rise and hurl a rock upon Acis, crushing the life out of him, so that there will be nothing left for Galatea to do but to turn him into the River Acis, but meanwhile the lovers are unconscious and happy. Venus is reposing near them on the waves and Cupid is closer still, while the sea in the background seems to be stirred with a fresh morning breeze.

Some of the famous Lorrains in the Louvre are: "Seaport at Sunset," "Cleopatra Landing at Tarsus," and "The Village Festival."



XXVII

Masaccio (Tommaso Guidi)


(Pronounced Tome-mah'so Mah'sahch'cheeo) Florentine School 1401-1428 Pupil of Ghibertio, Donatello, and Brunellesco

This artist, who lived and died within the century that witnessed the discovery of America, was famous for more than his painting. He was the original inventor who first learned and taught the mixing of colours with oils, thus making the peculiar "distemper" unnecessary.

The story of Italian artists includes a history of their names, for the Italians seem to have had most remarkable reasons for naming children. For example, this artist, Masaccio, was born on St. Thomas's day, hence, his name of Tommaso. Presently, for short, or for love, he was called Maso, and to cap all, being a careless lad, his friends added the derogatory "accio," and there we have the artist completely named. He owed nothing of this to his father, who was plain, or ornamentally, Ser Giovanni di Simone Guidi, of Castello San Giovanni, in the Valdamo.

As a very little boy, it was plain to be seen that slovenly Thomas was going to be a great artist, and no time was lost in putting him to work with the best of masters.

He was a veritable inventive genius. Until his time difficulties in drawing had been overcome mostly by ignoring them. Since no artist had been able to draw a foreshortened foot, it had been the fashion in art to paint people standing upon their tiptoes, to make it possible for an artist to paint the foot. The enterprising Thomas came along and he decided that feet must be painted both flat and crossed, on tiptoe or otherwise; in short he did not mean to lose by a foot.

He worked at this problem day and night, till at last the naturally poised foot came into existence for the artist. Never after Masaccio's time did an artist paint the foot stretched upon the toes. Moreover, until his time flesh had never been painted of a remotely natural colour, so Masaccio set about combining colours till he made one that had the tint of real flesh. Thus he was the first to overcome the difficulties of drawing and the first to discover a mixture that would not leave a glazed, hard, unnatural appearance and be likely to crack and destroy the finest effort of an artist.

He worked during his youth in Pisa, where the "leaning tower" stands; then he worked in Florence, finally in Rome, but those early pictures are long since gone. It was a century of adventure and discovery as well as of art, and with so much change, so many wars and rumours of wars, many great art works were lost. Besides, the horrible plague swept Italy east, west, north, and south. Who was to concern himself with saving works of art, when human life was going out wholesale all over the land?

Masaccio was certainly very poor most of his life. He lived with his mother and his brother Giovanni, an artist like himself, but not nearly so brilliant. Masaccio could not spend his life in painting but had to eke out the family fortunes by keeping a little shop near the old Badia, and being pestered day and night by his creditors he was forced again and again to go to the pawn shop.

Somewhere about 1422, careless Thomas painted his greatest picture which was doomed to destruction too early for us to know much about it; but it was named "San Paolo" and it was painted in the bell-room of the Church of the Carmine in Florence. The figure for his model was an illustrious personage, Bartoli d'Angiolini, who had held many honourable offices in Florence for many years. A critic and friend of artists tells us that the portrait was so great it lacked only the power of speech.

In this picture Masaccio made his first great triumph in the foreshortening of feet.

He undertook to celebrate the consecration Of the Church of the Carmine, and for this he made many frescoes, among which was a correct painting of the procession as it entered from the cloisters of the church. "Among the citizens who followed in its wake, portraits are introduced of Brunellesco, Donatello, Masolino, Felice Brancacci (the founder of the chapel) Giovanni di Bicci de' Medici, and others, including the porter of the convent with the key of the door in his hand."

This work was thought to be very wonderful because the figures grew smaller in the distance, thereby giving "perspective" for the first time. Imagine how crude a thing was painting in the day of careless Thomas.

That fresco is long since gone, but drawings of it still exist which tell us something of the people of Christopher Columbus's day -- previous to their appearance, and their conditions.

After Masaccio had finished the procession he went back to his painting of the chapel and in the end covered three of its four walls with his works. Many of those paintings are scenes from the life of St. Peter, and several were worked at by other artists than Masaccio.

Masaccio was greater than Raphael, greater than Michael Angelo in so far as he pointed the way that they were to go, having solved for them all the problems that had kept artists from being great before him. Sir Joshua Reynolds says that "he appeared to be the first who discovered the path that leads to every excellence to which the art afterward arrived; and may therefore be justly considered one of the great fathers of modern art."

The artist lived but a little time, and was most likely poisoned. Nobody knows, but it is said that other painters were so wildly jealous of his original genius that they wished him out of the way, and his death was at least mysterious. He drew very rapidly and let the details go, caring only to represent motion and action. Because he painted so many portraits into his pictures there was great life and animation in them, and people said of him that he painted not only the body but the soul.

Some of his known pictures are the frescoes in the church of St. Clemente in Rome; the frescoes in the Brancacci Chapel in the Church of the Carmine, "St. Peter Baptising" and the "Madonna and Child, with St. Anne," which is in the Accademia at Florence.



XXVIII

Jean Louis Ernest Meissonier


(Pronounced May-sohn-yay) French School 1815-1891 Pupil of Léon Cogniet

This artist was born at Lyons. His father was a salesman and an art-training seemed impossible for the young man because the Meissoniers were poor people. Nevertheless, he was so persevering that while still a young man he got to Paris and began to paint in the Louvre. He was but nineteen at that time, and his fate seemed so hard and bitter that later in life he refused to talk of those days.

He sat for many days in the Louvre, by Daubigny's side, painting pictures for which we are told he received a dollar a yard. We can think of nothing more discouraging to a genius than having to paint by the yard. It is said that his poverty permitted him to sleep only every other night, because he must work unceasingly, and someone declares that he lived at one time on ten cents a week. This is a frightful picture of poverty and distress.

Meissonier's first paying enterprise was the painting of bon-bon boxes and the decorating of fans, and he tried to sell illustrations for children's stories, but for these he found no market. A brilliant compiler of Meissonier's life has written that "his first illustrations in some unknown journal were scenes from the life of 'The Old Bachelor.' In the first picture he is represented making his toilet before the mirror, his wig spread out on the table; in the second, dining with two friends; in the third, on his death-bed, surrounded by greedy relations and in the fifth, the servants ransacking the death chamber for the property." This was very likely a vision of his own possible fate, for Meissonier must have been at that time a lonely and unhappy man.

There are many stories of his first exhibited work, which Caffin declares was the "Visit to the Burgomaster," but Mrs. Bolton, who is almost always correct in her statements, tells us that it was called "The Visitor," and that it sold for twenty dollars. At the end of a six years struggle in Paris, his pictures were selling for no more.

Until this artist's time people had been used only to great canvases, and had grown to look for fine work, only in much space, but here was an artist who could paint exquisitely a whole interior on a space said to be no "larger than his thumb nail." His work was called "microscopic," which meant that he gave great attention to details, painting very slowly.

During the Italian war of 1859, and in the German war of 1870, this wonderful artist was on the staff of Napoleon III. During the siege of Paris he held the rank of colonel, and he lost no chance to learn details of battles which he might use later, in making great pictures. Thus he gained the knowledge and inspiration to paint his picture "Friedland," which was bought by A. T. Stewart and is now in the Metropolitan Museum. He, himself, wrote of that picture: "I did not intend to paint a battle -- I wanted to paint Napoleon at the zenith of his glory; I wanted to paint the love, the adoration of the soldiers for the great captain in whom they had faith, and for whom they were ready to die.... It seemed to me I did not have colours sufficiently dazzling. No shade should be on the imperial face.... The battle already commenced, was necessary to add to the enthusiasm of the soldiers, and make the subject stand forth, but not to diminish it by saddening details. All such shadows I have avoided, and presented nothing but a dismounted cannon, and some growing wheat which should never ripen.

"This was enough.

"The men and the Emperor are in the presence of each other. The soldiers cry to him that they are his, and the impressive chief, whose imperial will directs the masses that move around, salutes his devoted army. He and they plainly comprehend each other and absolute confidence is expressed in every face."

This great work was sold at auction for $66,000 and given to the Metropolitan Museum.

It is said that when he painted the "Retreat from Russia," Meissonier obtained the coat which Napoleon had worn at the time, and had it copied, "crease for crease and button for button." He painted the picture mostly out of doors in midwinter when the ground was covered with snow, and he writes: "Sometimes I sat at my easel for five or six hours together, endeavouring to seize the exact aspect of the winter atmosphere. My servant placed a hot foot-stove under my feet, which he renewed from time to time, but I used to get half-frozen and terribly tired."

So attentive was he to truthfulness in detail that he had a wooden horse made in imitation of the white charger of the Emperor; and seating himself on this, he studied his own figure in a mirror.

At last this conscientious man was made an officer of the Legion of Honour, having already become President of the Academy. Edmund About writes that "to cover M. Meissonier's pictures with gold pieces simply would be to buy them for nothing; and the practice has now been established of covering them with bank-notes."

Meissonier seldom painted the figure of a woman in his pictures, but all of his subjects were wholesome and fine.

One time an admirer said to him "I envy you; you can afford to own as many Meissonier pictures as you please!"

"Oh no, I can't," the distinguished artist replied. "That would ruin me. They are a good deal too dear for me."

In his maturity he became very rich, and his homes were dreams of beauty, filled with rare possessions such as bridles of black leather once owned by Murat, rare silver designed by the artist himself, great pictures, and flowers of the rarest description besides valuable dogs and horses. Yet it was said that "this man who lives in a palace is as moderate as a soldier on the march. This artist, whose canvases are valued by the half-million, is as generous as a nabob. He will give to a charity sale a picture worth the price of a house. Praised as he is by all he has less conceit in his nature than a wholesale painter."

On the 31st of January in his country house at Poissy, this great man, whose life reads like a romance, died, after a short illness. His funeral services were held in the Madeleine, and he was buried at Poissy, near Versailles, a great military procession following him to the grave.

Plate -- Retreat From Moscow

In the painting of this picture we have already told how every detail was mastered by actual experience of most of them. Meissonier made dozens of studies for it -- "a horse's head, an uplifted leg, cuirasses, helmets, models of horses in red wax, etc. He also prepared a miniature landscape, strewn with white powder resembling snow, with models of heavy wheels running through it, that he might study the furrow made in that terrible march home from burning Moscow. All this work -- hard, patient, exacting work."

Some of his other pictures are "The Emperor at Solferino," "Moreau and His Staff before Hohenlinden," "A Reading at Diderot's" and the "Chess Players."



XXIX

Jean François Millet


Fontainebleau-Barbizon School 1814-1875 Pupil of Delaroche

Two great artists painted peasants and little else. One was the artist of whom we shall speak, and the other was Jules Breton. One was realistic, the other idealistic. Both did wonderful work, but Millet painted the peasant, worn, patient steadfast, overwhelmed with toil; Breton, a peasant full of energy, grace, vitality, and joy.

Millet painted peasants as he knew them, and hardly any one could have known them better, for he was himself peasant-born. His youth was hard, and the scenes of his childhood were such as in after life he became famous by painting. Millet lived in the department of Manche, in the village of Gruchy, near Cherbourg. Manche juts into the sea, at the English Channel, and whichever way Millet looked he must have seen the sea. His old grandmother looked after the household affairs, while his father and mother worked in the fields and Millet must have seen them hundreds of times, standing at evening, with bowed heads, listening to the Angelus bell. He toiled, too, as did other lads in his position. His grandmother was a religious old woman, and nearly all the pictures he ever saw in his boyhood were those in the Bible, which he copied again and again, drawing them upon the stone walls in white chalk.

The old grandmother watched him, never doubting that her boy would become an artist. It was she who had named him -- François, after her favourite saint, Francis, and it was she, who, beside the evening fire, would tell him legends of St. Francis. It was she alone who had time and strength left, after the day's work, to teach him the little he learned as a boy and to fix in his mind pictures of home. His father and mother were worn, like pack-horses, after their day in the fields. The mother very likely had to hitch herself up with the donkey, or the big dog, after the fashion of these people, as she helped draw loads about the field. Who can look for Breton's ideal stage peasants from Millet who knew the truth as he saw it every day?

Many years after his life in the Gruchy home, Millet painted the portrait of the grandmother whom he had loved so much that he cried out: "I wish to paint her soul!" No one could desire a better reward than such a tribute.

Millet had an uncle who was a priest and he did what he could to give the boy a start in learning. He taught him to read Virgil and the Latin Testament; and all his life those two books were Millet's favourites. Besides drawing pictures on the walls of his home, he drew them on his sabots. Pity some one did not preserve those old wooden shoes! He did his share of the farm work, doing his drawing on rainy days.

When he was about eighteen years old, coming from mass one day, he was impressed with the figure of an old man going along the road, and taking some charcoal from his pocket he drew the picture of him on a stone wall. The villagers passing, at once knew the likeness; they were pleased and told Millet so. Old Millet, the father, also was delighted for he, too, had wished to be an artist, but fate had been against him. Seeing the wonderful things his son could do, he decided that he should become what he himself had wished to be, and that he should go to Cherbourg to study.

François set off with his father, carrying a lot of sketches to show, and upon telling the master in Cherbourg what he wanted and showing the sketches, he was encouraged to stay and begin study in earnest. So back the old father went, with the news to the mother and grandmother and the priest uncle, that François had begun his career. He stayed in Cherbourg studying till his father died, when he thought it right to go home and do the work his father had always done. He returned, but the women-folk would not agree to him staying. "You go back at once," said the grandmother, "and stick to your art. We shall manage the farm." She sewed up in his belt all the money she had saved, and started him off again, for he had then been studying only two months. Now he remained till he was twenty-three, a fine, strapping, broad-shouldered country fellow. He had long fair hair and piercing dark blue eyes. All the time he was with Delaroche he was dissatisfied with his work -- and with his master's, which seemed to Millet artificial, untrue. He knew nothing of the classical figures the master painted and wished him to paint, for his heart and mind were back in Gruchy among the scenes that bore a meaning for him. He wished to study elsewhere, and by this time he had done so well that one of the artists with whom he had studied went to the mayor of Millet's home town, and begged him to furnish through the town-council money enough to send Millet to Paris. This was done, and Millet began to hope.

He was very shy and afraid of seeming awkward and out of place. The night he got to Paris was snowy, full of confusion and strange things to him, and an awful loneliness overwhelmed him. The next morning he set out to find the Louvre, but would not ask his way for fear of seeming absurd to some one, so that he rambled about alone, looking for the great gallery till he found it unaided. He spent most of the days that followed gazing in ecstasy at the pictures.

He liked Angelo, Titian, and Rubens best. He had come to Paris to enter a studio, but he put off his entrance from day to day, for his shyness was painful and he feared above all things to be laughed at by city students. At last one day, he got up enough courage to apply to Delaroche, whose studio he had decided to enter if he could, as he liked his work best. The students in that studio were full of curiosity about the new chap, with his peasant air, his bushy hair and great frame, so sturdy and awkward. They at once nicknamed him "the man of the woods," and they nagged at him and laughed at the idea that he could learn to paint, till one day, exasperated nearly to death, he shook his fist at them. From that moment he heard no more from them, for they were certain that if he could not paint he could use his fists a good deal better than any of them. Delaroche liked the peasant but did not understand him very well, and Millet was not too fond of his painting, so after two years he and a friend withdrew from that studio and set up one for themselves. Thus eight years passed, the friends living from hand to mouth, doing all sorts of things: sign-painting, advertisements, and the like; and Millet, in the midst of his poverty, got married.

He went home, returning to Paris with his wife, and after starving regularly, he became desperate enough to paint a single picture as he wished. It seemed at the time the maddest kind of thing to do. Who would see ugly, toil-worn peasants upon his salon walls? Paris wanted dainty, aesthetic art, and an Academy artist would have scoffed at the idea; but the Millets were starving anyway, so why not starve doing at least what one chose. So Millet painted his first wonderful peasant picture "The Winnower," and just as the family were starving he sold it -- for $100. He had done at last the right thing, in doing as he pleased. This was a sign to him that there was after all a place for truth and emotion in art. But the Millets must change their place of living, and go to some place where the money made would not at once be eaten up. Jacque -- the friend with whom Millet had set up shop, and who also became famous, later -- advised them to go to a little place he knew about, which had a name ending in "zon." It was near the forest of Fontainebleau, he said and they could live there very cheaply, and it was quiet and decent. The Millets got into a rumbling old cart and started in search of the place which ended in "zon" near the forest of Fontainebleau. Jacque had also decided to take his family there and they all went together. When they got to Fontainebleau they got down from the car and went a-foot through the forest.

They arrived tired and hungry toward evening, and went to Ganne's Inn, where there were Rousseau, Diaz, and other artists who like themselves had come in search of a nice, clean, picturesque place in which to starve, if they had to. Those who were just sitting down to supper welcomed the newcomers, for they had been there long enough to form a colony and fraternity ways. One of these was to take a certain great pipe from the wall, and ask the newcomer to smoke; and according to the way he blew his "rings" he was pronounced a "colourist" or "classicist." The two friends blew the smoke, and at once the other artists were able to place Jacque. He was a colourist; but what were they to say about Millet who blew rings after his own fashion.

"Oh, well!" he cried. "Don't trouble about it. Just put me down in a class of my own!"

"A good answer!" Diaz answered. "And he looks strong and big enough to hold his own in it!" Thus the newcomers took their places in the life of Barbizon -- the place whose name ended in "zon," and Millet's real work began. His first wife lived only two years, but he married again. All this time he was following his conscience in the matter of his work, and selling almost nothing. In a letter to a friend he tells how dreadfully poor they are, although his new wife was the most devoted helpful woman imaginable, known far and near as "Mère Millet." The artist wrote to Sensier, his friend, who aided him: "I have received the hundred francs. They came just at the right time. Neither my wife nor I had tasted food in twenty-four hours. It is a blessing that the little ones, at any rate, have not been in want."

The revolution of 1848 had come before Millet went to Barbizon, and he like other men had to go to war. Then the cholera appeared, and these things interrupted his work; and after such troubles people did not begin buying pictures at once. Rousseau was famous now, but Millet lived by the hardest toil until one day he sold the "Woodcutter" to Rousseau himself, for four hundred francs. Rousseau had been very poor, and it grieved him to see the trials and want of his friend, so he pretended that he was buying the picture for an American. That picture was later sold at the Hartmann sale for 133,000 francs. Millet was now forty years old, and had not yet been recognised as a wonderful man by any but his brother artists. He was truly "in a class of his own." He had learned to love Barbizon, and cried: "Better a thatched cottage here than a palace in Paris!" and we have the picture in our minds of Millet followed patiently and lovingly by "Mère Millet" in the peasant dress which she always wore, that she might be ready at a moment's notice to pose for his figures. Then there were his little children and his sunny, simple, fraternal surroundings, which make his life the most picturesque of all artists.

His paintings had the simplest stories with seldom more than two or three figures in them. It was said that he needed only a field and a peasant to make a great picture. When he painted the "Man with the Hoe," he did it so truthfully, in a way to make the story so well understood by all who looked upon it, that he was called a socialist. No one was so much surprised as Millet by that name. "I never dreamed of being a leader in any cause," he said. "I am a peasant -- only a peasant."

Of his picture "The Reaper" a critic wrote, "He might have reaped the whole earth." All his pictures were sermons, he called them "epics of the fields." He pretended to nothing except to present things just as they were, as he writes in a letter to a friend about "The Water Carrier:"

In the woman coming from drawing water I have endeavoured that she shall be neither a water-carrier nor a servant, but the woman who has just drawn water for the house, the water for her husband's and her children's soup; that she shall seem to be carrying neither more nor less than the weight of the full buckets; that beneath the sort of grimace which is natural on account of the strain on her arms, and the blinking of her eyes caused by the light, one may see a look of rustic kindliness on her face. I have always shunned with a kind of horror everything approaching the sentimental. I have desired on the other hand, that this woman should perform simply and good-naturedly, without regarding it as irksome, an act which, like her other household duties, is one she is accustomed to perform every day of her life. Also I wanted to make people imagine the freshness of the fountain, and that its antiquated appearance should make it clear that many before her had come to draw water from it.

At forty he was in about the same condition as he had been on that evening ten or twelve years before, when he had entered Barbizon carrying his two little daughters upon his shoulders, his wife following with the servant and a basket of food, to settle themselves down to hardship made sweet by kind comradeship and hope. Now a change came. Millet painted "The Angelus." He was dreadfully poor at that time and sold the picture cheaply, but it laid the foundation of his fame and fortune. He had worked upon the canvas till he said he could hear the sound of the bell. Although its first purchaser paid very little for it, it has since been sold for one hundred and fifty thousand dollars.

At last, having struggled through his worst days, without recognition, and with nine little children to feed and clothe, he was given the white cross of the Legion of Honour; and as if to make up for the days of his starvation, he was nearly feasted to death in Paris. He was placed upon the hanging committee of the Salon, and took a dignified place among artists. He and Mère Millet travelled a little, but always he returned to Barbizon, till the war came and he had to move to Normandy to work. Afterward he returned to Barbizon, to the scenes and the old friends he loved so well, and there he died. He had come back ill and tired with the long struggle, and he instructed his friends to give him a simple funeral. This was done. They carried his coffin, while his wife and children walked beside him to the cemetery, and he was buried near the little church of Chailly, whose spire is seen in "The Angelas," and where Rousseau, whom he loved, had already been laid.

There in Barbizon, to-day, may be seen Rousseau's cottage and Millet's studio. "The peasants sow and reap and glean as in the days of Millet; Troyon's oxen and sheep are still standing in the meadow; Jacque's poultry are feeding in the barnyard. The leaves on Rousseau's grand old trees are trembling in the forest; Corot's misty morning is as fresh and soft as ever; while Diaz's ruddy sunsets still penetrate the branches; and the peasant pauses daily as the Angelus from the Chailly church calls him to silent prayer."

Plate -- The Angelus

In "The Angelus" you may see far-off the spire of the church at Chailly, from which the bell sounds. The day's work is drawing to a close. The peasant man and woman have been digging potatoes -- the man uncovering them, while his wife has been putting them in the basket. As the Angelus floats across the fields, the two pause and bow their heads in prayer. The man has dropped his fork and uncovered his head, and his wife has clasped her hands devoutly before her.

All the air seems still and full of tender sound and colour, and we, like Millet, seem "to hear the bell." This is the only picture he painted which is full of the sentimentality he so much disliked. It is a great picture, but we need to know the title in order to interpret it.

Besides this one, Millet painted "The Gleaners," "The Woodcutters," "The Sower," "The Man with the Hoe;" "The Water Carrier," "The Reaper," and many other stories of the peasant poor.



XXX

Claude Monet


(Pronounced Claude Mo-nay) Impressionist School of France 1840 -- 

Another -- Manet -- was the founder of this school among modern painters, but Monet is always considered his most conspicuous follower.

Monet's remarkable method of putting his colours upon canvas does not mean impressionism. He is an impressionist but also Monet -- an artist with a method entirely different from that of any other. He belongs to what in France is called the pointillistes. The word means nothing more nor less than an effort to accomplish the impossible. If you stand a little way from a very hot stove you may be able to see a kind of movement in the air, a quivering of particles or molecular motion, and this is what the pointillistes try to show in their paintings -- Monet most of all.

The theory is that by putting little dabs of primitive colours, close together upon canvas, without mixing them, just separate dabs of red, yellow, blue, etc., the effect of movement is produced. Needless to say, none of them ever have produced such an effect, but they have made such grotesque, ugly pictures that they have attracted attention even as a humpbacked person does.

The first who painted thus was a Frenchman named Seurat, who tried it after closely studying experiments made in light and colour by Professor Rood, of Columbia University. After him came Pissarro, and then Monet. America also has such a painter, Childe Hassam, but nobody is so grotesque as Monet.

He was born in Paris but spent most of his youth in Havre, where he met a painter of harbours and shipping scenes called Boudin. Through his influence Monet studied out-of-door effects, and was beginning to do fairly good work, when he was drawn as a conscript and sent to Algeria. It is written that Monet discovered that "green, seen under strong sunshine is not green, but yellow; that the shadows cast by sunlight upon snow or upon brightly lighted surfaces are not black, but blue; and that a white dress, seen under the shade of trees on a bright day, has violet or lilac tones." This only means that these things have been scientifically determined, not that the naked eye ever perceives them, and it is for the natural, unscientific eye that art exists. None of us see the separate colours of the spectrum, as we look about in every-day fashion upon every-day objects.

Professor Rood managed to produce an intelligent effect by putting separate colours on discs and whirling these round so that the colours mingled. Monet tried to do the same by dotting his original colours close together, and leaving the picture to its own destruction. It ought to revolve, if the scientific idea is to be carried out.

Nothing desirable can be made out of his pictures even when viewed from far off, while at close range they are simply grotesque, and photographs of them give the impression that the entire landscape is wabbling to the ground.

I wonder if anyone, small or grown up, can understand this: "It was indeed a higher kind of impressionism that Monet originated, one that reveals a vivid rendering, not of the natural and concrete facts, but of their influence upon the spirit when they are wrapped in the infinite diversities of that impalpable, immaterial, universal medium which we call light, when the concrete loses itself in the abstract, and what is of time and matter impinges on the eternal and the universal." Monet's pictures look just as that explanation of them sounds!

The same writer says that Monet was greater than Corot because he was more sensitive to colour; but if Monet had been as sensitive to colour as Corot, he could not have lived and looked at his own pictures.

Plate -- Haystack In Sunshine

The main feature of this picture is such a hay stack as never existed anywhere, of indescribable lurid colour, against a background of blue such as never was seen. All about there are violet and rose-coloured trees, and it is a picture that every child should know, because he is likely never to have another such opportunity.

Monet has made two interesting pictures of churches, one at Vernon, the other at Varangeville.



XXXI

Murillo (Bartolome Esteban)


(Pronounced Moo-reel'oh Bar-tol-o-may' A-stay'bahn) Andalusian School 1617-1682 Pupil of Juan del Castillo

The story of Murillo has been delightfully told by Mrs. Sarah Bolton.

Like Velasquez, he was born in Seville, a city called "the glory of the Spanish realms," and was baptised on New Year's day, 1618, in the Church of the Magdalen.

Murillo's father paid his rent in work, instead of in money. He made a bargain with the convent who owned his house that he would keep it in repair if he might have it free of rent, so there Gaspar Estéban and his wife, Maria Perez, settled. "Perez" was the family name of Murillo's mother, who had very good connections; one of her brothers, Juan del Castillo, being a man who encouraged all art and had an art school of his own. Little Murillo therefore had encouragement from the start, an unusual circumstance at a time when parents rarely wished to think of their sons as painters. As a matter of fact, his mother would have preferred that he should become a priest, but she was kind and sensible, and put no difficulties in the way of the little Murillo doing as he wished.

The story goes that the Perez family had been very rich, but, however it may have been, that was not the case when the artist was born. One day after his mother had gone to church, Murillo being left at home alone, retouched a picture that hung upon the wall. It was a picture of sacred subject -- "Jesus and the Lamb." He thought he could make some improvements in it, so he painted his own hat upon the head of Jesus and changed the lamb into a little dog. His mother was a good deal shocked at what seemed to her an irreligious act, though it showed the family genius. After that the boy was found to be painting upon the walls of his schoolroom, and making sketches upon the margins of his books, though he did little else at school.

He had one sister, Therese, and they were left without father or mother before the artist was eleven years old.

It was at that time that he received the name of "Murillo" by which he is known.

It came about thus: After the death of his parents he went to live with his mother's sister, the Dona Anna Murillo, who had married a surgeon called Juan Agustin Lagares, and since the little artist was to live with his aunt, he soon became known by her family name. There, in her home, he and his sister Therese, were brought up, but he was not to become a surgeon like his uncle-in-law, but an artist like his uncle Juan, the teacher in Seville. That uncle took him in hand, taught the boy to draw, to mix colours, to stretch his canvas, and soon Murillo's genius won the love of master and pupils.

In peace and reasonable comfort he served a nine years apprenticeship, and painted his first important, if not especially great, pictures. These were two Madonnas, one of them "The Story of the Rosary." St. Dominic had instituted the rosary; using fifteen large and one hundred and fifty small beads upon which to keep record of the number of prayers he had said; the large beads representing the Paternosters and Glorias and the small ones, the Aves. This practical way of indicating duties helped the heedless to concentrate their attention, and did much to increase the number of prayers offered. Indeed, it is said that "by this single expedient Dominic did more to excite the devotion of the lower orders, especially of the women, and made more converts, than by all his orthodoxy, learning, arguments, and eloquence." It was this incident in the history of the Catholic Church that Murillo commemorated.

When the artist was twenty-two years old, his uncle, Juan del Castillo, broke up his home and went elsewhere to live, leaving the artist without home or means, and with his little sister to take care of. Without vanity or ambition, but with only the wish to care for his sister and to get food, the marvellous painter took himself to the market place, and there, wedged in between stalls, old clothes, vegetables, all sorts of wares, like a wanderer and a gypsy, he began his career.

At the weekly market -- the Feria or fair, opposite the Church of All Saints -- his brotherly, kindly feeling for the vagabonds he daily met is shown in the treatment he gives them in his wonderful pictures. During the two years that he worked in that open-air studio he had flower-girls, muleteers, hucksters all about him, and he painted dozens of rough pictures which found quick sale among the patrons of the market. What Velasquez was doing in the court of Madrid, Murillo was doing in the streets of Seville; the one painting cardinals, kings, and courtiers; the other painting beggars, gamins, and waifs. Between the two, the world has been shown the social history of Spain as it then existed.

Through a peculiar happening, the American Indian saw the beauties of Murillo's work before Europe was even conscious there was such a man. In his old home, his uncle's studio, Murillo had had a dear comrade, Moya. They had not met for two years or more, and when they did come together again Moya told Murillo he had been travelling, that he had been to Flanders with the Spanish army, and thence to London, in both places seeing gorgeous paintings and other inspiring things. He opened the eyes of Murillo to the splendours the world contained, and the artist became wild with desire to go and see them for himself, but he had no money. He was painting pictures in the market place of Seville and getting so little for his hasty work that he could barely support himself and little Therese. What must he do in order to get to London and see the world?

What he did do was to buy a piece of linen, cut it into six pieces and hide himself long enough to paint upon them "saints, flowers, fruit and landscapes," and then he went forth to sell them.

He actually sold those pictures to a ship-owner who was sending his ship to the West Indies. Eventually they were hung upon the walls of a mission in wild, far off America. It is said that after this Murillo made no little money by painting such pictures, destined to give the American savage an idea of the Christian religion. One cannot but wonder if there may not be, all unknown to us, Murillo pictures, made in the market-place of Seville nearly three hundred years ago, hidden away in the remains of those old Spanish missions, even to-day. Such a picture would be more rare than the greatest that he ever painted.

After selling his six pictures Murillo started a-foot, not to London but on a terrible journey across the Sierra Mountains, to Madrid -- the home of Velasquez. Murillo knew that this native of Seville had become a famous artist. He was powerful and rich and at the court of Philip II., while Murillo had no place to lay his head, and besides he had left Therese behind in Seville in the care of friends. He had no claim upon the kindness of Velasquez but he determined to see him; to introduce himself and possibly to gain a friend. It was under these forlorn circumstances he made himself known to the great Spanish court painter.

The story of their meeting is a fine one. For Murillo Velasquez had a warm embrace, a kind and hospitable word. The stranger told Velasquez how he had crossed the mountains on foot, was penniless, but could use his brush. Instead of jealousy and suspicion, the young man met with nothing but the most cheerful encouragement, found the Velasquez home open to him, took up his lodging there and established his workshop with nothing around him but friendship and the sympathy his nature craved.

From the market-place to the home of Velasquez and the Palace of Philip II.! It was a beautiful dream to Murillo.

With what splendour of colour and mastery of design he illuminated the annals of the poor! Coming forth from some dim chancel or palace-hall in which he had been working on a majestic Madonna picture, he would sketch in, with the brush still loaded with the colours of celestial glory, the lineaments of the beggar crouching by the wall, or the gypsy calmly reposing in the black shadow of an archway. Such versatility had never before been seen west of the Mediterranean, and it commanded the admiration of his countrymen.

All his beggarly little children, neglected and houseless, appeared only to be full of cheer and merriment, with soft eyes and contented faces. It was a happy, care-free, gay, and kindly beggardom that he painted, with nothing in it to sadden the heart.

Thus he lived for three years; working in the galleries of the king, making friends at court, painting beautiful women, gallant cavaliers and fascinating little beggars.

In the course of time, however, he grew restless, and Velasquez wished to give him letters of introduction to Roman artists and people of quality, advising him to go to Rome to study the greatest art in the world. This was an alluring plan to Murillo, but after all he longed for his own home and chose to return there rather than go to Rome. Besides, his sister Therese was still in Seville.

Once more in his home, at one stroke of his magic brush Murillo raised himself and a monastic order from obscurity to greatness. In his native city was the order of San Francisco. The monks had long wished to have their convent decorated in a worthy manner by some artist of repute; but they were poor and had never been able to engage such a painter. When Murillo got back home, he was as badly in need of work as the Franciscans were in want of an artist. The monks held a council and finally agreed upon a price which they could pay and which Murillo could live upon. Then he began a wonderful set of eleven large paintings. Among them were many saints, dark and rich in colouring, and no sooner was it known that the paintings were being made than all the rich and powerful people of Seville flocked to the convent to see the work. They gathered about the young artist, overwhelmed him with honours and praise, and the monastery was crowded from morning till night with those who wished to study his work. From that moment Murillo's fame, if not his fortune, was made.

He married a rich and noble lady with the tremendous name of Dona Beatriz de Cabrera y Sotomayer. He had fallen in love with her while painting her as an angel.

About that time he formed a strange partnership with a landscape painter, who agreed to supply the backgrounds that his pictures needed, if Murillo would paint figures into his landscapes. This plan did very well for a little time, but it did not last long.

Murillo painted in three distinct styles, and these have come to be known as the "warm," the "cold," and the "vaporous." He painted pictures in the great cathedral of the Escorial and the "Guardian Angel" was one of them. Also, he painted "St. Anthony of Padua," and of this picture there is one of those absurd stories meant to illustrate the perfection of art. It is said that the lilies in it are so natural that the birds flew down the cathedral aisles to pluck at them. Many artists have painted this saint, but Murillo's is the best picture of all.

When the nephew of his first master, Murillo's cousin, saw that work he said: "It is all over with Castillo! Is it possible that Murillo, that servile imitator of my uncle, can be the author of all this grace and beauty of colouring?"

The Duke of Wellington offered for this picture as many gold pieces "as would cover its surface of fifteen square feet." This would have been about two hundred and forty thousand dollars; but we need not imagine that Murillo received any such sum for the work. This picture has a further interesting history. The canvas was cut from the frame by thieves in 1874, and later it was sold to Mr. Schaus, the connoisseur and picture dealer of New York. He paid $250 for it, and at once put it into the hands of the Spanish consul, who restored it to the cathedral.

The story of the saint whom Murillo painted is as interesting as Murillo's own. Among the many wonderful things said to have happened to him was that a congregation of fishes hearing his voice as he preached beside the sea, came to the top and lifted up their heads to listen.

While Murillo was doing his work, he was living a happy, domestic life. He had three children, and doubtless he used them as models for his lively cherubs, as he used his wife's face for madonnas and angels.

He founded an academy of painting in Seville, for the entrance to which a student could not qualify unless he made the following declaration: "Praised be the most Holy Sacrament and the pure conception of Our Lady."

The most delightful stories are told of Murillo's kindness and sweetness of disposition. He had a slave who loved him and who, one day while Murillo was gone from the studio, painted in the head of the Virgin which the master had left incomplete. When Murillo returned and saw the excellent work he cried: "I am fortunate, Sebastian" -- the slave's name -- "For I have not created only pictures but an artist!" This slave was set free by Murillo and in the course of time he painted many splendid pictures which are to-day highly prized in Seville.

This is a description of Murillo's house which is still to be seen near the Church of Santa Cruz: "The courtyard contains a marble fountain, amidst flowering shrubs, and is surrounded on three sides by an arcade upheld by marble pillars. At the rear is a pretty garden, shaded by cypress and citron trees, and terminated by a wall whereon are the remains of ancient frescoes which have been attributed to the master himself. The studio is on the upper floor, and overlooks the Moorish battlements, commanding a beautiful view to the eastward, over orange groves and rich corn-lands, out to the gray highlands about Alcala."

Murillo's fame brought fortune to his little sister, Therese. She married a nobleman of Burgos, a knight of Santiago and judge of the royal colonial court. He became the chief secretary of state for Madrid.

Murillo made money, but gave almost all that he made to the poor, though he did not make money in the service of the Church, as Velasquez made it in the service of the king.

His work of more than twenty pictures in the Capuchin Church of Seville occupied him for three years, and in that time he did not leave the convent for a single day.

Of all the charming stories told of this glorious artist, one which is connected with his work in that church is the most picturesque. It seems that every one within the walls loved him, and among others a lay brother who was cook. This man begged for some little personal token from Murillo and since there was no canvas at hand, the artist bade the cook leave the napkin which he had brought to cover his food, and during the day he painted upon it a Madonna and child, so natural that one of his biographers declares the child seems about to spring from Mary's arms. This souvenir made for the cook of the Capuchin, convent has been reproduced again and again, as one of the artist's greatest performances.

Toward the close of his happy life, he became more and more devout, spending many hours before an altar-piece in the Church of Santa Cruz where was a picture of "The Descent from the Cross," by Pedro Campana. "Why do you always tarry before 'The Descent from the Cross?'" the sacristan once asked of him.

"I am waiting till those men have brought the body of our blessed Lord down the ladder." Murillo answered. His wife had died, his daughter had become a nun, and all that was left to him was his dear son Gaspar, when in his sixty-third year he began his last work, "The Marriage of St. Catherine." He had not finished this when he fell from the scaffolding upon which he was working, and fatally hurt himself. He died, with his son beside him. He was a much loved man, and when he was buried, his bier was carried by "two marquises and four knights and followed by a great concourse of people." He chose to be buried beneath the picture he loved so much -- "The Descent from the Cross," and upon his grave was laid a stone carved with his name, a skeleton and an inscription in Latin which means "Live as one who is about to die."

The church has since been destroyed, and on its site is the Plaza Santa Cruz, but Murillo's grave is marked by a tablet.

Each country seems to have had at least one man of beautiful heart and mind, to represent its art. Raphael in Italy, Murillo in Spain, were types of gentle and greatly beloved men. Leonardo in Italy and Dürer in Nuremberg, were types of forceful, intellectual men, highly respected and of great benefit to the world.

Of all the painters who ever lived, Murillo was the one who painted little children with the most loving and fascinating touch.

Plate -- The Immaculate Conception

Besides the little angels in this picture, we have a bewildering choice among many other beauties.

Many pictures of this subject have been painted, and many were painted by Murillo, but the one presented here is the greatest of all. It hangs in the Louvre, Salle VI. Mary seems to be suspended in the heavens, not standing upon clouds. Under the hem of her garments is the circle of the moon, while there is the effect of hundreds of little cherub children massed about her feet, in a little swarm at the right, where the shadow falls heaviest, and still others, half lost in the vapoury background at the left, where the heavenly light streams upon them, and brilliantly lights up the Virgin's gown. In this picture are all Murillo's beloved child figures, some carrying little streamers, their tiny wings a-flutter and all crowding lovingly about Mary. Far below this gorgeous group we can imagine the dark and weary earth lost in shadow.

Among Murillo's most famous paintings are: "The Birth of the Virgin," "Two Beggar Boys," "The Madonna of the Rosary," "The Annunciation," "Adoration of the Shepherds," "Holy Family," "Education of Mary," "The Dice Players," and "The Vision of St. Anthony."



XXXII

Raphael (Sanzio)


(Pronounced Rah'fay-el (Sahnt'syoh)) 1483-1590 Umbrian, Florentine, and Roman Schools Pupil of Perugino

It was said of Raphael that "every evil humour vanished when his comrades saw him, every low thought fled from their minds"; and this was because they felt themselves vanquished by his pleasant ways and sweet nature.

Imagine his beautiful face, with its sunny eyes, reflecting no shadow of sadness or pain. Such a one was sure to be beloved by all.

The father of Raphael was Giovanni Santi, himself an able artist. Both he and Raphael studied in many schools and took the best from each. The son was brought up in an Italian court, that of Guidobaldo of Urbino, where the father was a favourite poet and painter, so that he had at least one generation of art-lovers behind him, at a time when learning and art were much prized. Nothing ever entered into his life that was sad or sorrowful; his whole existence was a triumph of beautiful achievements. There were three great artists of that time, the other two being Michael Angelo and Leonardo da Vinci, both of whom were absolutely unlike Raphael in their art and in their characters.

Raphael was born on April 6th at Contrada del Monte in the ducal city of Urbino. His mother's name was Magia Ciarla, and she was the daughter of an Urbino merchant. She had three children besides the great painter, all of whom died young, and when Raphael was but eight years old his mother died also. It is said that it was from her Raphael inherited his beauty, goodness, mildness, and genius. His father's patron, the Duke of Urbino, was a fine soldier, but he also cherished scholarship and art, and kept at his court not less than twenty or thirty persons at work copying Greek and Latin manuscript which he wished to add to his library.

Raphael had a stepmother, Bernardina, the daughter of a goldsmith, a good and forceful woman, but not gentle like the first wife; and when Raphael was eleven years of age his father, too, died. By his father's will Raphael became the charge of his uncle Bartolommeo, a priest, but the property was left to the stepmother so long as she remained unmarried. Almost at once the priest and the stepmother fell to quarreling over the spoils, and thus Raphael was left pretty much to his own devices, but just when life began to look dark and sad for him, his mother's brother took a hand in the situation. He settled the dispute between the priest and the second wife, and arranged that Raphael should be placed in the studio of some great painter, for the loving lad had already worked in his father's studio, and had given promise of his wonderful gifts. So he became the pupil of Perugino, a painter noted for his fine colouring and sympathetic handling of his subjects. At that time, Italian schools were less wonderful in colouring than in other matters of technique.

"Let him become my pupil," said Perugino, when Raphael was brought to him and some of his work was exhibited; "soon he will be my master." A very different attitude from that of Ghirlandajo toward Michael Angelo.

Raphael and his master became friends and worked together for nine years.

His first work was not conceived until Raphael was seventeen. It was to be a surprise to his master who had gone to Florence. A banner was wanted for the Church of S. Trinita at Citta di Castello, and Raphael undertook it, painting the "Trinity," on one canvas and the "Creation of Man" on another. Then he painted the "Crucifixion," which was bought by Cardinal Fesch, who lived in Rome. That painting is now in a collection of the Earl of Dudley. It was sold away from Rome in 1845, for twelve thousand dollars -- or a little more. No one will deny that this is an unusual sum for an artist's first work, but about the same time he did a much more wonderful thing.

He painted a little picture, six and three-quarter inches square. It was of the Virgin walking in the springtime, before the leaves had appeared upon the trees, and with snow-capped mountains behind her. She holds the infant Jesus in her arms while she reads from a small book, and the little child looks upon the page with her. This six inches of beauty sold to the Emperor of Russia, in 1871, for sixty thousand dollars.

Before Raphael was twenty-one, he had left his master's studio and had gone into the splendid world of Rome, where Angelo was straining at his bonds. But how differently each accepted his life! The gentle Raphael, who took the best of the ideas of all great painters, and gave to them his own exquisite characteristics, was beloved of all, shed light upon art and friends alike. To such a one all life was joyous. Michael Angelo, trying ever to do the impossible, betraying his hatred of limitations in all that he did, doing always that which aroused horror, distress, longing, elemental feelings, in those who studied his wonderful work, and giving hope and satisfaction and peace to none -- to such as he life must ever have been hateful and painful. These men lived at the same time, among the same people.

One of Raphael's greatest pictures came into the possession of a poor widow, who being hard pressed by poverty, sold it to a bookseller for twelve scudi. In time it was bought from the bookseller by Grand Duke Ferdinand III. of Tuscany, who prayed before it night and morning, taking it with him on his travels. That picture is now in the Pitti Palace at Florence and it is called the "Madonna del Granduca." The Berlin Museum purchased a Raphael Madonna for $34,000 which was painted about the same time as these others, but after a little the artist left Florence where he had been studying the methods of Leonardo and Angelo and returned to Urbino, the home he loved, where his conduct was such that all the world seems to have become his lover. It is written that he was "the only very distinguished man of whom we read, who lived and died without an enemy or detractor!" No better can ever be said of any one.

While he dwelt in Perugia and Urbino he had painted the "Ansidei Madonna," so called because that was the name of the family for which it was painted. That Madonna was sold in 1884 to the National Gallery, by the Duke of Marlborough for $350,000. A Madonna on a round plaque-like canvas, 42-3/4 inches in diameter, was bought by the Duke of Bridgewater for $60,000. It is the "Holy Family under a Palm Tree," painted originally for a friend, Taddeo Taddei, who was a Florentine scholar. Many of the pictures which after many vicissitudes have landed far from home and been bought for fabulous sums were painted for love of some friend, or were paid for by modest sums at the time the artist received the commissions. Lord Ellesmere in London now owns the "Holy Family under a Palm Tree."

It is said of Raphael that whenever another painter, known to him or not, requested any design or assistance of any kind at his hands, he would invariably leave his work to perform the service. He continually kept a large number of artists employed, all of whom he assisted and instructed with an affection which was rather that of a father to his children than merely of an artist to artists. From this it followed that he was never seen to go to court, except surrounded and accompanied, as he left his house, by some fifty painters, all men of ability and distinction, who attended him, thus to give evidence of the honour in which they held him. He did not, in short, live the life of a painter, but that of a prince.

There is something wonderfully inspiring about such a life. We read of emperors and the homage paid to them; of the esteem in which men who accomplish deeds of universal value are held, but nowhere do we behold the power of a beautiful and exquisite personality and character, allied with a single art, so impressively exhibited.

He urged nothing, yet won all things by the force of his loving and sympathetic mind. "How is it, dear Cesare that we live in such good friendship, but that in the art of painting we show no deference to each other?" he asked of Cesare da Sesto, who was Da Vinci's greatest pupil.

In discussing the great ones of the earth, Herman Grimm, son of the collector of fairy tales, says: "Can we mention a violent act of Raphael's, Goethe's or Shakespeare's? No, it is restful only to recall these wonderful men."

One of Raphael's most beautiful Virgins was modeled from a beautiful flower-girl whom he loved, "La Belle Jardinière."

Raphael as well as Michael Angelo was summoned by Pope Julius II., but how different were the two occasions! Michael Angelo had stood with dogged, gloomy self-assertiveness before the pope, head covered, knee unbent. Uncompromising, while yet no injury had been done him, resentful before he had received a single cause for resentment, the attitude was typical of his art and his unhappy life.

When Raphael appeared, his bent knee, his "chestnut locks falling upon his shoulders, the pope exclaimed: 'He is an innocent angel. I will give him Cardinal Bembo for a teacher, and he shall fill my walls with historical pictures.'" The artist's behaviour was no sign of servility, but the simple recognition of forms and customs which the people themselves had made and by which they had decided they should graciously be bound. The attitude of Angelo was not heroic but vulgar; that of Raphael not servile, but in good taste, showing a reasonable mind.

Pope Julius had summoned Raphael for a special reason. Alexander VI., his predecessor in the Vatican, had been a depraved man. The fair and virile Julius had a healthy sentiment against occupying rooms which must continually remind him of the notorious Alexander's mode of life. Some one suggested that he have all the portraits of the former pope removed, but Julius declared: "Even if the portraits were destroyed, the walls themselves would remind me of that Simoniac, that Jew!" The word 'Jew' was then execrated by all Christians, for the world was not yet Christian enough to know better.

Raphael was summoned to decorate the Vatican, that Julius might have a place which reminded him not at all of Alexander. It is said that when Raphael had completed one of his masterpieces the pope threw himself upon the ground and cried, "I thank Thee, God, that Thou hast sent me so great a painter!"

While at work upon his first fresco at the Vatican -- "La Disputa," the dispute over the Holy Sacrament -- Raphael met a woman with whom he fell deeply in love. Her father was a soda manufacturer and her name was Margherita. Missirini relates this incident in Raphael's career.

"She lived on the other side of the Tiber. A small house, No. 20, in the street of Santa Dorothea, the windows of which are decorated with a pretty frame work of earthenware, is pointed out as the house where she was born.

"The beautiful girl was very frequently in a little garden adjoining the house, where, the wall not being very high, it was easy to see her from the outside. So the young men, especially artists -- always passionate admirers of beauty -- did not fail to come and look at her, by climbing up above the wall.

"Raphael is said to have seen her for the first time as she was bathing her pretty feet in a little fountain in the garden. Struck by her perfect beauty, he fell deeply in love with her, and after having made acquaintance with her, and discovered that her mind was as beautiful as her body, he became so much attached as to be unable to live without her."

She is spoken of to-day as the "Fornarina," because at first she was supposed to have been the daughter of a baker (fornajo).

Raphael made many rough studies for his picture "La Disputa," and upon them he left three sonnets, written to the woman so dear to him. These sonnets have been translated by the librarian of l'Ecole Nationale des Beaux-Arts, as follows: "Love, thou hast bound me with the light of two eyes which torment me, with a face like snow and roses, with sweet words and tender manners. So great is my ardour that no river or sea could extinguish my fire. But I do not complain, for my ardour makes me happy.... How sweet was the chain, how light the yoke of her white arms about my neck. When these bonds were loosed, I felt a mortal grief. I will say no more; a great joy kills, and, though my thoughts turn to thee, I will keep silence."

Although he had been a man of many loves, Raphael must have found in the manufacturer's daughter his best love, because he remained faithful and devoted to her for the twelve years of life that were left to him. It was said some years later, while he was engaged upon a commission for a rich banker, that "Raphael was so much occupied with the love that he bore to the lady of his choice that he could not give sufficient attention to his work. Agostino (the banker) therefore, falling at length into despair of seeing it finished, made so many efforts by means of friends and by his own care that after much difficulty he at length prevailed on the lady to take up her abode in his house, where she was accordingly installed, in apartments near those which Raphael was painting; In this manner the work was ultimately brought to a conclusion."

Raphael painted this beautiful lady-love many times, and in a picture in which she wears a bracelet he has placed his name upon the ornament.

After this time he painted the "Madonna della Casa d'Alba," which the Duchess d'Alba gave to her physician for curing her of a grave disorder. She died soon afterward, and the physician was arrested on the charge of having poisoned her. In course of time the picture was purchased for $70,000 by the Russian Emperor, and it is now in "The Hermitage," St. Petersburg.

A writer telling of that time, relates the following anecdote: "Raphael of Urbino had painted for Agostino Chigi (the rich banker already mentioned) at Santa Maria della Pace, some prophets and sibyls, on which he had received an advance of five hundred scudi. One day he demanded of Agostino's cashier (Giulio Borghesi) the remainder of the sum at which he estimated his work. The cashier, being astounded at this demand, and thinking that the sum already paid was sufficient, did not reply. 'Cause the work to be estimated by a judge of painting,' replied Raphael, 'and you will see how moderate my demand is.'

"Giulio Borghesi thought of Michael Angelo for this valuation, and begged him to go to the church and estimate the figures of Raphael. Possibly he imagined that self-love, rivalry, and jealousy would lead the Florentine to lower the price of the pictures.

"Michael Angelo went, accompanied by the cashier, to Santa Maria della Pace, and, as he was contemplating the fresco without uttering a word, Borghesi questioned him. 'That head,' replied Michael Angelo, pointing to one of the sibyls, 'that head is worth a hundred scudi.' ... 'and the others?' asked the cashier. 'The others are not less.'

"Someone who witnessed this scene related it to Chigi. He heard every particular and, offering in addition to the five hundred scudi for five heads a hundred scudi to be paid for each of the others, he said to his cashier, 'go and give that to Raphael in payment for his heads, and behave very politely to him, so that he may be satisfied; for if he insists on my paying also for the drapery, we should probably be ruined!'"

By the time Raphael was thirty-one he was a rich man, and had built himself a beautiful house near the Vatican, on the Via di Borgo Nuova. Naught remains of that dwelling except an angle of the right basement, which has been made a part of the Accoramboni Palace. His friends wished him above all things to marry, but he was still true to Margherita though he had become engaged to the daughter of his nephew. He put the marriage off year after year, till finally the lady he was to have married died, and was buried in Raphael's chapel in the Pantheon.

Margherita was with him when he died, and it was to her that he left much of his wealth.

In the time of Raphael excavations were being made about Rome, and many beautiful statues uncovered, and he was charged with the supervision of this work in order that no art treasure should be lost or overlooked. The pope decreed that if the excavators failed to acquaint Raphael with every stone and tablet that should he unearthed, they should be fined from one to three hundred gold crowns.

Raphael had his many paintings copied under his own eye and engraved, and then distributed broadcast, so that not only men of great wealth but the common people might study them.

Henry VIII. invited him to visit England, and become court painter, and Francis I. wished him to become the court painter of France.

He loved history, and wished to write certain historical works. He loved poetry and wrote it. He loved philosophy and lived it -- the philosophy of generous feeling and kindly thought for all the world. He kept poor artists in his own home and provided for them.

Raphael died on Good Friday night, April 6th, in his thirty-seventh year, and all Rome wept. He lay in state in his beautiful home, with his unfinished picture of the "Transfiguration," as background for his catafalque. That painting with its colours still wet, was carried in the procession to his burial place in the Pantheon. When his death was announced, the pope, Leo X., wept and cried "Ora pro nobis!" while the Ambassador from Mantua wrote home that "nothing is talked of here but the loss of the man who at the close of his six-and-thirtieth year has now ended his first life; his second, that of his posthumous fame, independent of death and transitory things, through his works, and in what the learned will write in his praise, must continue forever."

Raphael painted two hundred and eighty-seven pictures in his thirty-seven years of life.

Plate -- The Sistine Madonna

It is said that the "Sistine Madonna," while painted from an Italian model -- doubtless the lady whom Raphael so dearly loved -- has universal characteristics, so that she may "be understood by everyone."

He lived only three years after painting this picture and it was the last "Holy Family" painted by him. The Madonna stands upon a curve of the earth, which is scarcely to be seen, and looming mistily in front of her is a mass of white vaporous clouds. On either side are figures, St. Sixtus (for whom the picture was named) and St. Barbara. Beside St. Sixtus we see a crown or tiara; and the little tower at St. Barbara's side is a part of her story.

Barbara was the daughter of an Eastern nobleman who feared that her great beauty might lead to her being carried off; therefore he caused her to be shut up in a great tower. While thus imprisoned Barbara became a Christian through the influence of a holy man, and she begged her father to make three windows in her gloomy tower: one, to let the light of the Father stream upon her, another to admit the light of the Son, and the third that she might bathe in the light of the Holy Ghost. Both St. Barbara and St. Sixtus were martyrs for their faith.

This Madonna is painted as if enclosed by green velvet curtains, which have been drawn aside, letting the golden light of the picture blaze upon the one who looks; then upon a little ledge below, looking out from the heavens, are two little cherubs -- known to all the world. They look wistful, wise, roguish, and beautiful, with fat little arms resting comfortably upon the ledge. Raphael is said to have found his models for these little angels in the street, leaning wistfully upon the ledge of a baker's window, looking at the good things to eat, which were within. Raphael took them, put wings to them, placed them at the feet of Mary, and made two little images which have brought smiles and tears to a multitude of people. The "Sistine Madonna" hangs alone in a room in the Dresden Gallery.

Among Raphael's greatest works are: The "Madonna della Sedia" (of the chair), "La Belle Jardinière," "The School of Athens," "Saint Cecilia," "The Transfiguration," "Death of Ananias" (a cartoon for a series of tapestries), "Madonna del Pesce," "La Disputa," "The Marriage of Mary and Joseph," "St. George Slaying the Dragon," "St. Michael Attacking Satan" and the "Coronation of the Virgin."



XXXIII

Rembrandt (Van Rijn)


Dutch School 1606-1669 Pupil of Van Swanenburch

Here are a few of the titles that have been given to the greatest Dutch painter that ever lived: The Shakespeare of Painting; the Prince of Etchers; the King of Shadows; the Painter of Painters. Muther calls him a "hero from cloudland," and not only does he alone wear these titles of greatness, but he alone in his family had the name of Rembrandt.

One writer has said that the great painter was born "in a windmill," but this is not true. He was born in Leyden for certain, though not a great deal is known about his youth; and his father was a miller, his mother a baker's daughter.

When the Pilgrim Fathers, who had sought safety in Leyden, were starting for America, where they were going to oppress others as they had been oppressed, Rembrandt was just beginning his apprenticeship in art.

He was born at No. 3, Weddesteg, a house on the rampart looking out upon the Rhine whose two arms meet there. In front of it whirled the great arms of his father's windmill, though he was not born in it; and of all the women Rembrandt ever knew, it is not likely that he ever admired or loved one as passionately as he admired and loved his mother. He painted and etched her again and again, with a touch so tender that his deepest emotion is placed before us.

Rembrandt had brothers and sisters -- five: Adriaen, Gerrit, Machteld, Cornelis, and Willem. Of these, Adriaen became a miller like his father, and presumably the old historic windmill fell to him; Willem became a baker, but Rembrandt, the fourth child, it was determined should be a learned man, and belong to one of the honoured professions, such as the law. So he was sent to the Leyden Academy, but here again we have an artist who decided he knew enough of all else but art before he was twelve years old. He found himself at that age in the studio of his first art-master, Jacob van Swanenburch, a relative, who had studied art in Italy, and was a good master for the lad; but Rembrandt became so brilliant a painter in three years' time, that he was sent to Amsterdam to learn of abler men.

The lad could not in those days get far from his adored mother; so he stayed only a little time, before he went back to Leyden where she was. There was his heart, and, painting or no painting, he must be near it.

Until the past thirty years no one has seemed to know a great deal of Rembrandt's early history, but much was written of him as a boorish, gross, vulgar fellow. Those stories were false. He was a devoted son, handsome, studious in art, and earnest in all that he did, and after he had made his first notable painting he was compelled by the demands of his work to move to Amsterdam for good. He hired an apartment over a shop on the Quay Bloemgracht; it is probable that his sister went with him to keep his house, and that it is her face repeated so frequently in the many pictures which he painted at that time. This does not suggest coarse doings or a careless life, but permits us to imagine a quiet, sober, unselfish existence for the young bachelor at that time.

Soon, however, he fell in love. He saw one other woman to place in his heart and memory beside his mother. His wife was Saskia van Ulenburg, the daughter of an aristocrat, refined and rich. He met her through her cousin, an art dealer, who had ordered Rembrandt to paint a portrait of his dainty cousin. Rembrandt could have been nothing but what was delightful and good, since he was loved by so charming a girl as Saskia.

He painted her sitting upon his knee, and used her as model in many pictures. First, last, and always he loved her tenderly.

In one portrait she is dressed in "red and gold-embroidered velvets"; the mantle she wore he had brought from Leyden. In another picture she is at her toilet, having her hair arranged; again she is painted in a great red velvet hat, and then as a Jewish bride, wearing pearls, and holding a shepherd's staff in her hand. Again, Rembrandt painted himself as a giant at the feet of a dainty woman, and in every way his work showed his love for her. After he married her, in June 1634, he painted the picture, "Samson's Wedding," "Saskia, dainty and serene, sitting like a princess in a circle of her relatives, he himself appearing as a crude plebeian, whose strange jokes frighten more than they amuse the distinguished company. ... The early years of his marriage were spent in joy and revelry. Surrounded by calculating business men who kept a tight grasp on their money bags, he assumed the rôle of an artist scattering money with a free hand; surrounded by small townsmen most proper in demeanour, he revealed himself as the bold lasquenet, frightening them by his cavalier manners. He brought together all manner of Oriental arms, ancient fabrics, and gleaming jewellery; and his house became one of the sights of Amsterdam." His existence reads like a fairy tale.

It is said that Saskia strutted about decked in gold and diamonds, till her relatives "shook their heads" in alarm and amazement at such wild goings on.

Before he married Saskia he had painted a remarkable picture, named the "School of Anatomy." It represents a great anatomist, the friend of Rembrandt -- Nicholaus Tulp, -- and a group of physicians who were members of the Guild of Surgeons of Amsterdam. It is so wonderful a picture that even the dead man, who is being used as a subject by the anatomist, does not too greatly disturb us as we look upon him. The thoughtful, interested faces of the surgeons are so strong that we half lose ourselves in their feeling, and forget to start in repulsion at sight of the dead body. A fine description of this painting can be found in Sarah K. Bolton's book "Famous Artists" and it includes the description given by another excellent authority.

The artist was twenty-six years old when he painted the "School of Anatomy." This picture is now at The Hague and two hundred years after it was painted the Dutch Government gave 30,000 florins for it.

Rembrandt painted a good many "Samsons" first and last -- himself evidently being the strong man; and the pictures beyond doubt express his own mood and his idea of his relation to things. After a little son was born to the artist, he painted still another Samson -- this time menacing his father-in-law but as the artist had named his son after his father-in-law, -- Rombertus -- we cannot believe that there was any menace in the heart of Rembrandt -- Samson. Soon his son died, and Rembrandt thought he should never again know happiness, or that the world could hold a greater grief, but one day he was to learn otherwise. A little girl was born to the artist, named Cornelia, after Rembrandt's mother, and he was again very happy.

Meantime his brothers and sisters had died, and there came some trouble over Rembrandt's inheritance, but what angered him most of all, was that Saskia's relatives said she "had squandered her heritage in ornaments and ostentation." This made Rembrandt wild with rage, and he sued her slanderers, for he himself had done the squandering, buying every beautiful thing he could find or pay for, to deck Saskia in, and he meant to go on doing so.

At this time he painted a picture of "The Feast of Ahasuerus" (or the "Wedding of Samson") and he placed Saskia in the middle of the table to represent Esther or Delilah as the case might be, dressed in a way to horrify her critical relatives, for she looked like a veritable princess laden with gorgeous jewels.

One of his pictures he wished to have hung in a strong light, for he said: "Pictures are not made to be smelt. The odour of the colours is unhealthy."

The first baby girl died and on the birth of another daughter she too was named Cornelia, but that baby girl also died, and next came a son, Titus, named for Saskia's sister, Titia, and then Saskia died. Thus Rembrandt knew the deepest sorrow of his life.

He painted her portrait once again from memory, and that picture is quite unlike the others for it is no longer full of glowing life, but daintier, suggestive of a more spiritual life, as if she were growing fragile.

It is written that "from this time, while he did much remarkable work, he seemed like a man on a mountain top, looking on one side to sweet meadows filled with flowers and sunlight, and on the other to a desolate landscape over which a clouded sun is setting." With Saskia died the best of Rembrandt. He made only one more portrait of himself -- before this he had made many; and in it he makes himself appear a stern and fateful man. It was after Saskia's death that he painted the "Night Watch," or more properly, "The Sortie."

Rembrandt's home, where he and Saskia were so happy, is still to be seen on a quay of the River Amstel. It is a house of brick and cut stone, four stories high. The vestibule used to have a flag-stone pavement covered with fir-wood. There were also "black-cushioned, Spanish chairs for those who wait," and all about were twenty-four busts and paintings. There was an ante-chamber, very large, with seven Spanish chairs covered with green velvet, and a walnut table covered with "a Tournay cloth"; there was a mirror with an ebony frame, and near by a marble wine-cooler. Upon the wall of this salon were thirty-nine pictures and most of them had beautiful frames. "There were religious scenes, landscapes, architectural sketches, works of Pinas, Brouwer, Lucas van Leyden, and other Dutch masters; sixteen pictures by Rembrandt; and costly paintings by Palma Vecchio, Bassano, and Raphael."

In the next room was a real art museum, containing splendid pictures, an oaken press and other things which suggest that this was the workroom where Rembrandt's etchings were made and printed.

In the drawing-room was a huge mirror, a great oaken table covered with a rich embroidered cloth, "six chairs with blue coverings, a bed with blue hangings, a cedar wardrobe, and a chest of the same wood." The walls were literally covered with pictures, among which was a Raphael.

Above was a sort of museum and Rembrandt's studio. There was rare glass from Venice, busts, sketches, paintings, cloths, weapons, armour, plants, stuffed birds and shells, fans, and books and globes. In short, this was a most wonderful house and no other interior can we reconstruct as we can this, because no other such detailed inventory can be found of a great man's effects as that from which these notes are taken: a legal inventory made in 1656, long after Saskia had died and possibly at a time when Rembrandt wished to close his doors forever and forget the scenes in which he had been so happy.

Holland being truly a Protestant country, its artists have given us no great Madonna pictures, although they painted loving, happy Dutch mothers and little babes, but on the whole their subjects are quite different from those of the painters of Italy, France, and Spain.

Rembrandt's studio was different from any other. When he first began to work independently and to have pupils, he fitted it up with many little cells, properly lighted, so that each student might work alone, as he knew far better work could be done in that way. It is said that his pictures of beggars would, by themselves, fill a gallery. He had a kindly sympathy for the poor and unfortunate, and tramps knew this, so that they swarmed about his studio doors, trying to get sittings.

There is a story which doubtless had for its germ a joke regarding the slowness of an errand boy in a friend's household, but which at the same time shows us how rapidly Rembrandt worked. The artist had been carried off to the country to lunch with his friend Jan Six, and as they sat down at the table, Six discovered there was no mustard. He sent his boy, Hans, for it, and as the boy went out, Rembrandt wagered that he could make an etching before the boy got back. Six took the wager, and the artist pulled a copper plate from his pocket -- he always carried one -- and on its waxed surface began to etch the landscape before him. Just as Hans returned, Rembrandt gleefully handed Six the completed picture.

He was a great portrait painter, but he loved certain effects of shadow so well that he often sacrificed his subject's good looks to his artistic purpose, and very naturally his sitters became displeased, so that in time he had fewer commissions than if he had been entirely accommodating.

His meals in working time were very simple, often just bread and cheese, eaten while sitting at his easel, and after Saskia died he became more and more careless of all domestic details.

Rembrandt finally married again, the second time choosing his housekeeper, a good and helpful woman, who was properly bringing up his little son, and making life better ordered for the artist, but he had grown poor by this time for he was never a very good business man. His beautiful house was at last sold to a rich shoemaker. Every picture latterly reflected his condition and mood. He chose subjects in which he imagined himself always to be the actor, and when his second wife died he painted a picture of "Youth Surprised by Death"; he had not long to live. He became more and more melancholy; and sleeping by day, would wander about the country at night, disconsolate and sad. Finally, when he died, an inventory of his effects, showed him to be possessed of only a few old woollen clothes and his brushes The miracle in Rembrandt's painting is the deep, impenetrable shadow, in which nevertheless one can see form and outline, punctuated with wonderful explosions of light. Nothing like it has ever been seen. It is the most dramatic work in the world, and the most powerful in its effect. Other men have painted light and colour; Rembrandt makes gloom and shadow living things.

This miracle-worker's funeral cost ten dollars; he died in Amsterdam and was buried in the Wester Kirk.

Plate -- The Sortie

This picture is generally known as "The Night Watch," but it is really "The Sortie" of a company of musketeers under the command of a standard bearer. Captain Frans Banning-Cock and all his company were to pay Rembrandt for painting their portraits in a group and in action, and they expected to see themselves in heroic and picturesque dress, in the full blaze of day, but Rembrandt had found a magnificent subject for his wonderful shadows, and the artist was not going to sacrifice it to the vanity of the archers.

This picture was called the "Patrouille de Nuit," by the French and the "Night Watch," by Sir Joshua Reynolds because upon its discovery the picture was so dimmed and defaced by time that it was almost indistinguishable and it looked quite like a night scene. After it was cleaned up, it was discovered to represent broad day -- a party of archers stepping from a gloomy courtyard into the blinding sunlight. "How this different light is painted, which encircles the figures, here sunny, there gloomy!... Rembrandt runs through the entire range of his colours, from the lightest yellow through all shades of light and dark red to the gloomiest black." One writer describes it thus: "It is more than a picture; it is a spectacle, and an amazing one... A great crowd of human figures, a great light, a great darkness -- at the first glance this is what strikes you, and for a moment you know not where to fix your eyes in order to comprehend that grand and splendid confusion... There are officers, halberdiers, boys running, arquebusiers loading and firing, youths beating drums, people bowing talking, calling out, gesticulating -- all dressed in different costumes, with round hats, plumes, casques, morions, iron corgets, linen collars, doublets embroidered with gold, great boots, stockings of all colours, arms of every form; and all this tumultuous and glittering throng start out from the dark background of the picture and advance toward the spectator. The two first personages are Frans Banning-Cock, Lord of Furmerland and Ilpendam, captain of the company, and his lieutenant, Willem van Ruijtenberg, Lord of Vlaardingen, the two marching side by side. The only figures that are in full light are this lieutenant, dressed in a doublet of buffalo-hide, with gold ornaments, scarf, gorget, and white plume, with high boots, and a girl who comes behind, with blond hair ornamented with pearls, and a yellow satin dress; all the other figures are in deep shadow, excepting the heads, which are illuminated. By what light? Here is the enigma. Is it the light of the sun? or of the moon? or of the torches? There are gleams of gold and silver, moonlight coloured reflections, fiery lights; personages which, like the girl with blond tresses, seem to shine by a light of their own.... The more you look at it, the more it is alive and glowing; and, even seen only at a glance, it remains forever in the memory, with all its mystery and splendour, like a stupendous vision." Charles Blanc has said: "To tell the truth, this is only a dream of night, and no one can decide what the light is that falls on the groups of figures. It is neither the light of the sun or of the moon, nor does it come from the torches; it is rather the light from the genius of Rembrandt."

This wonderful picture was painted in 1642 and many of the archer's guild who gave Rembrandt the commission would not pay their share because their faces were not plainly seen. This picture which alone was enough to make him immortal, was the very last commission that any of the guilds were willing to give the artist, because he would not make their portraits beautiful or fine looking to the disadvantage of the whole picture. This work hangs in the Rijks Museum in Amsterdam. He painted more than six hundred and twenty-five pictures and some of them are: "The Anatomy Lesson," "The Syndics of the Cloth Hall," "The Descent from the Cross," "Samson Threatening His Step Father," "The Money Changer," "Holy Family," "The Presentation of Christ in the Temple," "The Marriage of Samson," "The Rape of Ganymede," "Susanna and the Elders," "Manoah's Sacrifice," "The Storm," "The Good Samaritan," "Pilate Washing His Hands," "Ecce Home," and pictures of his wife, Saskia.



XXXIV

Sir Joshua Reynolds


English School 1723-1792 Pupil of Thomas Hudson

When Reynolds was "little Josh," instead of "Sir Joshua" he grew tired in church one day, and sketched upon the nail of his thumb the portrait of the Rev. Mr. Smart who was preaching. After service he ran to a boat-house near, and with ship's paint, upon an old piece of sail, he painted in full and flowing colours that reverend gentleman's portrait. After that there was not the least possible excuse for his father to deny him the right to become an artist.

The father himself was a clergyman with a good education, and he had meant that his son should also be well educated and become a physician; but a lad who at eight years of age can draw the Plympton school house -- he was born at Plympton Earl, in Devonshire -- has a right to choose his own profession.

At twenty-three years of age Sir Joshua was painting the portraits of great folk, and being well paid for it, as well as lavishly praised. His first real sorrow came at a Christmas time when he was summoned home from London where he was working, to his father's deathbed.

After that the artist turned his thoughts toward Italy, but where was the money to come from? Earning a living did not include travelling expenses, but a good friend, Captain Keppel, was going out to treat with the Dey of Algiers about his piracies, and learning that the artist wished to go to Italy he invited him to go with him on his own ship, the Centurion. So while the captain was discussing pirates with the dey, Sir Joshua stopped with the Governor of Minorca and painted many of the people of that locality. Thence on to Rome!

Strange to say, Raphael's pictures disappointed the English artist, and he said so; but Michael Angelo was to Reynolds the most wonderful of painters, and he said that his pictures influenced him all the rest of his life. He wished his name to be the last upon his lips, and while that was not so, yet it was the last he pronounced to his fellow Academicians in his final address.

It was in Italy that a distressing misfortune came upon Sir Joshua. He meant to learn all that a man could learn in a given time of the art treasures there, and while he was working in a draughty corridor of the Vatican, he caught a severe cold which rendered him deaf. He continued deaf till the end of his life and had to use an ear-trumpet when people talked with him.

When he got back to England, Hudson, his old master, said discouragingly: "Reynolds, you don't paint as well as when you left England." On the whole his reception at home, after his long absence, was not all that he could have wished, but he took a place in Leicester Square, settled down to live there for the rest of his life, and went at painting in earnest.

Although artists criticised him more or less after his return, the public appreciated him and very soon orders for portraits began to pour in upon him, and the flow of wealth never ceased so long as he lived. It was said that all the fashionables came to him that did not go to Gainsborough, but those who were partial to Sir Joshua declared that all who could not go to him went to Gainsborough. The two great artists controlled the art world in their time, dividing honours about equally. It was said that all those women and men sat to Sir Joshua for portraits "who wished to be transmitted as angels... and who wished to appear as heroes or philosophers."

Sir Joshua was a charming man, generous in feeling -- as Gainsborough was not -- and his closest friend was Dr. Johnson, the most different man from the artist imaginable, but Reynolds's art and Johnson's philosophy made a fine combination, each giving the other great pleasure. Besides Johnson, his friends were Goldsmith, Garrick, Bishop Percy, and other famous men of the time. These and others formed the "Literary Club" at Sir Joshua's suggestion. About that time there was the first public exhibition of the work of English artists, and Sir Benjamin West and Sir Joshua Reynolds built the Royal Academy for that first exhibition, with the help of King George's patronage. Joshua Reynolds was knighted when he was made the first president of that great body.

Soon after the Academy was established, Reynolds began a series of "discourses," which in time became famous for their splendid literary quality, and some people, knowing his close friendship with Burke and Dr. Johnson, declared that the artist got one of them to write his "discourses" for him. This threw Johnson and Burke into a fury of resentment for their friend, and the doctor declared indignantly that "Sir Joshua would as soon get me to paint for him as to write for him!" Burke denied the story no less emphatically. Besides these speeches, which were a great advantage to the members of the Academy, Sir Joshua instituted the annual banquet to the members, and King George -- who just before had given the commission of court painter to one less talented than Sir Joshua -- bade him paint his portrait and the queen's, to hang in the Academy. This was a great thing for the new society and advanced its fortunes very much.

Barry and Gainsborough were both churlish enough to envy Sir Joshua and to quarrel with his good feeling for them, but both men had the grace to be sorry for behaviour that had no excuse, and both made friends with him before they died -- Gainsborough on his death-bed.

Toward his last days the artist was attacked with paralysis, but grew better and was able to paint again; then he began to go blind -- he was already deaf -- and this affliction made painting impossible. Shortly before his death, he undertook to raise funds for a monument to his dead friend, Dr. Johnson, but he grew more and more ill, "and on the 23d February, 1792, this great artist and blameless gentleman passed peacefully away."

That he was very painstaking in his work is shown by an anecdote about his infant "Hercules." "How did you paint that part of the picture?" some one asked him. "How can I tell! There are ten pictures below this, some better, some worse" -- showing that in his desire for perfection he painted and repainted.

So untiring was he in seeking out the secrets of the old masters that he bought works of Titian and Rubens, and scraped them, to learn their methods, insisting that they had some secret underlying their work. So anxious was he to get the most brilliant effects of colours that he mixed his paints with asphaltum, egg, varnish, wax, and the like, till one artist said: "The wonder is that the picture did not crack beneath the brush." Many of these great pictures did go to pieces because of the chances Sir Joshua took in mixing things that did not belong together, in order to make wonderful results.

Sir George Beaumont recommended a friend to go to Reynolds for his portrait and the friend demurred, because "his colours fade and his pictures die before the man."

"Never mind that!" Sir George declared; "a faded portrait by Reynolds is better than a fresh one by anybody else."

The same tender, sensitive and devoted nature which caused Sir Joshua's mother to weep herself blind upon her husband's death, belonged to the artist. All of his life he was surrounded by loving friends, and his devotion to them was conspicuous. He, like Dürer and several other painters, was a seventh son, and his father's disappointment was keen when he took to art instead of to medicine. So little did his father realise what his future might be, that he wrote under the sketch of a wall with a window in it, drawn upon a Latin exercise book: "This is drawn by Joshua in school, out of pure idleness."

But by the time Joshua was eight years old and had drawn a fine "sketch of the grammar-school with its cloister... the astonished father said: 'Now, this exemplifies what the author of "perspective" says in his preface: "that, by observing the rules laid down in this book, a man may do wonders" -- for this is wonderful.'"

Sir Joshua laid down -- even wrote out -- a great many rules of conduct for himself. Some of these were: "The great principle of being happy in this world is not to mind or be affected with small things." Also: "If you take too much care of yourself, nature will cease to take care of you."

When Samuel Reynolds, Joshua's father, consulted with his friend Mr. Craunch, as to whether a boy who made wonderful paintings at twelve years of age, would be likely to be a successful apothecary, he told Craunch that Joshua himself had declared that he would rather be a good apothecary than a poor artist, but if he could be bound to a good master of painting he would prefer that above everything in the world. This was how he came to be apprenticed to Hudson, the painter. Young Reynolds's sister paid for his instruction at first -- or for half of it, with the understanding that Reynolds was to pay her back when he was earning. At that time Reynolds wrote to his father: "While I am doing this I am the happiest creature alive."

One day, while in an art store, buying something for Hudson, Reynolds saw Alexander Pope, the poet, come in, and every one bowed to him and made way for him as if for a prince. Pope shook hands with young Reynolds, and in writing home, describing the poet, the artist said that he was "about four feet six inches high; very humpbacked and deformed. He wore a black coat and according to the fashion of that time, had on a little sword. He had a large and very fine eye, and a long handsome nose; his mouth had those peculiar marks which are always found in the mouths of crooked persons, and the muscles which run across the cheeks were so strongly marked that they seemed like small cords." This is a masterly description of one famous man by another.

He finally was dismissed from his master's studio on the ground that he had neglected to carry a picture to its owner at the time set by Hudson, but the fact was the older artist had become jealous of the work of his pupil, and would no longer have him in his studio.

Afterwards, while he was painting down in Devonshire -- thirty portraits of country squires for fifteen dollars apiece -- he said: "Those who are determined to excel must go to their work whether willing or unwilling, morning, noon, and night, and they will find it to be no play, but, on the contrary, very hard labour." This shows that Reynolds's idea of genius was "an infinite capacity for hard work."

While Reynolds was on his memorable journey to Rome, he made several volumes of notes about the pictures of great Italian artists -- Raphael, Titian, etc. And one of those volumes is in the Lenox Library, New York City. He made a most characteristic and delightful remark in regard to his disappointment in Raphael's pictures. "I did not for a moment conceive or suppose that the name of Raphael, and those admirable paintings in particular, owed their reputation to the ignorance ... of mankind; on the contrary, my not relishing them, as I was conscious I ought to have done was one of the most humiliating things that ever happened to me."

He loved home and country so much that while in Venice he heard a familiar ballad sung in an opera, and it brought the tears to his eyes because of its association with "home."

His young sister, was so undecided in her ways and opinions as to make it impossible for Reynolds long to live with her, but she undertook to be his housekeeper when he returned to London, and she also tried to copy his pictures Reynolds said the results "made other people laugh, but they made me cry."

Reynolds painted the portraits of two Irish sisters -- the Countess of Coventry and the Duchess of Hamilton -- two of the most beautiful women in all the British Empire. "Seven hundred people sat up all night, in and about a Yorkshire inn, to see the Duchess of Hamilton get into her postchaise in the morning, while a Worcester shoemaker made money by showing the shoe he was making for the Countess of Coventry." Sir Joshua declared that whenever a new sitter came to him, even till the last years of his life, he always began his portrait with the determination that that one should be the best he had ever painted. Success was bound to attend that sort of man.

He painted every picture almost as an experiment; meaning to learn something new with every work, and he spent more than he made in perfecting his art. As he said: "He would be content to ruin himself" in order to own one of the best works of Titian.

His deeds of kindness are beyond counting. He rescued his friend Dr. Johnson from debt -- thereby saving him from prison; and when a young lad, "a son of Dr. Mudge," who was very anxious to visit his father on the occasion of his sixteenth birthday, grew too ill to make the journey. Reynolds said gaily: "No matter my boy. I will send you to your father." He painted a splendid portrait of the boy and sent it to Dr. Mudge. This gift of a picture, however, was very unusual with Reynolds, who, unlike Gainsborough who gave his by the bushel to everyone, declared that his pictures were not valued unless paid for. When Sir William Lowther, a gay and rich young man of London, died, he left twenty-five thousand dollars to each of thirteen friends, and each of the thirteen commissioned the painter to make a portrait of Lowther, their benefactor. His work room was of interest: "The chair for his sitters was raised eighteen inches from the floor, and turned on casters. His palettes were those which are held by a handle, not those held on the thumb. The stocks of his pencils were long, measuring about nineteen inches. He painted in that part of the room nearest to the window, and never sat down when he painted." The chariot in which he drove about had the four seasons allegorically painted upon its panels, and his liveries were "laced with silver"; while the wheels of his coach were carved with foliage and gilded.

Sir Joshua knew that it paid to advertise, and as he had no time to go about in that gorgeous chariot he made his sister go, for he declared that people seeing that magnificent coach would ask: "Whose chariot is that?" and upon being told could not fail to be impressed with his prestige. The comical inconsequence of this anecdote concerning a man so important robs it of vulgarity.

The graceful anecdotes told of Reynolds are without number, but one and all are to his advantage and show him to have been good and gentle, a devoted and high-bred man.

Plate -- The Duchess Of Devonshire And Her Daughter

This is generally considered one of the finest of Sir Joshua's pictures, if not the most beautiful of all. He was such a welcome guest at the houses of grandees that perchance he had noticed the lovely duchess playing with her still more lovely baby, and thought what a charming picture the two would make. As a representation of the artist's ability to portray grace and sweetness it can hardly be surpassed. He painted it in 1786, half a dozen years before his death, and it now hangs in Chatsworth, the home of the present Duke of Devonshire.

Other well known Reynolds paintings are "The Hon. Ann Bingham," "The Countess of Spencer," the "Nieces of Sir Horace Walpole," and the "Angels' Heads" in the National Gallery.



XXXV

Peter Paul Rubens.


Flemish School 1577-1640 Pupil of Tobias Verhaecht

The story of Peter Paul Rubens, whose birthday falling upon the saint days of Peter and Paul gave to him his name, is hardly more interesting than that of his parents, although it is quite different. The story of Rubens's parents seems a part of the artist's story, because it must have had something to do with influencing his life, so let us begin with that.

John Rubens was Peter Paul's father, and he was a learned man, a druggist, but he had also studied law, and had been town councillor and alderman in the town where he was born. Life went easily enough with him till the reformation wrought by Martin Luther began to change John Rubens's way of thinking, and he turned from Catholic to Lutheran.

From being a good Catholic John Rubens became a rabid reformer; and when, under the new faith, the Antwerp churches were stripped of their treasures, the magistrates were called to account for it. John Rubens, as councillor, was among those summoned. The magistrates declared that they were all good Catholics, but a list of the reformers fell into the Duke of Alva's hands and Rubens's name was there. This meant death unless he should succeed in flying from the country, which he instantly did. That was in 1568, when he had four children, but Peter Paul was not one of them -- since he was a seventh son.

The Rubens family went to live in Cologne, where the father found his learning of great use to him, and he was honoured by being made legal adviser to Anne of Saxony who was William the Silent's second queen. John Rubens's behaviour was not entirely honourable and before long he was thrown into prison, but his good wife, Maria Pypelincx undertook to free him. He had treated her very badly, but her devotion to his cause was as great as if he had treated her well. Despite his wife's efforts he was kept a prisoner in the dungeon at Dillenburg for two years, and afterward he was removed to Siegen, the place where Peter Paul was born.

In the sixteenth century there were no records of any sort kept in the town of Siegen, and so we cannot be absolutely sure that Peter Paul was born there, but his mother was certainly there just before and after the date of his birth, which was the 29th of June 1577. After his birth, his father was set free in Siegen and allowed to go back to the city in which he had misbehaved himself. In Cologne he became once more a Catholic, and he died in that faith. Meantime, ten years had passed since Peter Paul's birth, and both his father and mother were determined above all things their son should have a fine education, quite unlike other artists, for the boy seemed capable of learning. While he was still very small he could speak to his tutor in French, to his mother in Flemish, and to his father in Latin. Besides these languages he spoke also Italian and English. Before he was an artist, Rubens, like Dürer and Leonardo da Vinci, was a child of rare intelligence. As a little chap he went to Antwerp with his mother -- this was after his father's death -- and in Belgium he took for the first time the rôle of courtier, in which he was to become so successful later in life. The charming little fellow, dressed in velvet and lace, took his place in the household of the Countess of Lalaing, in Brussels.

Very soon after entering that household, Rubens was permitted by his mother to leave it for the studio of the painter who was his first master, though not the one who really taught him much. Rubens did not stay there long, but went instead to the studio of Adam van Noort, an excellent painter of the time. After that he studied under another artist, who was both a scholar and a gentleman, Van Veen, and with him Peter Paul was able to speak in Latin and in his many other languages, while learning to paint at the same time.

Thus we find Rubens's lot was always cast, not among the rich, but among the intelligent, the well bred, and the cultivated. This fact alone would prepare us to anticipate pleasant things for him and from him.

In those days of guilds, there were many rules and regulations. Van Noort, Rubens's teacher, was dean of the painters' guild and through his influence the guild recognised Rubens as "master," which meant that he was qualified to take pupils; thus he was pupil and teacher at the same time.

One is unable to think of Rubens as having low tastes, as being morose, erratic, or anything but a refined, gracious, and brilliant gentleman. He began well, lived well, and ended well.

None of his teachers really impressed their style of art upon him. He was the model for others. Rubens became nothing but Rubens, but all the art world wished to become "Rubenesque."

Rubens went to Mantua to see the art of Italy, and while there he met the Duke of Mantua who was Vincenzo Gonzaga, the richest, most powerful personage of that region and time. The duke engaged Rubens to paint the portraits of many beautiful women -- just the sort of commission that Rubens's pupil, Van Dyck, would have loved; but Rubens's art was of sterner stuff, and the work by no means delighted him. He had great ideas, profound purposes, and wished to undertake them, but just then it seemed best that he perform that which the Duke of Mantua wanted him to do; hence he set about it.

Later Rubens went to the Spanish court, not as a painter, but as a cavalier upon a diplomatic mission. Bearing many beautiful presents to King Philip III., he went to Madrid, where his elegance, manly beauty, dashing manner, and ability to speak several languages made him a wonderful success. He remained for three years at the court and studied the methods of Spanish painters. He also painted the members of the Spanish court, as Velasquez had done, but they looked like people of another world. The Spanish aristocracy had always been painted with pallid faces, languid and elegant poses; but Rubens gave them a touch of the life he loved -- made them robust and apparently healthy-minded. Of all great colourists, Rubens took the lead. Titian with his golden hues and warm haired women was very great, but Rubens, "the Fleming" as he was called, revelled in richness of colouring, and flamed through art like a glorious comet.

Rubens had long been wanted in his own country. His sovereigns, Albert and Isabella, wished him to return and become their painter, but they were unable to free him from his engagements in Italy and Spain. At last Rubens received word that his mother, whom he loved devotedly, was likely to die, and what kings could not do his love for her accomplished.

Although his patron, the Duke of Mantua, was absent, and his consent could not be secured, Rubens set off post-haste to his mother's home. He arrived in Antwerp too late to see Maria Pypelincx, who had died before he reached her. Once more on his native soil, Albert and Isabella determined to induce him to remain. He had intended to go back to Mantua and continue his work under the duke, but since he was now in Belgium he decided to stay there, and thus he became the court painter in his own country, which after all he greatly preferred to any other.

He was to have a salary of five hundred livres ($96) a year, also "the rights, honours, privileges, exemptions, etc." that belonged to those of the royal household; and he was given a gold chain. In this day of large doings there is something about such details that seems childish, but a "gold chain" was by no means a small affair at a time when $96 was considered an ample money-provision for an artist.

That gorgeous gold chain, a mark of distinction rather than a reward, is to be seen in all its glory in one of Rubens's great paintings. The artist himself is mounted upon a horse, the chain about his neck, while he is surrounded by "no fewer than eight-and-twenty life-size figures, many in gorgeous attire, warriors in steel armour, horsemen, slaves, camels, etc." This picture, "The Adoration of the Magi," was twelve feet by seventeen, and was painted at the town's expense. It was later sent to Spain and placed in the Madrid Gallery.

One of the greatest honours that could come to students of that day, was to be admitted to Rubens's studio to paint under his direction, and it is said that "hundreds of young men waited their turn, painting meanwhile in the studios of inferior artists, till they should be admitted to the studio of the great master."

Rubens was a king among painters, as well as a painter patronised by kings.

He had two wives, and he married the first one in 1609. Her name was Isabella Brant. Sir Joshua Reynolds said of her: "His wife is very handsome and has an agreeable countenance, but the picture is rather hard in manner" -- by which he meant a picture which Rubens had painted of her. One of his greatest privileges when he was engaged at the court of Albert and Isabella, had been that he need obey none of the exactions of the Guild of St. Luke, none of their rigid rules concerning the employment of art students. Rubens could take into his service whom he pleased, whether they had been admitted as members of the guild or not, though to be a member of the guild was a testimony to their qualifications. In the end, this did a good deal of harm, for Rubens employed students to do the preliminary work of his pictures, who had not been his pupils and who were not otherwise qualified. Thus we read criticisms like that of Sir Joshua's; and many of Rubens's pictures are marred in this manner.

A story is told of Van Dyck and other pupils of Rubens breaking into the master's studio and smudging a picture which Van Dyck afterward repaired by painting in the damaged portion most successfully. We are also told in connection with Rubens's picture, "The Descent from the Cross," that Van Dyck restored an arm and shoulder of Mary of Magdala, but certainly Van Dyck did not become a pupil of Rubens till some time after that picture was painted.

The work of a wonderful period in Rubens's art was completely destroyed. In two years time he painted forty ceilings of churches in Antwerp, all of which were burned, but there is a record of them in the copies made by De Witt, in water colours from which etchings were afterward made. This work of Rubens was the first example of foreshortening done by a Flemish painter.

Above all things Rubens liked to paint big pictures, on very large surfaces, as did Michael Angelo. "The large size of picture gives us painters more courage to present our ideas with the utmost freedom and semblance of reality. ... I confess myself to be, by a natural instinct, better fitted to execute works of the largest size." He wrote this to the English diplomat Trumbull in 1621.

In the midst of Rubens's greatest success as a painter came his diplomatic services. It was desirable that Spain and England should be friends, and Rubens always moving about because of his work, and being so very clever, the Spanish powers thought him a good one to negotiate with England. While on a professional visit to Paris, the English Duke of Buckingham and the artist met, and this seemed to open a way for business. The Infanta consented to have Rubens undertake this delicate piece of statesmanship, but Philip of Spain did not like the idea of an artist -- a wandering fellow, as an artist was then thought to be -- entering into such a dignified affair. The real negotiator on the English side, was Gerbier, by birth also a Fleming, and strange to tell, he too had been an artist. The English engaged him to look after their interests in the affair, and as soon as Philip learned that their diplomat was also an artist, his prejudices against Rubens as a statesman, disappeared. So it was decided that the two Flemings, artists and diplomats, should meet in Holland to discuss matters. About that time Sir Dudley Carleton wrote to Lord Conway: "Rubens is come hither to Holland, where he now is, and Gerbier in his company, walking from town to town, upon their pretence of taking pictures, which may serve him for a few days if he dispatch and be gone; but yf he entertayne tyme here long, he will infallibly be layd hold of, or sent with disgrace out of the country ... this I have made known to Rubens lest he should meet with a skorne what may in some sort reflect upon others."

The two clever men got through with their talk, nothing unfortunate happened, and Rubens got off to Spain where he laid the result of his talk with Gerbier before the Spanish powers. He was given a studio in Philip's palace, where he carried on his art and his diplomacy. The king became delighted with him as a man and an artist, and as well as attending to state business, he did some wonderful painting while in Madrid. He was there nine months or more, and then started off for England to tell Charles I. of Philip III.'s wishes. But upon his arrival he learned that a peace had just been concluded between France and England, and all was excitement.

He was received in England as a great artist; every honour was showered upon him, and when he made Philip's request to Charles, that he should not act in a manner hostile to Spain, Charles agreed, and kept that agreement though France and Venice urged him to break it.

Charles knighted Rubens while he was in England, and the University of Cambridge made him Master of Arts. The sword used by the king at the time he gave the accolade is still kept by Rubens's descendants.

While he was in London Rubens was very nearly drowned in the Thames going down to Greenwich in a boat.

When he first went from Italy to Spain on a mission of state, he carried a note or passport bearing the following lines: "With these presents" (he took magnificent gifts to Philip, among them a carriage and six Neapolitan horses) "comes Peter Paul, a Fleming. Peter Paul will say all that is proper, like the well informed man that he is. Peter Paul is very successful in painting portraits. If any ladies of quality wish their pictures, let them take advantage of his presence." When he visited England there was no longer need of such introduction; he went in all the magnificence that his genius had earned for him.

Rubens was always a happy man, so far as history shows. He married the first time, a woman who was beautiful and who loved him, as he loved her. He was able to build for himself a beautiful house in Antwerp. In the middle of it was a great salon, big enough to hold all his collection of pictures, vases, bronzes, and beautiful jewels. There was also a magnificent staircase, up which his largest pictures could be easily carried, for it was built especially to accommodate the requirements of his work.

Rubens's greatest picture was painted through a strange happening when this beautiful house was being built. The land next to his belonged to the Archers' Guild and when the workmen came to dig Rubens's cellar, they went too far and invaded the adjoining property. The archers made complaint, and there seemed no way to adjust the matter, till some one suggested that Rubens make them a picture which should be accepted as compensation for the harm done. This Rubens did, and the picture was to be St. Christopher -- the archers' patron saint; but when the work was done "Rubens surprised them" by exhibiting a picture "of all who could ever have been called 'Christ-bearers.'" This was "The Descent from the Cross" -- not a single picture but a picture within a picture, for there were shutters folding in front of it, and on these was painted the archers' patron, St. Christopher.

Rubens's daily life is described thus: "His life was very methodical. He rose at four, attended mass, breakfasted, and painted for hours; then he rested, dined, worked until late afternoon; then, after riding for an hour or two one of his spirited horses, and later supping, he would spend the evening with his friends.

"He was fond of books, and often a friend would read aloud to him while he worked." This is a pleasant picture of a reasonable and worthy life.

It is said that once he painted eighteen pictures in eighteen days, and it is known that he valued his time at fifty dollars a day.

His pupil, Van Dyck, being pushed for money, turned alchemist and tried to manufacture gold, but when Rubens was approached by a visionary who wanted him to lend him money by which he might pursue such a work, promising Rubens a fortune when he should have discovered how to make his gold, the artist laughed and said: "You are twenty years too late, friend. When I wield these," indicating his palette and brush, "I turn all to gold."

Many are the delightful anecdotes told of Rubens. It is said that while he was at the English court he was painting the ceiling of the king's banqueting hall, and a courtier who stood watching, wished to say something pour passer le temps, so he asked: "Does the ambassador of his Catholic Majesty sometimes amuse himself with painting?"

"No -- but he sometimes amuses himself with being an ambassador," was the witty retort, which showed how he valued his two commissions.

When King Charles I. knighted Rubens he gave him, beside the jewelled sword, a golden chain to which his miniature was attached. If Rubens had gone about with all the chains and decorations given him by kings and other great ones of the earth he would have been weighted down, and would have needed two pairs of shoulders on which to display them.

Rubens's first wife died; and when he married again, he was as fond of painting pictures of the second wife as he had been of the first. The name of the second was Helena Fourment, and she is called by one author "a spicy blonde." Certainly she was very gay, big, and robust, and only sixteen years old when she married Rubens who was then a man of fifty-three. Of one picture, "The Straw Hat," for which he is supposed to have used his wife's sister as model, he was so fond that he would not sell it at any price.

Rubens had a rare mother, as shown in her letters to her husband, John, when he was in prison for his wrongdoing. It would seem that such a mother must have a strong, forceful son, and Rubens is less of a surprise than many artists who had no such influence in their childhood. The history of Rubens's mother is worthy of being told even had she not had a famous son who painted a beautiful picture of her.

Rubens's "Holy Families" are like those of no other painter. The Virgin, the Child, all the others in the picture, are quite different from the Italian figures. These are human beings, good to look upon; full of love and joy, softness and beauty.

It was his learning that first won favour for him in Italy. The Duke of Mantua hearing him read from Virgil, spoke to him in Latin, and being answered in that tongue was so charmed that the foundation of their friendship and the duke's patronage was laid. In Italy he was called "the antiquary and Apelles of our time."

His nephew-biographer writes of him: "He never gave himself the pastime of going to parties where there was drinking and card-playing, having always had a dislike for such."

As Rubens grew in fame, he found that many were jealous of him, and on one occasion a rival proposed that he and Rubens each paint a picture upon a certain subject and leave it to judges to decide which work was the best -- Rubens's or his own.

"No," said Rubens. "My attempts have been subjected to the scrutiny of connoisseurs in Italy and Spain. They are to be found in public collections and private galleries in those countries; gentlemen are at liberty to place their works beside them, in order that comparison may be made." This was a dignified way of disposing of the case.

Rubens loved to paint animals, and he had a great lion brought to his home, that he might study its poses and movements.

The flesh of his figures was so lifelike that Guido declared he must mix blood with his paints. He was called "the painter of life."

Rubens, a seventh child, had also seven children, two belonging to his first wife, five to the second.

Many stories are told of his patience and his kindness. It is said that at one time his old pupil, Van Dyck, returned to Antwerp after an absence, greatly depressed and in need of money. Rubens bought all his unsold pictures, and he did this charitable act more than once, and is known to have done the same thing for a rival and enemy, out of sheer goodness of heart.

Kings and queens came to the Rubens house, people of many nations did him honour; and toward his closing days, when gout had disabled him, ambassadors visited him, since he could not go to them.

In a description of his death and burial which took place at Antwerp we read: "He was buried at night as was the custom, a great concourse of citizens ... and sixty orphan children with torches followed the body." He was placed in the vault of the Fourment family, and as he had requested, "The Holy Family" was hung above him. In that picture, we find the St. George to be Rubens himself; St. Jerome, his father; an angel, his youngest son, while Martha and Mary are Isabella and Helena, his two wives.

He left many sketches "to whichever of his sons became an artist, or to the husband of his daughter who should marry an artist." But there were none such to claim the bequest.

Plate -- The Infant Jesus And St. John

The little girl behind Jesus is supposed to represent his future bride, the Christian Church. The thoughtful, far-seeing look upon the face of the Christ-child, though it does not clash with His youthful charm, is meant to suggest that He has a premonition of His work in the world. The other joyous little figures also demonstrate the artist's love for children. He brings them into his pictures, as cherubs, wherever he can, and they are frequently just as well painted and more universally appreciated than his stout women. In this picture he has a good opportunity to show his adorable flesh tints, combined with the movement and freedom naturally associated with child life.

The original painting is in the Court Museum at Vienna, but it has always been so popular that many copies of it have been made, and one of these is in the Berlin Gallery.

PLATE -- THE ARTIST'S TWO SONS (See Frontispiece)

This picture hangs in the Lichtenstein Gallery at Vienna; the two boys, eleven and seven years of age, are the sons of Rubens by his first wife, Isabella Brant; and Albert, the elder of the two, greatly resembles his mother. He is evidently a student, for he wears the dress of one and carries a book in one hand. The other is placed affectionately upon the shoulder of his little brother, Nicolas, whose face, figure, and attire are all much the more childish of the two.

Critics consider this painting to mark the Highest point which Rubens reached in portraiture. It has all the colour, character, and vitality of his best work. Some of his other pictures are: "Coronation of Marie de Medicis," "The Kirmesse," "Slaughter of the Innocents," "Susanna's Bath," "Capture of Samson," "A Lion Hunt" and "The Rape of the Daughters of Leucippus."



XXXVI

John Singer Sargent


American and Foreign Schools 1856-1926 Pupil of Carolus Durand

This artist was born in Europe, of American parents; thus we may say that he was "American," though he owed nothing but dollars to the United States, since his instruction was obtained in Italy and France, and all his associations in art and friendship were there. He was probably the most brilliant of the artists termed American. His great mural work in the Boston Public Library, is hardly to be surpassed.

Above all, Sargent's portraits are masterly. He was famous in that branch of art before he was twenty-eight years old. Among his finest portraits is that of "Carmencita," a Spanish dancer, who for a time set the world wild with pleasure. The list of his famous portraits is very long.

Sargent's father was a Philadelphia physician; who originally came from New England, but the artist himself was born in Florence. He was given a good education and grew up with the beauties of Florence all about him, in a refined and charming home. He was the delight of his master, Carolus Durand for he was modest and refined, yet full of enthusiasm and energy. In his twenty-third year he painted a fine picture of his master. Sargent was a musician as well as a painter; a man of great versatility, as if the gods and all the muses had presided at his birth.

Plate -- Carmencita

In this picture of the famous Spanish dancer Sargent shows all the life and character he can put into a portrait. The girl seems on the point of springing into motion. She is poised, ready for flight and the proud lift of her head makes one believe that she will accomplish the most difficult steps she attempts. The painting is in the Luxembourg, Paris.

Other noted Sargent portraits are "Mr. Marquand" in the Metropolitan Museum of Art, "Lady Elcho, Mrs. Arden, Mrs. Tennant," "Mrs. Meyer and Children," "Homer St. Gaudens," "Henschel," and "Mr. Penrose."



XXXVII

Tintoretto (Jacopo Robusti)


Venetian School 1518-1594 Pupil of Titian

Tintoretto was born with an ideal. As a young boy he wrote upon his studio wall: "The drawing of Michael Angelo, the colouring of Titian," and that was the end he tried to reach. His father was a "tintore" -- a dyer of silk, a tinter -- and it was from the character of that work the artist took his name. He helped his father with the dyeing of silks, while he was still a child, and was called "II tintoretto," little dyer.

As the little tinter showed great genius for painting, his father placed him in Titian's studio, but for some reason he only stayed there a few days, long enough, however, to permit us to call him a pupil of Titian; especially as he wrote that master's name upon his wall and determined to imitate him. After his few days with Titian, Tintoretto studied with Schiavone and afterward set up a studio for himself.

As a determined lad in this studio of his, Tintoretto tried every means of developing his art. He studied the figures upon Medicean tombs made by Michael Angelo, taking plaster casts of them and copying them in his studio. He used to hang little clay figures up by strings attached to his ceiling, that he might get the effect of them high in air. By looking at them thus from below he gained an idea of foreshortening.

Although this artist nearly succeeded in getting into line with Michael Angelo, he did not colour after the fashion of his master, Titian. Tintoretto was about twenty-eight years old before he got any very big commission, but at that age a chance came to him. In the church of Santa Maria del Orto were two great bare spaces, unsightly and vast, about fifty feet high and twenty broad. In that day anything and everything was decorated with masterpieces, and it was almost disgraceful for a church to let such a space as that go unfrescoed. Tintoretto saw an opportunity, and finally offered to paint pictures there for nothing if the church would agree to pay for the materials he needed. The church certainly was not going to refuse such an offer, even if Tintoretto was not thought to be much of an artist at the time. If the work was poor, one day they could choose to have it repainted. Thus Tintoretto got his first great opportunity. He painted on those walls "The Last Judgment" and "The Golden Calf." They made him famous, and gained him the commission to paint the picture which is used as an illustration here.

The brothers of the Scuola di San Rocco asked him to compete with Veronese, in painting the ceilings after he had done four pictures for their walls.

Tintoretto consented, and Veronese and two others who were in the competition set about making their sketches which they were to present for the brothers' consideration. Finaly the day of decision came. All were assembled, the artists armed with sketches of their plans.

"Where are yours, Tintoretto?" the others asked. "We expect a drawing of your idea."

"Well, there it is," the artist answered, drawing a screen from the ceiling. Behold! he had already painted it to suit himself. The work was complete.

"That is the way I make my sketches," he said.

Though the work was magnificent it had not been done according to the monks' ideas of business and order. They objected and objected.

"Very well," the artist cried; "I will make the ceiling a present to you." As there was a rule of their order forbidding them to refuse a present, they had to accept Tintoretto's. This did not promise very good business at the time, but the work was so splendid and Tintoretto so reasonable that they finally agreed to give him all the work of their order -- nearly enough to keep him employed during a lifetime. After that he painted sixty great pictures upon their walls.

He painted so much and so fast that he did not always do good work, and one critic declares that "while Tintoretto was the equal of Titian, he was often inferior to Tintoretto" -- which after all is a very fine compliment.

His life was so tranquil and uneventful that there is little to say of it; but there is much to say of his art. He lived mostly in his studio, and when he died he was buried in the Santa Maria del Orto -- the church in which he had done his first work.

Veronese had given to Venice a brilliant, glowing, rich, ravishing riot of colour and figures, but Tintoretto was said to rise up "against the joyful Veronese as the black knight of the Middle Ages, the sombre priest of a gloomy art." Tintoretto was of stormy temperament, and upon one occasion he proved it by thrusting a pistol under a critic's nose, after he had invited him to his studio; it is this half savage spirit that may be seen in his paintings. He had deep-set, staring eyes, it is said, a furrowed brow and hollow cheeks, indicative of his passionate spirit. He painted very few female figures, but mostly men. When he did paint a woman, she looked mannish and not beautiful. When he painted gorgeous subjects, like doges and senators, he gave to them gloomy backgrounds, awe-inspiring poses, and he seldom painted a figure "full-face" but three-quarter, or half, so that he did not give himself a chance to present human figures in beautiful postures. He is said to have been the first who painted groups of well-known men in pictures intended for the decoration of public buildings. One great critic has written that "while the Dutch, in order to unite figures, represented them at a banquet, Tintoretto's nobili (aristocrats) were far too proud to show themselves to the people" in so gay and informal a situation. With the coming of Tintoretto it was said "a dark cloud had overcast the bright heaven of Venetian art. Instead of smiling women, bloody martyrs and pale ascetics" were painted by him. He dissected the dead in order to learn the structure of the human body. In his paintings "his women, especially, with their pale livid features and encircled eyes, strangely sparkling as if from black depths, have nothing in common with the soft" painted flesh which he pictured in his youth while he was following Titian as closely as he could. As he grew older and his art more fixed, he followed Michael Angelo more and more. Titian's colouring was that of "an autumn day" but Tintoretto's that of a "dismal night." Yet these very qualities in Tintoretto's work made him great.

Plate -- The Miracle Of St. Mark

This painting in the Academy at Venice tells the story of how a Christian slave who belonged to a pagan nobleman went to worship at the shrine of St. Mark. That was unlawful. The nobleman had his slave taken before the judge, who ordered him to be tortured. Just as the executioner raised the hammer with which he was finally to kill the slave, St. Mark himself came down from heaven, broke the weapon and rescued the slave.

The figure of the patron saint of Venice is swooping down, head first, above the group, his garments flying in the air. A bright light touches the slave's naked body, as he lies upon his back, the executioner having turned away and raised his hammer aloft, while others have drawn back in fright at the appearance of the patron saint. We may imagine that Tintoretto was trying to acquire this power of painting wonderful figures hovering in the air when he hung his little clay images from the ceiling of his studio years before. Other pictures of his are: "The Marriage of Bacchus and Ariadne," "Martyrdom of St. Agnes," "St. Rocco Healing the Sick," "The Annunciation," "The Crucifixion," and many others.



XXXVIII

Titian (Tiziano Vecelli)


(Pronounced Tit-zee-ah'no (Vay-chel'lee)) Venetian School 1477-1576 Pupil of Giovanni and Gentile Bellini

Titian was a child of the Tirol Mountains, handsome, strong, full of health and fine purposes, even as a boy. He was born in a little cottage at Pieve, in the valley of Cadore, through which flows the River Piave; and he wandered daily beside its banks, gathering flowers from which he squeezed the juices to paint with. When he grew up he became a wonderful colourist, and from his boyhood nothing so much delighted him as the brilliant colours flaunted by the flowers of wood and field.

Gathered about his good father's hearth were many children, Caterina, Francesco, Orsa, and the rest, living in peace and happiness, closely bound together by love. Titian had a gentle, loving mother named Lucia, while his father was a soldier and an honoured man. In the little town where they lived, he was councillor and also superintendent of the castle and inspector of mines, no light honours among those simple country people. Doubtless Titian inherited his splendid bearing and his determined character from his soldier father.

Even while a little child, the man who was destined to become a great artist began his work with the juices of the wild-flowers, which he daubed upon the wall of the humble home in the Tirol valley, making a Madonna with angels at her feet and a little Jesus upon her knee. But if Titian was a great painter, he was never even a fair scholar. He went to school, but would not, or could not, study. His father soon saw that he was wasting his time and being made very unhappy through being forced to do that for which he had no ability; so he was soon released from book-learning and sent to Venice, seventy-five miles from home, to learn art. In Venice, the Vecelli family had an uncle, and it was with him that Titian lived, though he studied first with Sebastian Zuccato, the head of the Venetian guild of mosaic workers, and a pretty good teacher in his way. He was not able to teach Titian very much, for the boy was an inspired artist and needed a good master; so, after a little, the family held a consultation and it was decided that Titian should become the pupil of Gentile Bellini, a very clever artist indeed. There was an interesting story told about this master which made the Vecellis feel that their boy would do well to be under the influence of a kind-hearted man, as well as a genius. It seems that Bellini's fame had become so great that the Sultan had sent for him to paint the portraits of himself and the Sultana. Bellini went gladly to Turkey to do this; but he took with him certain pictures to show his patron. Among them was one of St. John the Baptist having his head cut off. The Sultan looked at it, and cutting heads off being a large part of his business, he saw that Bellini had not scientifically painted it, and in order to show him the true way to conduct such matters, he sent for a slave and ordered his head chopped off in Bellini's presence. Bellini was so terrified and sickened by the dreadful sight that he fled from Turkey and would not paint its ruler, the Sultana nor anyone else who had to do with such cruel things as he had witnessed.

It was into this man's studio that Titian went as a young boy, but after a little he displeased Gentile Bellini, who complained that his pupil worked too fast, and therefore could not expect to do great work. He declared that picture painting was serious and careful work, and that Titian was too careless and quick. As a matter of fact, Titian was too wonderful for Bellini ever to do much for; and since he could not get on with him, he went to another master -- Gentile Bellini's brother, Giovanni. One of Titian's chief troubles in the studio of Gentile had been that he was not allowed to use the gorgeous colouring he loved, but in the brother's studio he found to his joy that colour was more valued, and he was given more freedom to use it. Also there was a young peasant pupil with Giovanni, who, like Titian, loved to use beautiful colours, and he and the newcomer became fast friends.

The other artist's name was Giorgione, and he had the most delightful ways about him, winning friends wherever he went, so it was no wonder that the warm-hearted Titian sought his companionship. One day those two young comrades left their master's studio, to have a good time off by themselves. There was a stated hour for their return; but they had spent all their money, and forgot that Giovanni Bellini was expecting them home. When they did return the door was closed and locked. What were they to do? They did the only thing they could. As comrades in misfortune they joined forces, set up a studio of their own, and went to work to earn their living as best they might. At first it was hard sledding, but in time they got a good job, namely to decorate the walls of a public building in Venice which was used by foreign merchants for the transaction of their business, a sort of "exchange," as we understand it. This was the Fondaco de' Tedeschi, and it had two great halls, eighty rooms, and twenty-six warehouses. It was indeed a big undertaking for the two young men, and they divided the business between them. Their joy was great, their cartoons successfully made and the work well begun, when, alas, they fell to quarreling simply because someone had declared that Titian's work upon the building was a little better than Giorgione's.

This dispute parted the two friends, who had had good times together, and it must have been Giorgione's fault, because Ludovico Dolce, one who knew Titian well, said that "he was most modest ... he never spoke reproachfully of other painters ... in his discourse he was ever ready to give honour where honour was due ... he was, moreover, an eloquent speaker, having an excellent wit and perfect judgment in all things; of a most sweet and gentle nature, affable and most courteous in manner; so that whoever once conversed with him could not choose but love him henceforth forever." That is a most loving and splendid tribute for one man to pay another. Not long after Giorgione died, and Titian took up his unfinished work, doing it as well as his own.

There was a brilliant and mature artist called Palma Vecchio, in Venice, and Titian painted in his studio, where he saw and loved Vecchio's daughter, Violante. The young artist was not very well off financially, and therefore could not marry; hence he was not specially happy over his love affair. About that time he took to painting after the manner of Vecchio, through being so much influenced by his soft feelings for the older artist's daughter. He used the lovely Violante again and again for his model, and many of the beautiful faces which Titian painted at that time show the features of his lady-love. With his new love Titian's serious work seemed to begin, and at twenty-one he painted his first truly great picture, "Sacred and Profane Love." To day this picture hangs upon the walls of the Borghese Palace, in Rome.

Raphael painted a great many pictures, but Titian must have painted more. At least one thousand have his signature.

Now came wars and troubles for Venice. The Turks, French, and Venetians became at odds, and during the strife many fine works of art were lost, among them many of Titian's pictures. He had painted bishops, also the wicked Borgias, and many other great personages, but all of these are gone and to this day, no one knows what became of them.

At last Titian began one of his greatest paintings, "The Tribute Money," and he set about it because he had been criticised. Some German travellers in Venice visited Titian's studio, and though they found his work very fine, one of them said that after all there was only one master able to finish a painting as it should be finished, and that was the great Dürer. The German pointed out the differences between Titian's method and Dürer's, and declared that Venetian painters never quite came up to the promise of their first pictures. Dürer's wonderful pictures were quite different from Titian's, inasmuch as his work was fuller of detail and careful finishing, but Titian was as great in another way. His effects were broader, but quite as satisfying. However, the German criticism put him on his mettle, and he answered that if he had thought the greatest value of a painting lay in its fiddling little details of finishing, he too would have painted them. To show that he could paint after Dürer's fashion, as well as his own, he undertook the "Tribute Money," and the result was a wonderful picture.

Soon Rome sent for Titian. The Florentines, Raphael and Michael Angelo, were already there doing marvellous things, but the pope wished to add the genius of Titian to theirs and made him a great offer to go and live in Rome and do his future work for that city. This was an honour, but amid all his fame and the homage paid him, Titian had remembered the old home in the vale of Cadore. It was there his heart was, and he determined to return to the home of his boyhood to do his best work. So he sent his thanks and refusal to the pope, and he wrote as follows to his home folks, through the council of his town:

"I, Titian of Cadore, having studied painting from childhood upward, and desirous of fame rather than profit, wish to serve the doge and signorini, rather than his highness the pope and other signori, who in past days, and even now, have urgently asked to employ me. I am therefore anxious, if it should appear feasible to paint the hall of council, beginning, if it pleases their sublimity, with the canvas of the battle on the side toward the Piazza, which is so difficult that no one as yet has had the courage to attempt it."

Then in stating his terms he asked for a very moderate sum of money and a "brokerage" for life. The Government did not have to think over the matter long. Titian's father had been honoured among them, Titian's genius was well known, and the commission was gladly given him. As soon as he got this business affair settled he moved into the palace of the Duke of Milan "at San Samuele; on the Grand Canal, where he remained for sixteen years," so says his biographer.

Titian's affairs were not yet entirely smooth, because both of the Bellinis having painted for his patrons, they naturally considered Titian an intruder, and thought that the work should have been given to them. They did all they could to make trouble for the younger artist, but after a time Titian came into his rights, receiving his "brokerage" which gave to him a yearly sum of money 120 crowns, $126.04. His taxes were taken off for the future, provided he would agree to paint all the doges that should rule during his lifetime.

Titian undertook to do this, but he did not keep his word, for he painted only five doges, though many more followed. He had no sooner received his commission from the council of his native place than he began to neglect it, and to paint for the husband of the wicked poisoner -- Lucretia Borgia -- whose name was Alfonso d'Este, the Duke of Ferrara. It was for him he painted the "Venus Worship," now in the Museum of Madrid, also "The Three Ages," which belongs to Lord Ellesmere, and the "Virgin's Rest near Bethlehem," now in the National Gallery. Afterward he painted "Noli Me Tangere," which is in the same London Gallery.

There is a picture of great size in the Academy of Arts in Venice, which was first seen on a public holiday nearly four hundred years ago. It is the "Assumption of the Virgin," first shown on St. Bernardino's day, when all the public offices were closed by order of the Senate, and the whole city had a gay time. This occasion made Titian the most honoured artist of his time, but still the Venetians had cause to complain; because now their painter took so much work in hand that he nearly ceased doing the work on the council hall. The council sent him word that unless he attended to business the paintings should be finished by some one else and he would have to pay the new artist out of his own pocket; but in waywardness he paid no attention to this summons. Lucretia Borgia died, and her husband having never loved her, fell at once in love with a girl of a lower class, who was very good and worthy to be loved. The duke wanted Titian to paint them both, and so once more the great painter neglected his contract with the council. The girl's name was Laura, and Titian painted her and the duke in one picture, which now hangs in the Louvre.

At last, after seven years of his neglecting to do his promised work the council became enraged and threatened to take the artist's property away from him. That frightened Titian very much, and he began frantically to work on the battle piece on the hall wall. It was about this time that he married. He had probably forgotten Violante in the passing of so many years; at any rate it was not she whom he married, but a lady whose first name was Cecilia. Soon he had a little family of children, but one of them was destined to make Titian very unhappy. This was Pomponic who became a priest, but he was also a wicked spendthrift, and kept his father forever in trouble, trying to pay his debts and keep him out of scrapes. Another son became an artist; not great like his father, but very helpful and a comfort to him. Then his wife died, and Titian had loved her so dearly that for a long time he had not the heart to paint much. His sister, Orsa, came to live at his home and take care of his motherless children.

He left the palace on the Grand Canal and bought a home north of Venice, with beautiful gardens attached, and there he lived and worked, entertaining the most illustrious men. Titian's house and gardens became the show place of the country, so many geniuses and famous people visited there. It was there that he painted "The Martyrdom of Saint Peter," and the picture was so loved by the Venetians that the signori threatened with death any one who should take the picture from the chapel where it hung. In spite of this caution the picture was burned in the fire that destroyed the chapel in 1867.

Titian was now getting to be old, but he was yet to do great work and to have kingly patrons. Charles V. visited Bologna, and, seeing Titian's great work, wanted him to paint his portrait. So the artist went to Bologna and painted the portrait of the king, clothed in armour, but without any head-covering, making Charles V. look so fine a personage, that he was delighted. Charles said he had always been painted to look so much uglier than he really was that when people who had seen his portraits, actually saw himself they were pleasantly disappointed. While Titian was painting his picture, Lombardi, the sculptor, wished above all things to see Charles, so Titian said: "You come with me to the sittings, and act as if you were some apprentice, carrying my colours and brushes, and then you can watch the king as easily as possible." Lombardi did as Titian suggested, but he hid in his big and baggy sleeve a tablet of wax, on which to make a relief picture of Charles. One day the king surprised the sculptor and demanded to be shown what he was doing. Thereupon he was so much pleased that he commissioned Lombardi to make the model in marble. While the king was sitting for two portraits to Titian, the artist one day dropped his brush. The king looked at the courtiers who were lounging about watching the work, but none of them picked it up, so the king himself did so. Titian was distressed over this and apologised to the king. "There may be many kings," said Charles, "but there will never be more than one Titian -- and he deserves to be served by Caesar himself." After that he would allow no other artist to paint his portrait, declaring that Titian alone could do it properly, and for the two pictures Titian received two thousand scudi in gold, was made a Count of the Lateran Palace, of the Aulic Council and of the Consistory; with the title of Count Palatine and all the advantages attached to those dignities. His children were thereby raised to the rank of nobles of the empire, with all the honours appertaining to families with four generations of ancestors. He was also made Knight of the Golden Spur, with the right of entrance to court. This was great return for two portraits of a king, but it shows what a king could do if he chose.

Titian had a brother who also became an artist, less famous than himself, and it was that brother, who, when their father died in the Cadore home, went back to care for the old place and to keep it in readiness so that the famous Titian might return to it for rest and peace. Foreign sovereigns had invited Titian to end his days with them, but they could not tempt him from that vale of Cadore nor his country home in Venice.

All this time he had been neglecting the work upon the hall of council, and at last, the councillors gave the work to another, took away Titian's "brokerage" and told him he must return to Venice all the moneys they had given him for twenty years back. This finally cured him of his neglect, and he went to work in earnest painting so rapidly that he finished the work in two years.

Before he died Titian went to Rome, where he painted Pope Paul's portrait, and the story is told that when the portrait was set to dry upon the terrace -- which it probably was not, -- the people who passed took off their hats to it, thinking it was the pope himself.

Besides his bad son and his good one, Titian had a beautiful daughter whom he painted again and again. He went to Augsburg once more to paint King Charles, who for that work added a pension of five hundred scudi to what he had already done for him. This made the artist "as rich as a prince, instead of poor as a painter." King Philip II. loved art as his father had, and he took a painting of Titian's with him to the convent of Yuste, where he went to die, wishing to have it near to console him. In those days art had become a religion for high and low. Great personages still went to Casa Grande, Titian's Venetian home, where he entertained like a prince. No one knew better than he how princes behaved, and when a cardinal came to dine with him, he threw his purse to his servant, crying: "Prepare a feast, for all the world is dining with me!" Henry III. of France visited Titian and ordered sent to him every picture of which he had asked the price.

His friends stood by him all his life, but in his old age his beautiful daughter, Lavinia, died, leaving behind her six children for him to love as his own. The brother had died before that, in the old home at Cadore, and at more than eighty years of age Titian was still painting from morning till night. About this time he sent to King Philip "The Last Supper," which was to be hung in the Escorial. The monks found it too high to fill the space, and though the artist in charge, Navarrette, begged them to let it be, they cut a piece off the top, that it might be hung where they wanted it. Titian had so far had to pay no taxes, but at that time an account of his property was demanded and this is what he owned: "Several houses, pieces of land, sawmills, and the like," and he was blamed because he did not state the full value of his possessions. At ninety-one he painted a picture which became the guide of Rubens and his brother artists, so wonderful was it. Again, at ninety-nine he began a picture, which was to be given to the monks of the Frari in return for a burial place for the artist within the convent walls, but he never finished it. He died during the time of the plague, but of old age alone, though his son, Orzio, died of the disease. The alarm of the people was so great that a law had been passed to bury all who died at that time, instantly and without ceremony, but that law was waived for the painter. Titian, in the midst of a nation's tragedy was borne to the convent of the Frari, with honours. Two centuries later the Austrian Emperor commanded the great sculptor, Canova, to make a mausoleum above the tomb.

It was said that shortly before he died Titian began to be less sure in his use of colours, and would often daub on great masses, but his students came in the night and rubbed them off, so that the master never felt his failing.

As King Charles had said, there was never but one such artist in the world.

Titian prepared his canvas by painting upon it a solid colour to serve for the bed upon which the picture itself was to be painted. To quote more exactly from a good description -- some of these foundation colours were laid on with resolute strokes of his brush which was heavily laden with colour, while the half-tints were made with pure red earth, the lights with pure white, softened into the rest of the foundation painting with touches of the same brush dipped into red, black, and yellow. In this way he could give the "promise" of a figure in four strokes. After laying this foundation, he turned his picture toward the wall and left it there for months at a time, frequently turning it around that he might criticise it. If, during this time of waiting, he thought any part of the work already done was poor, he made it right, changing the shape of an arm, adding flesh where he thought it was needed, reducing flesh where it seemed to him out of proportion, and then he would again turn the canvas face to the wall. After months of self-criticism and retouching he would have the first layer of flesh painted upon his figures, and a good beginning made. "It was contrary to his habit to finish at one painting, and he used to say that a poet who improvises cannot hope to form pure verses." He would often produce a half-light with a rub of his finger, "or with a touch of the thumb he would dab a spot of dark pigment into some corner to strengthen it; or throw in a reddish stroke -- a tear of blood so to speak -- to break the parts ... in fact when finishing he painted more with his fingers than with his brush." He used to say, "White, red, and black, these are all the colours that a painter needs, but one must know how to use them."

Plate -- The Artist's Daughter, Lavinia.

Previous to the time of Titian, it had been the custom to paint portraits of beautiful ladies merely to their waists, just far enough to show their hands. He went further, and produced "knee portraits," which gave him an opportunity to paint their gorgeous gowns as well. He has done so in making this picture of his daughter Lavinia, probably just before her marriage to Cornelio Sarcinelli which took place in 1555. She is attired in gold-coloured brocade with pearls about her neck. Her dress, combined with the dish of fruit she holds so high, gives Titian the colour effects he always sought. A yellow lemon is specially striking, and the red curtain to the left harmonises with the whole. The uplift of the arms and the turn of the head give the desired amount of action. It is not Titian's customary style of work; he seldom did anything so intimate and personal, and the picture is the more interesting on that account. It is in the Berlin Gallery.

Some of Titian's famous pictures are: his own portrait; "Flora," "Holy Family and St. Bridget," "The Last Judgment," "The Entombment," "The Magdalene," "Bacchanal," "St. Sebastian," "Bacchus and Ariadne," and "The Sleeping Venus."



XXXIX

Joseph Mallord William Turner


English 1775-1851 Pupil of the Royal Academy

If the occupation of a shepherd produced a poet, no less did an artist of the first water come out of a barber shop. Turner's father was a jolly little fellow who dressed hair for English dandies and did all of those things which in those days fell to men of his profession. It was in this little shop that the great artist grew up. Father Turner was ambitious for his son, who was anxious to study art. The less said of the artist's mother the better, for she was a termagant and finally went crazy, so that the father and his little boy were soon left alone, to plan and work and strive to make each other happy. The pair were never apart.

Turner's art beginning was at six years of age, on the occasion of a visit his father paid to a goldsmith of whose hair curling and peruquing he had charge. Perched upon a chair too high for a little boy's comfort, and feeling that it took his father very long indeed to satisfy the customer, Joseph's eye lighted upon a silver lion which ornamented a silver tray. He studied every detail of that lion while waiting for his father, and finally when they got home, he sat down and drew it from memory. By tea time he had a lion in full action upon the paper. This delighted his father above everything, and it was settled then and there that the little fellow should have a chance to learn art.

The father could not give much time to his upbringing, but he taught him to be honest and kind-hearted and to save his money. His playground was generally the bank of the Thames, and under London Bridge where, roving with the sailors, he learned to love the ships, the setting-suns and evening waters from a daily study of them.

He did not do much at school, because the other pupils at New Brentford, learning that he could draw wonderful things upon the schoolroom walls, used to do his "sums" for him, while he sketched for them. After a while father Turner began to hang up some of his son's sketches upon the walls of the barber shop, among the wigs and curls and toupées, and he put little tags upon them, telling the price. The extraordinary work of his little boy began to attract the attention of the jolly barber's patrons, and by the time he was twelve years old the child had a picture upon the walls of the Royal Academy -- a far-cry from barber shop to Academy!

One authority says that this first exhibition occurred in his fourteenth year, but by that time he was a pupil of the Academy, and it is not unlikely that he had shown his mettle before.

He now began to earn his own living, but he still dwelt in the barber shop with his father. While in the Academy he coloured prints, made backgrounds for other painters, drew architect's plans, and in that way made money. He had been sent to a drawing master to study "the art of perspective," but having no mathematical knowledge he had been unable to learn it, and the teacher had advised his father to put little Turner to cobbling or making clothes. However, William was to learn perspective, and even to be made master of that branch of art in the Academy itself.

In after years, when he had become a great artist, someone spoke pityingly of the drudgery he had had to do to make money as a young boy -- referring to his painting of backgrounds and the like. "Well! and what could be better practice?" Turner answered cheerfully.

He used to go to the house of Dr. Munro, who lived in fine style on the Strand. This gentleman owned Rembrandts, Rubenses, Titians, and other great masterpieces, and in that house the "little barber" had a chance to see the best of art, and also to copy it. This was a great opportunity for him and he made the most of it. Besides the chance for study, he earned about half a crown an evening and his supper, for his copying.

Turner was the first painter to make "warm moonlight." All other artists had given cold, silvery effects to a moonlit atmosphere, but Turner had seen a mellow, sympathetic moon, and he first showed it to others. About this time he went travelling; for an engraver of the Copper Plate Magazine had engaged the young boy to go into Wales and make sketches for his work. Turner set off on a pony which a friend had lent him, with his baggage done up in a bundle -- it did not make a very big one -- and thus he voyaged. It was a fine experience, and he came home with many beautiful scenes on paper, which he in after years made into complete pictures. Next he made the acquaintance of Thomas Girtin, the first in his country of a fine school of water-colour painters, and this acquaintance grew into a close friendship. The two were devoted to each other and worked together at any sort of mechanical art work that would bring them a living. When Girtin died Turner said: "Had Tim Girtin lived, I should have starved," showing how highly he valued Girtin's work.

Turner is said to have been "a stout, clumsy little fellow, who never cared how he looked. He wore an ill-fitting suit, and his luggage tied up in a handkerchief was slung over his shoulder on a cane. Sometimes he carried a small valise and an old umbrella, the handle of which he converted into a fishing rod, for Turner dearly loved both hunting and fishing."

The hero travelled a great deal, because above every thing he loved the fields and streams, and to tramp alone. It is said that it was his habit to walk twenty-five miles a day, seeing everything on the way, letting no peculiarity of nature escape him. His sketchbook was a curiosity, because he not only made sketches in it, but jotted down his travelling expenses, what he thought about things that he saw, and all the gossip he heard in the towns through which he passed. Because he liked best to travel alone he was called "the Great Hermit of Nature."

One memorable day -- of which he thought but little at the time -- he stopped on the road to make a sketch of Norham Castle. Later he completed the picture, and it became famous, so successful that from that hour he had all the work he could do. Years afterward, when passing that way again in company with a friend, he was seen to take off his hat to the castle.

"Why are you doing that?" his friend asked, in amazement.

"Well, that castle laid the foundation of my success," he answered, "and I am pleased to salute it."

During his young manhood Turner had fallen in love with a girl, and planned to marry, but after he returned from one of his country trips he found she had married another, and from that moment the artist was a changed man. He had been generous and gay before, now he began to save his money, so that people thought him miserly -- but he was forgiven when it became known what he finally did with his fortune. After the young woman deserted him he wandered more than ever, and one of his fancies was to keep boys from robbing birds' nests. He looked after the little birds so carefully that the boys named him "old Blackbirdy." He had already begun those wonderful pictures of ships and seas, and his house was ornamented with full-rigged little ships and water plants, which he carefully raised to put into his pictures. By that time he had bought a home of his own in the country, and his father the barber went to live with him. The old man's trade had fallen off, because the fashions had changed, wigs were less worn, and hair was not so elaborately dressed. In the country home the old man took charge of all the household affairs, prepared his son's canvases for him, and after the pictures were painted it was the ex-barber who varnished them, so that Turner said, "Father begins and finishes all my pictures." There the father and son lived, in perfect peace and affection, till Turner decided to sell the place and move into town, "because," said he, "Dad is always working in the garden and catching cold."

Meanwhile he had been made master of perspective in the Academy, and it was expected that he would lecture to the students, but he was not cut out for a lecturer. He was not elegant in his manners, nor impressive in his speech. On one occasion, when he had risen to deliver a speech, he looked helplessly about him and finally blurted out: "Gentlemen! I've been and left my lecture in the hackney coach!"

During these years he had tried to establish a studio like other masters and to have pupils and apprentices about him; but the stupid ones he could not endure, having no patience with them, and he treated all the fashionable ones so bluntly they would not stay; so the idea had to be given up.

He became a visitor at Farnley Hall in Yorkshire, where a friend, Mr. Hawksworth Fawkes lived, and in the course of his lifetime Fawkes put fifty thousand dollars worth of Turner's pictures upon his walls. The Fawkes family described Turner as a most delightful man: "The fun, frolic, and shooting we enjoyed together, and which, whatever may be said by others of his temper and disposition, have proved to me that he was, in his hours of distraction from his professional labours as kindly hearted a man and as capable of enjoyment and fun of all kinds as any I ever knew."

Another friend writes: "Of all light-hearted, merry creatures I ever knew, Turner was the most so; and the laughter and fun that abounded when he was an inmate of our cottage was inconceivable, particularly with the juvenile members of our family."

The story of his disappointment in marriage is an interesting one. It is said that the young lady whom he loved was the sister of a schoolmate. They had been engaged for some time, but while he was on one of his travels his letters were stolen and kept from the young woman. She believed he had forgotten her, and her stepmother, who had taken the letters, persuaded the girl to engage herself to another. Turner returned just a week before her marriage and tried to win her back, but although she loved him, she felt herself then bound to her new suitor and therefore married him. Her marriage was very unhappy and her misery, as well as his own, distressed the artist till his death. Almost all his life, in spite of his seeming gaiety, he worked like a slave, rising at four o'clock in the morning and working while light lasted. When remonstrated with about this he would sadly say: "There are no holidays for me."

All his ways were honest and simple, and his election to the Academy was very exceptional in the way it came about. Most Academicians had graces and airs and good fellowship to commend them, as well as their works, but Turner had none of these things. He had given no dinners, nor played a social part in order to get the membership. When the news was brought him that he was elected, some one advised him to go and thank his fellow Academicians for the honour, as that was the custom; but Turner saw no reason in it. "Since I am elected, it must have been because they thought my pictures made me worthy. Why, then should I thank them? Why thank a man for performing a simple duty." In half a century Turner was absent only three times from the Academy exhibitions, and his membership was of very great value to him.

At this time Turner had an idea for an art publication to be called Liber Studiorum. He meant to issue this in dark blue covers and to include in each number five plates. There was to be a series of five hundred plates altogether, and these were to be divided, according to subject, into historical, landscape, pastoral, mountainous, marine, and architectural studies. After seventy plates had been, published, the enterprise fell through, because no one bought the periodical, and there was no money to keep it going. The engraver of the plates, Charles Turner, became so disgusted with the failure that he even used the proofs of these wonderful studies to kindle the fire with. Many years later, a great print-dealer, Colnaghi, made Turner, the engraver, hunt up all the proofs that he had not used for kindling paper, and these he bought for £1,500.

"Good God!" cried Charles Turner, "I have been burning banknotes all my life."

Some years later still £3,000 was paid for a single copy of the Liber Studiorum.

Turner was a most conscientious man, and many stories are told of his manner of teaching. He could not talk eloquently nor give very clear instructions, talking not being his forte, but he would lean over a student's shoulder, point out the defects in his work, and then on a paper beside him make a few marks to illustrate what he had said. If the artist had genius enough then to imitate him, well and good; if not, Turner simply went away and left him. His own ways of working were remarkable. He often painted with a sponge and used his thumbnail to "tear up a sea." It mattered little to him how he produced his effects so long as he did it. His impressionistic style confused many of his critics, and it is told how a fine lord once looked at a picture be had made, and snorted: "Nothing but daubs, nothing but daubs!" Then catching the inspiration, he leaned close to the canvas, and said: "No! Painting! so it is!"

"I find, Mr. Turner," said a lady, "that in copying your pictures, touches of red, blue and yellow appear all through the work."

"Well, madam, don't you see that yourself, in nature? Because if you don't, heaven help you!" was the reply.

"Once, after painting a summer evening, he thought that the picture needed a dark spot in front by way of contrast; so he cut out a dog from black paper and stuck it on. That dog still appears in the picture."

Another time he painted "A Snow-storm at Sea," which some critics called "Soap-suds and Whitewash." Turner, who had been for hours lashed to the mast of a ship in order to catch the proper effect, was naturally much hurt by the criticism. "What would they have!" he exclaimed. "I wonder what they think a storm is like. I wish they'd been in it."

Turner was conscientiously fond of his work, and when he sold a picture he said that he had lost one of his children.

He grew rich, but he never was knighted, because his manners were not fine enough to suit the king. He wished to become President of the Royal Academy, but that was impossible because he was not polished enough to carry the honour gracefully.

After selling his place in the country Turner bought a house in Harley Street, where he lived a strange and lonely life. A gentleman has written about this incident, which shows us his manner of living:

"Two ladies called upon Turner while he lived in Harley Street. On sending in their names, after having ascertained that he was at home, they were politely requested to walk in, and were shown into a large sitting-room without a fire. This was in the depth of winter; and lying about in various places were several cats without tails. In a short time our talented friend made his appearance, asking the ladies if they felt cold. The youngest replied in the negative; her companion, more curious, wished she had stated otherwise, as she hoped they might have been shown into his sanctum or studio. After a little conversation he offered them biscuits, which they partook of for the novelty -- such an event being almost unprecedented in his house. One of the ladies bestowing some notice upon the cats, he was induced to remark that he had seven, and that they came from the Isle of Man."

Thus we learn that Turner's desolate house was full of Manx cats, and of many other pets. When he had moved elsewhere -- to 47 Queen Anne Street -- one of the pictures he cared most for, "Bligh Shore," was put up as a covering to the window and a cat wishing to come in, scratched it hopelessly. The housekeeper started to punish it for this but Turner said indulgently, "Oh, never mind!" and saved the cat from chastisement.

The place he lived in, where his "dad was always working in the garden and catching cold," he called Solus Lodge, because he wished his acquaintances to understand that he wanted to be alone. One picture painted by him to order, was to have brought him $2,500; but when it was finished the man was disappointed with it and would not take it. Later, Turner was offered $8,000 for it, but would not sell it.

Turner again fell in love, but his bashfulness ruined his chances. He wrote to the brother of the lady. "If she would only waive her bashfulness, or, in other words, make an offer instead of expecting one, the same (Solus Lodge) might change occupiers." Faint heart certainly did not win fair lady in this case, for she married another. Before he died Turner was offered $25,000 for two pictures which he would not sell. "No" he said. "I have willed them and cannot sell them." He disposed of several great works as legacies. One picture of which he was very fond, "Carthage," was the occasion of an amusing anecdote. "Chantry," he said to his friend the sculptor, "I want you to promise that when I am dead you will see me rolled in that canvas when I'm buried."

"All right," said Chantry, "I'll do it, but I'll promise to have you taken up and unrolled, also."

A remarkable incident of generosity is told of Turner. In 1826 he hung two exquisite pictures in the Academy. One, "Cologne," having a most beautiful, golden effect. This was hung between two portraits by Sir Thomas Lawrence. The golden colouring of Turner's picture entirely destroyed the effect of the Lawrence pictures, and without a word, Turner washed his lovely picture over with lampblack. This gave the Lawrence, pictures their full colour value. A friend who had been enthusiastic about the "Cologne" was provoked with Turner. "What in the world did you do that for?" he demanded. "Well, poor Lawrence was so unhappy. It will all wash off after the exhibition." Turner had his reward in cash, for the picture sold for 2,000 guineas.

Above all things Turner hated engravings, or any process that cheapened art, and one day he stated this to his friend Lawrence. "I don't choose to be a basket engraver," he declared.

"What do you mean by that," Sir Thomas inquired.

"Why when I got off the coach t' other day at Hastings, a woman came up with a basket of your 'Mrs. Peel,' and offered to sell me one for a sixpence."

Turner dearly loved his friends, and the story of Chantry's death, illustrates it. He was in his room when the sculptor breathed his last, and just as he died, the artist turned to another friend, George Jones, and with tears streaming down his face, wrung Jones's hand and rushed from the room, unable to speak.

Again, when William Frederick Wells, another friend, died, Turner rushed to the house of Clara Wells, his daughter, and cried: "Oh Clara, Clara! these are iron tears. I have lost the best friend I ever had in my life."

In his old age Turner suddenly disappeared from all his haunts, and his friends could not find him. They were much troubled, but one day his old housekeeper found a note in a pocket of an old coat, which made her think he had gone to Chelsea. She looked there for him, and found him very ill, in a little cottage on the Thames River. Everybody about called him Admiral Booth, believing him to be a retired admiral. He had felt his death near and had tried to meet it quite alone. He died the very day after his friends found him, as he was being wheeled by them to the window to look out upon the river for the last time. He was buried in St. Paul's Cathedral between Sir Joshua Reynolds and James Barry. He left his drawings and pictures to a "Turner Gallery," and $100,000 to the Royal Academy, to be used for a medal to be struck every two years for the best exhibitor. The rest of his fortune went to care for "poor and decayed male artists born in England and of English parents only." This was to be known as Turner's Gift, and that is why he had saved money all his life.

A few more of the numberless stories of his generosity should be told. A picture had been sent to the Academy by a painter named Bird It was very fine, and Turner was full of its praise, but when they came to hang it no place could be found.

"It can't be hung," the others of the committee said.

"It must be hung," returned Turner, but nothing could be done about it, for there was absolutely no place. Then Turner went aside with the picture and sat studying it a long time. Finally he got up, took down a picture of his own and hung Bird's in its place. "There!" he said. "It is hung!"

Again, an old drawing-master died and Turner who had known the family for a long time, was aware that they were destitute, so he gave the widow a good sum of money with which to bury her husband and to meet general expenses. After some time she came to him with the money; but Turner put his hands in his pockets. "No," he said; "keep it. Use it to send the children to school and to church."

On one occasion when he had irritably sent a beggar from his house, he ran out and called her back, thrusting a £5 note into her hand before letting her go.

There was a man who in Turner's youth, while the little fellow was making pictures in the cheerless barber shop bought all of these drawings he could find. He often raised the price and in every way tried to help Turner. In after years that old patron went bankrupt. Turner heard that his steward had been instructed to cut down some fine old trees on this man's estate, and sell them. Turner, without letting himself be known in the matter, at once stopped the cutting and put into his old patron's hands about £20,000. The rescued man, afterward, through the same channels that he had received the money, paid it all back. Years passed, and the son of that same man got into the same difficulties, and again, without being known in the matter, Turner restored his fortune. That son, in his turn, honestly paid back the full amount. This was the miser who saved all his money -- to do good deeds to his friends. Ruskin wrote that in all his life he had never heard from Turner one unkind or blameful word for others.

Plate -- The Fighting Temeraire

This was the picture which Turner loved best of all, the one he would never sell; but at his death ho gave it to the English nation.

"Many years before he painted it, he had gone down to Portsmouth one day to see Nelson's fleet come in after the glorious victory of Trafalgar. The Téméraire was pointed out to him -- a battle ship that had very proudly borne the English flag, for during the battle it had run in between two French frigates and captured them both.

"And now between thirty and forty years later, he lingered one afternoon on the banks of the Thames. As he looked over the water he saw the grand old hulk being towed down the river by a noisy little tug to be broken up at Deptford. 'There's a fine subject!' he exclaimed as he looked at the heroic ship that had known many glorious years; and in his thought he compared it to 'a battle-scarred warrior borne to the grave.'

"Then he painted the picture. The glow of the setting sun irradiates the scene and bids farewell to the old ship. Twilight is coming on, and the new moon has just risen in its pearly light. It is a pathetic picture," and well illustrates how truly a "master of sunsets and waves" the artist was.

Among his other paintings are several of Venice; "The Slave Ship" and many other sea pieces.



XL

Sir Anthony Van Dyck


Flemish School 1599-1641 Pupil of Rubens

Anthony Van Dyke's father was neither a gentleman nor an ill-born person. He was "betwixt-and-between," being a silk merchant, who met so many fine folk that he seemed to be "fine folk" himself; and by the time Anthony had grown up, he actually believed himself to be one of them. If manners stand for fineness Sir Anthony must have been superfine, because he was almost overburdened with "manners."

He became a wonderful, be-laced, perfumed, shiny gentleman who never stooped to paint anything less than royalty and its associates, nor in anything less than velvets and laces. Like Rembrandt and Gainsborough, he set a fashion -- or rather the style in which he painted came to be known after his name. We are all familiar with the kind of ornamentation on clothes called Van Dyck -- pointed lace, or trimmings -- and pointed beards.

As a very young lad he was almost too dainty to be liked by healthy boys; and the worst of it was he did not care whether healthy, robust chaps liked him or not; certainly he did not care for them. He liked to sit in his father's shop and be smiled upon by the great ladies who came to buy, and in turn to smile shyly at them; this tendency became stronger as he grew to be a man.

Anthony's mother made the most exquisite embroideries, and this may mean that some part of his art was inherited. She handled lovely colours, and tried to fashion beautiful flower shapes for customers. She was a fragile, tender sort of woman, while the father was doubtless a dapper, over-nice little fellow.

Anthony was born in Antwerp, and the facts concerning his education, as in the case of most artists, are lost to our knowledge. He probably had a little of some sort outside of painting, but it certainly was not enough to hurt him, nor to make a fine healthy man of him. He was very beautiful, in a lady-like, faint-coloured way, not in the least resembling the handsome, gorgeous, elegant, robust Rubens, a true cavalier, of a dashing sort.

He was apprenticed to a painter when he was ten years old, and later on became the pupil of Rubens. He painted a whole series of Apostles' heads, about which a lawsuit took place. The papers relating to this were found about twenty years ago, though the lawsuit occurred as far back as 1615. Several of the Apostles' heads that brought about the suit are to-day to be seen in the gallery at Dresden.

Everything in those days -- especially in Germany and Holland -- was represented by a "guild." In reading about the Mastersingers of Nuremberg we are told that on the day when the trial of singers was to take place, dozens of "guilds" assembled in the meadow -- guilds of bakers, of shoemakers -- of which Hans Sachs was the head -- guilds of goldsmiths, etc. Van Dyck was a member of the painters' guild when he was no more than nineteen. His work at that time showed so much strength that there is a picture of his, an old gentleman and lady, in the Dresden gallery, which for a long time was supposed to have been painted by his master, Rubens.

An intimate friend of Van Dyck, Kenelm Digby, says that Van Dyck's first relations with Rubens came about by Van Dyck being employed to make engravings for the reproduction of Rubens's great works. After that he studied painting with him.

One of his friends of that time wrote that at twenty Van Dyck was nearly as great as Rubens, though this is hardly substantiated by the verdict of time, and that being a man with very rich family connections, he could hardly be expected to leave home. On every hand we have signs of the artist's affected feeling about himself and other people.

However, an annual pension from the King of England seems to have made travelling possible to this fine gentleman of lace ruffles, pale face, and lady-like ways.

There is an entry about him on the royal account book of "Special service ... performed for His Majesty." Also "Antonio Van Dyck, gent., His Majesty's servant, is allowed to travaile 8 months, he havinge obtayneid his Majesty's leave in that behalf, as was signified to the E. of Arundel." Certainly by that time Van Dyck had become a truly great portrait painter; not the greatest, because every picture showed the same characteristics in its subject -- elegance, fine clothes, languid manners, without force of great truth or any excellent moral quality to distinguish one from another. Nevertheless, the kind of painting that he did, he did better than anyone else had ever done, or probably ever will do.

While in England he painted all the royalties and many aristocrats, and wherever he went he was always painting pictures of himself.

He travelled about a good deal, always painting people of the same class -- kings and queens and fine folk, and painting them pretty nearly all alike.

When he went to Italy he was everywhere received as a great painter, but while artists agreed that his work was excellent he was not much liked by them, and many tales are told about that journey which are interesting, if not entirely true. Van Dyck was the sort of man about whom tales would be made up. One, however, sounds true. It is said that he fell in love -- which of course he was always doing -- with a beautiful country girl, and that for love of her he painted an altar piece into which he put himself, seated on the great gray horse which Rubens had given him. That picture is in St. Martin's Church at Saventhem, near Brussels, but although one is inclined to believe this story because it was quite the sort of thing which might be expected of Van Dyck, even this is not true, because the painting was done long after the artist had made his Italian journey, and it was commissioned by a gentleman living at Saventhem, whose daughter Van Dyck undoubtedly liked pretty well; but he made the picture for money, not for love.

While he was in Italy he lived with a cardinal, and painted languid pictures of sacred subjects, which were far from being his best work. The best that he did was in portraiture. Distinguished though he was, he did not have a very good time in Italy, because he would not join the artists who worked there, nor associate with them in the least, and naturally this made him disliked.

We see a good many portraits painted by Van Dyck, of persons mounted upon or standing beside the gray horse, and these were painted about the time of that Italian journey. He used the Rubens horse in many paintings.

Of all the people with whom he painted, he most valued the knowledge he got from a blind woman painter of Sicily, called Sofonisba Anguisciola, and he often said that he had learned more from a blind woman than from all the open-eyed men he ever knew. This woman artist was over ninety years old at the time he learned from her.

While he was in Italy the plague broke out, and Van Dyck fled for his life, leaving an unfinished picture behind him, one ordered by the English king, the subject being Rinaldo and Armida, which had gained for the artist his knighthood pension.

It is said that during his first year in England he painted the king and queen twelve times. He had an extraordinary record for industry, and painted very quickly, as he had need to do, because it took a great deal of money to buy the sort of things Van Dyck liked -- fine laces and velvets, perfumes and satins. His plan was to sketch his subject first on gray paper with black and white chalk, and after that he gave the sketch to an assistant who increased it to the size he wished to paint. The next step was to set his painter to work upon the clothing of his figures. This was painted in roughly, together with background and any architectural effect Van Dyck wanted. After this the artist himself sat down and in three or four sittings, of not more than an hour each, he was able to finish a picture worth to-day thousands of dollars.

He painted hands specially well, and kept certain models for them alone.

Van Dyck had eleven brothers and sisters, whom he always kept in mind. Some of his sisters had become nuns while some of his brothers were priests, and Van Dyck's influence got a monkish brother called to the Dutch court to act as chaplain to the queen.

By this time every royal personage in the world, nearly, had sent for Van Dyck to paint his portrait, for he could make one look handsomer than could any other painter in existence. If the king was very ugly, Van Dyck painted such beautiful clothes upon him that nobody noticed the plainness of the features.

When Van Dyck was about thirty-six years old he married a great lady, the Lady Mary Ruthven, granddaughter of the Earl of Gowrie, but before that he had had a lady-love, Margaret Lemon, whom he painted as the Virgin and in several other pictures. When he married Lady Mary, Margaret Lemon was so furiously jealous that she tried to injure Van Dyck's right hand so that he could paint no more.

About this time Rubens died in Flanders, leaving behind him an unfinished series of pictures which had been commissioned by the king of Spain. Van Dyck was asked to finish these, but declined until he was asked to make an independent picture, to complete the series, and this he was delighted to do. Ferdinand of Austria wrote to the king of Spain that Van Dyck had returned in great haste to London to arrange for his change of home, in order to do the work. "Possibly he may still change his mind," he added, "for he is stark mad." This shows how Van Dyck's erratic ways appeared to some people.

He had a sister, Justiniana, who was also something of an artist and she married a nobleman when she was about twelve years old.

When Van Dyck died he was buried in St. Paul's, London, and Charles I. placed an inscription on his tomb.

In the "Young People's Story of Art," is the following anecdote: "A visit was once paid by a courtly looking stranger passing through Haarlem, to Franz Hals, the distinguished Dutch painter.

"Hals was not at home but he was sent for to the tavern and hastily returned. The stranger told him that he had heard of his reputation -- had just two hours to spare -- and wished to have his portrait painted. Hals, seizing canvas and brushes fell vigorously to work; and before the given time had elapsed, he said, 'Have the goodness to rise, sir, and examine your portrait!' The stranger looked at it, expressed his satisfaction, and then said, 'Painting seems such a very easy thing, suppose we change places and see what I can do!'

"Hals assented, and took his position as the sitter. The unknown began, and as Hals watched him, he saw that he wielded the brush so quickly, he must be a painter. His work, too, was rapidly finished, and as Hals looked at it he exclaimed, 'You must be Van Dyck! No one else could paint such a portrait!'

"No two portraits could have been more unlike. The story adds that the famous Dutch and Flemish masters heartily embraced each other."

The stories of Van Dyck's youth are interesting, and probably true. It is said that he drew so well when he was a pupil of Rubens that the great master often allowed him to retouch his own works. Once in Rubens's studio, some of the students got the key and went in to see what the master was doing, when he was absent. Rubens had left a painting fresh upon the easel, and in looking about them one of the boys rubbed against it. This frightened them all. What should they do? Rubens would find his picture ruined and know that they had broken in.

After consultation they decided there was no one with them who could repair the damage as well as Van Dyck, who set about it, and soon he had painted in the smudged part so perfectly that when Rubens saw it, he did not for some time know that anything had happened to his picture. Later he suspected something, and when he learned of the prank and its outcome, he was so delighted with Van Dyck's work that he praised him instead of blaming him for it.

Van Dyck had a very precise method of working. When sitters came to him he would paint for just one hour. Then he would politely dismiss them, and his servant would wash his brushes, and clear the way for the next sitter. He dined with his sitters often that he might surprise in them the expression which he wanted to paint. Also, he had their clothing sent to his studio, that it might be exactly imitated by himself or by those assistants who painted in the foundation for his finished work.

While attached to King Charles I.'s court, Van Dyck was given a fine house at Blackfriars, on the Thames, and he had a private landing place made for boats, so that the royal family might visit him at their convenience. Charles I. used often to go to Van Dyck's studio to escape his many troubles, and thus the artist's home became as fashionable a gathering place, as Gainsborough's studio was in Bath. He painted Queen Henrietta not less than twenty-five times. He often furnished concerts for his sitters, for he himself was passionately fond of music, and moreover he believed that music often brought to the faces of his sitters, an expression that he loved to paint.

He painted so many pictures of a certain kind of little dog, in the pictures of King Charles I. that ever since that breed has been known as the King Charles spaniel.

After a while Van Dyck got heavily into debt. King Charles himself was in great trouble, and he had no money with which to pay his painter's pension. The artist had lived so extravagantly that he did not know at last which way to turn, so in desperation he thought to try alchemy and maybe to learn the secret of making gold. He wasted much time at this, as cleverer men have done, but at last he became too ill for that or for his own proper work, and badly off though Charles was himself, he offered his court physician a large sum if he could cure his court painter. But Van Dyck had enjoyed life too well, and nothing could be done for him.

He was the seventh child of his parents -- which some have thought had something to do with his genius and success; he lived gaily all the years of his life, going restlessly from place to place, and having many acquaintances but probably few friends, outside of his old master, Rubens, who loved him for his genius.

Plate -- Children Of Charles The First

Van Dyck painted the family of the unfortunate king of England four times. There are five children in the Windsor Castle picture, and this one, which hangs in the Turin Gallery, was probably painted before the birth of the fourth child in 1636. It is celebrated for its colouring as well as for its great artistic merit. The children are surely childlike enough, despite their stately attire, and they little dream of the sad fate awaiting the whole of the Stuart family to which they belong.

Other Van Dycks are: "The Blessed Herman Joseph," "Lords Digby and Russell," "Lord Wharton," "Countess Folkestone," and "William Prince of Orange."



XLI

Velasquez (Diego Rodriguez De Silva)


(Pronounced Vay-lahs'keth) Castilian School 1599-1669 Pupil of Herrera

It is pretty difficult to find out why a man was named so-and-so in the days of the early Italian and Spanish painters. More likely than not they would be called after the master to whom they had been first apprenticed; or after their trade; after the town from which they came, and rarely because their father had had the name before them. In Velasquez's case, he was named after his mother.

No one seemed to be certain what to call him, but he generally wrote his name "Diego de Silva Velasquez." His father was Rodriguez de Silva, a lawyer, but in calling the boy Velasquez the family followed a universal Spanish custom of naming children after their mothers.

Little Velasquez was well taught in his childhood; he studied many languages and philosophy, for he was intended to be a lawyer or something learned, anything but a painter. The disappointment of parents in those days, when they found a child was likely to become an artist is touching.

Despite his equipment for a useful life, according to the ideas of his parents, this little chap was bound to become nothing but a maker of pictures.

Herrera was a bad-tempered master and little Velasquez could not get on with him, so after a year of harsh treatment, he went to another master, Pacheco, but by that time he had learned a secret that was to help make his work great. Herrera had taught him to use a brush with very long bristles, which had the effect of spreading the paint, making it look as if his "colours had floated upon the canvas," in a way that was the "despair of those who came after him."

Velasquez was born in Seville at a time when about all the art of the world was Italian or German; thus he became the creator of a new school of painting.

He stayed five years in Pacheco's studio and pupil and master became very fond of each other. Pacheco was not a great master -- not so good as Herrera -- but he was easy to get on with, and knew a good deal about painting, so that as Velasquez had the genius, he was as well placed as he needed to be.

In Pacheco's studio there was a peasant boy whose face was very mobile, showed every passing feeling; and Velasquez used to make him laugh and weep, till, surprising some good expression, he would quickly sketch him. With this excellent model, Velasquez did a surprising amount of good work.

Spain had just then conquered the far-off provinces of Mexico and Peru, and was continually receiving from its newly got lands much valuable merchandise. Rapidly growing rich, this Latin country loved art and all things beautiful, so its money was bound to be spent freely in such ways. Madrid had been made its capital, and at that time there were few fine pictures to be found there. The Moors who had conquered Spain had forbidden picture making, because it was contrary to their religion to represent the human figure, or even the figures of birds and beasts. Then the Inquisition had hindered art by its rules, one of which was that the Virgin Mary should always be painted with her feet covered; another, that all saints should be beardless. There were many more exactions.

While cathedrals were being built elsewhere, the Moors had been in control of Spanish lands, so that no cathedral had been built there, and when Velasquez came upon the scene the time of great cathedral building was past. It had ceased to be the fashion. Although there had been such painters as Beneguette, Morales, Navarrette, and Ribera, all Spanish and of considerable genius, they had been too badly handicapped to make painting a great art in Spain. When Madrid became the capital of Spain, it had no unusual buildings, unless it was an old fortress of the Moors, the Alcazar, Caesar's house, but the nation was buying paintings from Italy, and it began to beautify Madrid, which had the advantage of the former Moorish luxury and art, very beautiful, though not pictorial.

In Madrid, then, there seemed to be great opportunity for a fine artist like Velasquez, and his master urged him to go there and try his fortune. So he set out on mule-back, attended by his slave, but unless he could get the ear of the king, it was useless for him to seek advancement in Madrid. Without the king as patron at that time, an artist could not accomplish much. After trying again and again, Velasquez had to return to his old master, without having seen the king; but after a time a picture of his was seen by Philip IV., and he was so much pleased with it that he summoned the artist. Through his minister, Olivares, he offered him $113.40 in gold (fifty ducats) to pay his return expenses. The next year he gave him $680.40 to move his family to Madrid.

At last the artist had found a place in the rich city, and he went to live at the court where the warmest friendship grew between him and the king. The latter was an author and something of a painter, so that they loved the same things. This friendship lasted all their lives, and they were together most of the time, the king always being found, in Velasquez's studio in the palace when his duties did not call him elsewhere. During the many many years -- nearly thirty-seven -- that Velasquez lived with Philip IV. he employed himself in painting the scenes at court. Thus he became the pictorial historian of the Spanish capital. He was a man of good disposition, kindly and generous in conduct and in feeling, so that he was always in the midst of friends and well-wishers.

Philip IV. was indeed a noble companion, but he was not a gay one, being known as the king who never laughed -- or at least whose laughter was so rare, the few times he did laugh became historic. One would expect this serious and depressing atmosphere to have had an effect upon a painter's art; but it chanced that Rubens visited Spain, and there, Velasquez being the one famous artist, it was natural they should become interested in each other. Rubens told Velasquez of the wonders of Italian painting, till the Spaniard could think of nothing else, and finally he begged Philip to let him journey to Italy that he might see some of those wonders for himself. The request made the king unhappy at first, but at last he gave his consent and Velasquez set out for Italy. The king gave him money and letters of introduction, and he went in company with the Marquis of Spinola.

After Velasquez had stayed eighteen months in Italy, Philip began to long for his friend and sent for him to return. He came back full of the stories of brilliant Italy, and charmed the king completely.

There is as absurd a story of Velasquez's perfection in painting as that of Raphael's, whose portrait of the pope, left upon the terrace to dry, imposed upon passers by. It is said of Velasquez's work that when he had painted an admiral whom the king had ordered to sea, and left it exposed in his studio, the king, entering, thought it was the admiral himself, and angrily inquired why he had not put to sea according to orders. On the face of them these stories are false, but they serve to suggest the perfection of these artists' paintings.

Philip, being a melancholy man, had his court full of jesters, poor misshapen creatures -- dwarfs and hunchbacks -- who were supposed to appear "funny," and Velasquez, as court painter, painted those whom he continually saw about him, who formed the court family. Thus we have pictures of strange groups -- dwarfs, little princesses, dressed precisely as the elders were dressed, favourite dogs, and Velasquez himself at his easel.

In 1618, while still with his master, Pacheco, he had married the master's daughter, a big, portly woman. Before he left Seville he bad two daughters.

These were all the children he had, although he painted a picture of "Velasquez's Family" which includes a great number of people. The figures in that painting are the children of his daughter, not his own; and this may account for one biographer's statement that the artist had "seven children." He was devoted to and happy in his family of children and grandchildren.

He did not grow rich, but received regularly during his life in Madrid, twenty gold ducats ($45.36) a month to live upon, and besides this his medical attendance, lodging, and additional payment for every picture. The one which brought him this good fortune was an equestrian portrait of Philip; first uncovered on the steps of San Felipe. Everywhere the people were delighted with it, poets sung of it, and the king declared no other should ever paint his portrait. This picture has long since disappeared.

In 1627 Velasquez won the prize for a picture representing the expulsion of the Moors from Spain and was rewarded by "being appointed gentleman usher. To this was shortly afterward added a daily allowance of twelve reals -- the same amount which was allowed to court barbers -- and ninety gold ducats ($204.12) a year for dress, which was also paid to the dwarfs, buffoons, and players about the king's person -- truly a curious estimate of talent at the court of Spain."

The record of Philip IV. with unpleasing, even degenerate characters, about him, is brightened by the thought of his loyalty to his court painter and life-long friend. When the king's favourites fell, those who had been the friends of Velasquez, the artist loyally remained their friend in adversity as he had been while they were powerful. This constancy, even to the royal enemies, was never resented by Philip. He honoured the faithfulness of his artist, even as he himself was faithful in this friendship. Philip's court was such that there was little to paint that was ennobling, and so Velasquez lacked the inspiration of such surroundings as the Italian painters had.

Philip IV. was hail-fellow-well-met with his stablemen, his huntsmen, his cooks, and yet he seems to have had no sense of humour, was long faced and forbidding to look at, and despite his strange habits considered himself the most mighty and haughty man in the world. He felt himself free to behave as he chose, because he was Philip of Spain; and he chose to do a great many absurd and outrageous things. In all Philip's portraits, painted by Velasquez, he wears a stiff white linen collar of his own invention, and he was so proud of this that he celebrated it by a festival. He went in procession to church to thank God for the wonderful blessing of the Golilla -- the name of his collar. This unsightly thing became the fashion, and all portraits of men of that time were painted with it. "In regard to the wonderful structure of Philip's moustaches it is said, that, to preserve their form they were encased during the night in perfumed leather covers called bigoteras." Such absurdities in a king, who had the responsibilities of a nation upon him, seem incredible.

Velasquez made in all three journeys to Italy, and the last one was on a mission for the king, which was much to the latter's credit. Philip had determined to have a fine art gallery in Madrid, for Spain had by this time many pictures, but no statuary; so he commissioned his painter to buy whatever he thought well of and could buy, in Italy. Hence the artist set off again with his slave -- the same one with whom he had journeyed to Madrid so long before. His name was Pareja, and his master had already made an excellent artist of him.

They went to Genoa, thence to the great art-centres of Italy, were received everywhere with honour, and the artist bought wisely. Velasquez did not care for Raphael's paintings as much as for Titian's, and he said so to Salvator Rosa, an honoured painter in Italy.

While in Rome Velasquez painted the pope, also his own slave, Pareja.

When he returned to Spain he took with him three hundred statues, but a large number of them were nude, and the Spanish court, not over particular about most things, was very particular about naked statues, so that after Philip's death, they nearly all disappeared. After his return, and after the queen had died and Philip had married again, Velasquez was made quartermaster-general, no easy post but not without honour, though it interfered with his picture painting a good deal. He had to look after the comfort of all the court, and to see that the apartments it occupied, at home or when it visited, were suitable.

"Even the powerful king of Spain could not make his favourite a belted knight without a commission to inquire into the purity of his lineage on both sides of the house. Fortunately, the pedigree could bear scrutiny, as for generations the family was found free from all taint of heresy, from all trace of Jewish or Moorish blood, and from contamination from trade or commerce. The difficulty connected with the fact that he was a painter was got over by his being painter to the king and by the declaration that he did not sell his pictures."

The red Cross of Santiago conferred upon him by Philip, made Velasquez a knight and freed him also from the rulings of the Inquisition, which directed so largely what artists could and could not do. Thus it is that we come to have certain great pictures from Velasquez's brush which could not otherwise have been painted.

This action of the king, setting free the artist, made two schools of art, of which the court painter represented one; and Murillo the other, under the command of the Church. Although not so rich perhaps as Raphael, Velasquez lived and died in plenty, while Murillo, the artist of the Church of Rome, was a poverty-stricken man.

Finally, while in the midst of honours, and fulfilling his official duty to the court of Spain, Velasquez contracted the disease which killed him. The Infanta, Maria Theresa, was to wed Louis XIV., and the ceremony was to take place on a swampy little island called the Island of Pheasants. There he went to decorate a pavilion and other places of display. He became ill with a fever and died soon after he returned to Madrid.

He made his wife, his old master Pacheco's daughter, his executor, and was buried in the church of San Juan, in the vault of Fuensalida; but within a week his devoted wife was dead, and in eight days' time she was buried beside him.

He left his affairs -- accounts between him and the court -- badly entangled, and it was many years before they were straightened out. His many deeds of kindness lived after him. He made of his slave a good artist and a devoted friend, and by his efforts the slave became a freedman. The story of his kindly help to Murillo when that exquisite painter came, unknown and friendless to Madrid, has already been told.

The Church where Velasquez was buried was destroyed by the French in 1811, and all trace of the resting place of the great Spanish artist is forever lost to us.

He is called not only "painter to the king," but "king of painters."

Plate -- Equestrian Portrait Of Don Balthasar Carlos.

Philip of Spain had long prayed for a son and when at last one was granted him his pride in his young heir was unbounded. The little Don Carlos was not unworthy, for he was a cheerful, hearty boy, trained to horsemanship, from his fourth year, for his father was a noted rider and had the best instructors for his son. The prince was a brave hunter too and we are told that he shot a wild boar when he was but nine years of age. In this portrait which is in the Museo del Prado he is six years old, and it was neither the first nor the last that Velasquez made of him. It was one of the court painter's chief duties to see that the heir to the throne was placed upon canvas at every stage of his career, and he painted him from two years of age till his lamented death at sixteen.

The young prince wears in this picture a green velvet jacket with white sleeves and his scarf is crimson embroidered with gold. The lively pony is a light chestnut and the foreshortening of its body must be noticed. The steady grave eyes of the lad are gazing far ahead as they would naturally be if he were riding rapidly, but his princely dignity is shown in his firm seat in the saddle and his manner of holding his marshal's batôn.

The great art of the painter is also shown in the way he subordinates the landscape to the figure. He will not allow even a tree to come near the young horseman, but brings his young activity into vivid contrast with the calm peacefulness of the distant view.

With the death of Don Carlos the downfall of his father's dynasty was assured, though for a time his little sister, the Infanta Maria Theresa, was upheld as the heiress. She married Louis XIV. and had a weary time of it in France. Velasquez painted her picture too, in the grown up dress of the children of that day. It is in the Vienna Gallery. Among his best known pictures are "The Surrender of Breda," "Alessandro del Borro," and "Philip IV."



XLII

Paul Veronese (Paolo Cagliari)


(Pronounced Vay-ro-nay'zay and pah'o-lah cal-ee-ah'ree) Venetian School 1528-1588 Pupil of Titian

"One has never done well enough, when one can do better; one never knows enough when he can learn more!"

This was the motto of Paul Veronese. This artist was born in Verona -- whence he took his name -- and spent much of his life with the monks in the monastery of St. Sebastian.

His father was a sculptor, and taught his son. Veronese himself was a lovable fellow, had a kind feeling for all, and in return received the good will of most people. When he first went to Venice to study he took letters of introduction to the monks of St. Sebastian, and finally went to live with them, for his uncle was prior of the monastery, and it was upon its walls that he did his first work in Venice. His subject was the story of Esther, which he illustrated completely.

He became known in time as "the most magnificent of magnificent painters." He loved the gaieties of Venice; the lords and ladies; the exquisite colouring; the feasting and laughter, and everything he painted, showed this taste. When he chose great religious subjects he dressed all his figures in elegant Venetian costumes, in the midst of elegant Venetian scenes. His Virgins, or other Biblical people, were not Jews of Palestine, but Venetians of Venice, but so beautiful were they and so inspiring, that nobody cared to criticise them on that score. He loved to paint festival scenes such as, "The Marriage at Cana," "Banquet in Levi's House," or "Feast in the House of Simon." He painted nothing as it could possibly have been, but everything as he would have liked it to be.

Into the "Wedding Feast at Cana," where Jesus was said to have turned the water into wine, he introduced a great host of his friends, people then living. Titian is there, and several reigning kings and queens, including Francis I. of France and his bride, for whom the picture was made. This treatment of the Bible story startles the mind, but delights the eye.

It was said that his "red recurred like a joyful trumpet blast among the silver gray harmonies of his paintings."

Muther, one who has written brilliantly about him, tells us that "Veronese seems to have come into the world to prove that the painter need have neither head nor heart, but only a hand, a brush, and a pot of paint in order to clothe all the walls of the world with oil paintings" and that "if he paints Mary, she is not the handmaid of the Lord or even the Queen of Heaven, but a woman of the world, listening with approving smile to the homage of a cavalier. In light red silk morning dress, she receives the Angel of the Annunciation and hears without surprise -- for she has already heard it -- what he has to say; and at the Entombment she only weeps in order to keep up appearances."

Such criticism raises a smile, but it is quite just, and what is more, the Veronese pictures are so beautiful that one is not likely to quarrel with the painter for having more good feeling than understanding. His joyous temperament came near to doing him harm, for he was summoned before the Inquisition for the manner in which he had painted "The Last Supper."

After the Esther pictures in St. Sebastian, the artist painted there the "Martyrdom of St. Sebastian," and there is a tradition that he did his work while hiding in the monastery because of some mischief of which he had been guilty.

At that time he was not much more than twenty-six or eight, while the great painter Tintoretto was forty-five, yet his work in St. Sebastian made him as famous as the older artist.

There is very little known of the private affairs of Veronese. He signed a contract for painting the "Marriage at Cana," for the refectory of the monastery of St. Giorgio Maggiore, in June 1562, and that picture, stupendous as it is, was finished eighteen months later. He received $777.60 for it, as well as his living while he was at work upon it, and a tun of wine. One picture he is supposed to have left behind him at a house where he had been entertained, as an acknowledgment of the courtesy shown him.

Paul had a brother, Benedetto, ten years younger than himself, and it is said that he greatly helped Paul in his work, by designing the architectural backgrounds of his pictures. If that is so, Benedetto must have been an artist of much genius, for those backgrounds in the paintings are very fine.

Veronese married, and had two sons; the younger being named Carletto. He was also the favourite, and an excellent artist, who did some fine painting, but he died while he was still young. Gabriele the elder son, also painted, but he was mainly a man of affairs, and attended to business rather than to art.

Veronese was a loving father and brother, and beyond doubt a happy man. After his death both his sons and his brother worked upon his unfinished paintings, completing them for him. He was buried in the Church of St. Sebastian.

Plate -- The Marriage At Cana

This painting is most characteristic of Veronese's methods. He has no regard for the truth in presenting the picture story. At the marriage at Cana everybody must have been very simply dressed, and there could have been no beautiful architecture, such as we see in the picture. In the painting we find courtier-like men and women dressed in beautiful silks. Some of the costumes appear to be a little Russian in character, the others Venetian; and Jesus Himself wears the loose every-day robe of the pastoral people to whom he belonged. We think of luxury and rich food and a splendid house when we look at this painting, when as a matter of fact nothing of this sort could have belonged to the scene which Veronese chose to represent. Perhaps no painter was more lacking in imagination than was Veronese in painting this particular picture. He chose to place historical or legendary characters, in the midst of a scene which could not have existed co-incidently with the event.

Among his other pictures are "Europa and the Bull," "Venice Enthroned," and the "Presentation of the Family of Darius to Alexander."



XLIII

Leonardo Da Vinci


(Pronounced Lay-o-nar'do dah Veen'chee) Florentine School 1451-1519 Pupil of Verrocchio

Leonardo da Vinci was the natural son of a notary, Ser Pier, and he was born at the Castello of Vinci, near Empoli. From the very hour that he was apprenticed to his master, Verrocchio, he proved that he was the superior of his master in art. Da Vinci was one of the most remarkable men who ever lived, because he not only did an extraordinary number of things, but he did all of them well.

He was an engineer, made bridges, fortifications, and plans which to this day are brilliant achievements.

He was a sculptor, and as such did beautiful work.

He was a naturalist, and as such was of use to the world.

He was an author and left behind him books written backward, of which he said that only he who was willing to devote enough study to them to read them in that form, was able to profit by what he had written.

Finally, and most wonderfully, he was a painter.

He had absolute faith in himself. Before he constructed his bridge he said that he could build the best one in the world, and a king took him at his word and was not disappointed by the result.

He stated that he could paint the finest picture in the world -- but let us read what he himself said of it, in so sure and superbly confident a way that it robbed his statement of anything like foolish vanity. Such as he could afford to speak frankly of his greatness, without appearing absurd. He wrote:

"In time of peace, I believe I can equal anyone in architecture, in constructing public and private buildings, and in conducting water from one place to another. I can execute sculpture, whether in marble, bronze, or terra cotta, and in painting I can do as much as any other man, be he who he may. Further, I could engage to execute the bronze horse in eternal memory of your father and the illustrious house of Sforza." He was writing to Ludovico Sforza whose house then ruled at Milan. "If any of the above-mentioned things should appear to you impossible or impracticable, I am ready to make trial of them in your park, or in any other place that may please your excellency, to whom I commend myself in proud humility."

Leonardo's experiments with oils and the mixing of his pigments has nearly lost to us his most remarkable pictures. His first fourteen years of work as an artist were spent in Milan, where he was employed to paint by the Duke of Milan, and never again was his life so peaceful; it was ever afterward full of change. He went from Milan to Venice, to Rome, to Florence, and back to Milan where his greatest work was done.

While Leonardo was a baby he lived in the Castle of Vinci. He was beautiful as a child and very handsome as a man. When a child he wore long curls reaching below his waist. He was richly clothed, and greatly beloved. His body seemed no less wonderful than his mind. He wished to learn everything, and his memory was so wonderful that he remembered all that he undertook to learn. His muscles were so powerful that he could bend iron, and all animals seemed to love him. It is said he could tame the wildest horses. Indeed his life and accomplishments read as if he were one enchanted. One writer tells us that "he never could bear to see any creature cruelly treated, and sometimes he would buy little caged birds that he might just have the pleasure of opening the doors of their cages, and setting them at liberty."

The story told of his first known work is that his master, being hurried in finishing a picture, permitted Leonardo to paint in an angel's head, and that it was so much better than the rest of the picture, that Verrocchio burned his brushes and broke his palette, determined never to paint again, but probably this is a good deal of a fairy tale and one that is not needed to impress us with the artist's greatness, since there is so much to prove it without adding fable to fact.

Leonardo was also a very far seeing inventor and most ingenious. He made mechanical toys that "worked" when they were wound up. He even devised a miniature flying machine; however, history does not tell us whether it flew or not. He thought out the uses of steam as a motive power long before Fulton's time.

Leonardo haunted the public streets, sketchbook in hand, and when attracted by a face, would follow till he was able to transfer it to paper. Ida Prentice Whitcomb, who has compiled many anecdotes of da Vinci, says that it was also his habit to invite peasants to his house, and there amuse them with funny stories till he caught some fleeting expression of mirth which he was pleased to reproduce.

As a courtier Leonardo was elegant and full of amusing devices. He sang, accompanying himself on a silver lute, which he had had fashioned in imitation of a horse's skull. After he attached himself to the court of the Duke of Milan, his gift of invention was constantly called into use, and one of the surprises he had in store for the Duke's guests was a great mechanical lion, which being wound up, would walk into the presence of the court, open its mouth and disclose a bunch of flowers inside.

Leonardo worked very slowly upon his paintings, because he was never satisfied with a work, and would retouch it day after day. Then, too, he was a man of moods, like most geniuses, and could not work with regularity. The picture of the "Last Supper" was painted in Milan, by order of his patron, the Duke, and there are many picturesque stories written of its production. It was painted upon the refectory wall of a Dominican convent, the Santa Maria delle Grazie; and at first the work went off well, and the artist would remain upon his scaffolding from morning till night, absorbed in his painting. It is said that at such times he neither ate nor drank, forgetting all but his great work. He kept postponing the painting of two heads -- Christ and Judas.

He had worked painstakingly and with enthusiasm till that point, but deferred what he was hardly willing to trust himself to perform. He had certain conceptions of these features which he almost feared to execute, so tremendous was his purpose. He let that part of the work go, month after month, and having already spent two years upon the picture, the monks began to urge him to a finish. He was not the man to endure much pressure, and the more they urged the more resentful he became. Finally, he began to feel a bitter dislike for the prior, the man who annoyed him most. One day, when the prior was nagging him about the picture, wanting to know why he didn't get to work upon it again, and when would it be finished, Leonardo said suavely: "If you will sit for the head of Judas, I'll be able to finish the picture at once." The prior was enraged, as Leonardo meant he should be; but Leonardo is said actually to have painted him in as Judas. Afterward he painted in the face of Christ with haste and little care, simply because he despaired of ever doing the wonderful face that his art soul demanded Christ should wear.

The one bitter moment in Leonardo's life, in all probability, was when he came in dire competition with Michael Angelo. When he removed to Florence he was required to submit sketches for the Town Hall -- the Palazzo Vecchio -- and Michael Angelo was his rival. The choice fell to Angelo, and after a life of supremacy Leonardo could not endure the humiliation with grace. Added to disappointment, someone declared that Leonardo's powers were waning because he was growing old. This was more than he could bear, and he left Italy for France, where the king had invited him to come and spend the remainder of his life. Francis I. had wished to have the picture in the Milan monastery taken to France, but that was not to be done.

Doubtless the king expected Leonardo to do some equally great work after he became the nation's guest.

Before leaving Italy, Leonardo had painted his one other "greatest" picture -- "La Gioconda" (Mona Lisa)-and he took that wonderful work with him to France, where the King purchased it for $9,000, and to this day it hangs in the Louvre.

But Leonardo was to do no great work in France, for in truth he was growing old. His health had failed, and although he was still a dandy and court favourite, setting the fashion in clothing and in the cut of hair and beard, he was no longer the brilliant, active Leonardo.

Bernard Berensen, has written of him: "Painting ... was to Leonardo so little of a preoccupation that we must regard it as merely a mode of expression used at moments by a man of universal genius." By which Berensen means us to understand that Leonardo was so brilliant a student and inventor, so versatile, that art was a mere pastime. "No, let us not join in the reproaches made to Leonardo for having painted so little; because he had so much more to do than to paint, he has left all of us heirs to one or two of the supremest works of art ever created."

Another author writes that "in Leonardo da Vinci every talent was combined in one man."

Leonardo was the third person of the wonderful trinity of Florentine painters, Raphael and Michael Angelo being the other two.

He knew so much that he never doubted his own powers, but when he died, after three years in France, he left little behind him, and that little he had ever declared to be unfinished -- the "Mona Lisa" and the "Last Supper." He died in the Château de Cloux, at Amboise, and it is said that "sore wept the king when he heard that Leonardo was dead."

In Milan, near the Cathedral, there stands a monument to his memory, and about it are placed the statues of his pupils. To this day he is wonderful among the great men of the world.

Plate -- The Last Supper

This, as we have said, is in the former convent of Santa Maria delle Grazie, in Milan. It was the first painted story of this legendary event in which natural and spontaneous action on the part of all the company was presented.

To-day the picture is nearly ruined by smoke, time, and alterations in the place, for a great door lintel has been cut into the picture. Leonardo used the words of the Christ: "Verily, I say unto you that one of you shall betray me," as the starting point for this painting. It is after the utterance of these words that we see each of the disciples questioning horrified, frightened, anxious, listening, angered -- all these emotions being expressed by the face or gestures of the hands or pose of the figures. It is a most wonderful picture and it seems as if the limit of genius was to be found in it.

The company is gathered in a half-dark hall, the heads outlined against the evening light that comes through the windows at the back. We look into a room and seem to behold the greatest tragedy of legendary history: treachery and sorrow and consternation brought to Jesus of Nazareth and his comrades.

This great picture was painted in oil instead of in "distemper," the proper kind of mixture for fresco, and therefore it was bound to be lost in the course of time. Besides, it has known more than ordinary disaster. The troops of Napoleon used this room, the convent refectory, for a stable, and that did not do the painting any good. The reason we have so complete a knowledge of it, however, is that Leonardo's pupils made an endless number of copies of it, and thus it has found its way into thousands of homes. The following is the order in which Leonardo placed the disciples at the table: Jesus of Nazareth in the centre, Bartholomew the last on the left, after him is James, Andrew, Peter, Judas -- who holds the money bag -- and John. On the right, next to Jesus, comes Thomas, the doubting one; James the Greater, Philip, Matthew, Thaddeus, and Simon. Jesus has just declared that one of them shall betray him, and each in his own way seems to be asking "Lord, is it I?" In the South Kensington Museum in London will be found carefully preserved a description, written out fairly in Leonardo's own hand, to guide him in painting the Last Supper. It is most interesting and we shall quote it: "One, in the act of drinking puts down his glass and turns his head to the speaker. Another twisting his fingers together, turns to his companion, knitting his eyebrows. Another, opening his hands and turning the palm toward the spectator, shrugs his shoulders, his mouth expressing the liveliest surprise. Another whispers in the ear of a companion, who turns to listen, holding in one hand a knife, and in the other a loaf, which he has cut in two. Another, turning around with a knife in his hand, upsets a glass upon the table and looks; another gasps in amazement; another leans forward to look at the speaker, shading his eyes with his hand; another, drawing back behind the one who leans forward, looks into the space between the wall and the stooping disciple."

Other paintings of Leonardo's are: "Mona Lisa," "Head of Medusa," "Adoration of the Magi," and the "Madonna della Caraffa."



XLIV

Jean Antoine Watteau


(Pronounced in French, Vaht-toh; English, Wot-toh) French (Genre) School 1684-1721 Pupil of Gillot and Audran

Watteau's father was a tiler in a Flemish town -- Valenciennes. He meant that his son should be a carpenter, but that son tramped from Valenciennes to Paris with the purpose of becoming a great painter. He did more, he became a "school" of painting, all by himself.

There is no sadder story among artists than that of this lowly born genius. He was not good to look upon, being the very opposite of all that he loved, having no grace or charm in appearance. He had a drooping mouth, red and bony hands, and a narrow chest with stooping shoulders. Because of a strange sensitiveness he lived all his life apart from those he would have been happy with, for he mistrusted his own ugliness, and thought he might be a burden to others.

Such a man has painted the gayest, gladdest, most delicate and exquisite pictures imaginable.

He entered Paris as a young man, without friends, without money or connections of any kind, and after wandering forlornly, about the great city, he found employment with a dealer who made hundreds of saints for out-of-town churches.

It is said that for this first employer Watteau made dozens and dozens of pictures of St. Nicholas; and when we think of the beautiful figures he was going to make, pictures that should delight all the world, there seems something tragic in the monotony and common-placeness of that first work he was forced by poverty to do. Certainly St. Nicholas brought one man bread and butter, even if he forgot him at Christmas time.

After that hard apprenticeship, Watteau's condition became slightly better. He had been employed near the Pont Notre Dame, at three francs a week, but now in the studio of a scene painter, Gillot, he did work of coarse effect, very different from that exquisite school of art which he was to bring into being. After Gillot's came the studio of Claude Audran, the conservator of the Luxembourg, and with him Watteau did decorative work. In reality he had no master, learned from nobody, grovelled in poverty, and at first, forced a living from the meanest sources. With this in mind, it remains a wonder that he should paint as no other ever could, scenes of exquisite beauty and grace; scenes of high life, courtiers and great ladies assembled in lovely landscapes, doing elegant and charming things, dressed in unrivalled gowns and costumes. Until Watteau went to the Luxembourg he had seen absolutely nothing of refined or gracious living. He had come from country scenes, and in Paris had lived among workmen and bird-fanciers, flower sellers, hucksters and the like. This is very likely the secret of his peculiar art.

Watteau would have been a wonderful artist under any circumstances, no matter what sort of pictures he had painted; but circumstances gave his imagination a turn toward the exquisite in colourand composition. Doubtless when he first looked down from the palace windows of the Luxembourg and saw gorgeous women and handsome men languishing and coquetting and revelling in a life of ease and beauty, he was transported. He must have thought himself in fairyland, and the impulse to paint, to idealise the loveliness that he saw, must have been greater in him than it would have been in one who had lived so long among such scenes that they had become familiar with them.

After Watteau there were artists who tried to do the kind of work he had done, but no one ever succeeded. Watteau clothed all his shepherdesses in fine silken gowns, with a plait in the back, falling from the shoulders, and to-day we have a fashion known as the "Watteau back" -- gowns made with this shoulder-plait. He put filmy laces or softest silks upon his dairy maids, as upon his court ladies, dressing his figures exquisitely, and in the loveliest colours. He had suffered from poverty and from miserable sights, so when he came to paint pictures, he determined to reproduce only the loveliest objects.

At that time French fashions were very unusual, and it was quite the thing for ladies to hold a sort of reception while at their toilet. A description of one of these affairs was written by Madame de Grignon to her daughter: "Nothing can be more delightful than to assist at the toilet of Madame la Duchesse (de Bourgoyne), and to watch her arrange her hair. I was present the other day. She rose at half past twelve, put on her dressing gown, and set to work to eat a méringue. She ate the powder and greased her hair. The whole formed an excellent breakfast and charming coiffure." Watteau has caught the spirit of this strange airy, artificial, incongruous existence. His ladies seem to be eating meringues and powdering their hair and living on a diet of the combination. One hardly knows which is toilet and which is real life in looking at his paintings.

He quarreled with Audran at the Luxembourg, and having sold his first picture, he went back to his Valenciennes home, to see his former acquaintances, no doubt being a little vain of his performance.

After that he painted another picture which sold well enough to keep him from poverty for a time, and on his return to Paris he was warmly greeted by a celebrated and influential artist, Crozat. Watteau tried for a prize, and though his picture came second it had been seen by the Academy committee.

His greatness was acknowledged, and he was immediately admitted to the Academy and granted a pension by the crown, with which he was able to go to Italy, the Mecca of all artists the world over.

From Italy he went to London, but there the fogs and unsuitable climate made his disease much worse and he hurried back to France, where he went to live with a friend who was a picture dealer. It was then that he painted a sign for this friend, Gersaint, a sign so wonderful that it is reckoned in the history of Watteau's paintings.

Soon he grew so sensitive over his illness, that he did not wish to remain near his dearest friends, but one of them, the Abbé Haranger, insisted upon looking after his welfare, and got lodgings for him at Nogent, where he could have country air and peace.

Watteau died very soon after going to Nogent in July, 1721, and he left nine thousand livres to his parents, and his paintings to his best friends, the Abbé, Gersaint, Monsieur Henin, and Monsieur Julienne. He is called the "first French painter" and so he was -- though he was Flemish, by birth.

Plate -- Fête Champêtre

This exquisite picture displays nearly all the characteristics of Watteau's painting. He was said to paint with "honey and gold," and his method was certainly remarkable. His clear, delicate colours were put upon a canvas first daubed with oil, and he never cleaned his palette. His "oil-pot was full of dust and dirt and mixed with the washings of his brush." One would think that only the most slovenly results could come from such habits of work, but the artist made a colour which no one could copy, and that was a sort of creamy, opalescent white. This was original with Watteau, and most beautiful.

In this "Fête Champêtre," which is now in the National Gallery at Edinburgh, he paints an elegant group of ladies and gentlemen indulging in an open air dance of some sort. One couple are doing steps facing one another, to the music of a set of pipes, while the rest flirt and talk, decorously, round about. There is no boisterous rusticity here; all is dainty and refined.

The same characteristics are to be found in Watteau's other pictures such as, "Embarkation for the Island of Cythera," "The Judgment of Paris," and "Gay Company in a Park."



XLV

Sir Benjamin West


American 1738-1820 Pupil of the Italian School

The beautiful smile of his little niece helped to make this man an artist. This is the story:

Benjamin West was born down in Pennsylvania, at Westdale, a small village in the township of Springfield, of Quaker parentage. The family was poor perhaps, but in America at a time when everybody was struggling with a new civilisation it did not seem to be such binding poverty as the same condition in Europe would have been. Benjamin had a married sister whose baby he greatly loved, and he gave it devoted attention. One day while it was sleeping and the undiscovered artist was sitting beside it he saw it smile, and the beauty of the smile inspired him to keep it forever if he could. He got paper and pencil and forthwith transferred that "angel's whisper."

No child of to-day can imagine the difficulties a boy must have had in those days in America, to get an art education, and having learned his art, how impossible it was to live by it. Men were busy making a new country and pictures do not take part in such pioneer work; they come later. Still, there were bound to be born artistic geniuses then, just as there were men for the plough and men for politics and for war. He who happened to be the artist was the Quaker boy, West.

He took his first inspiration from the Cherokees, for it was the Indian in all the splendour of his strength and straightness that formed West's ideal of beautiful physique.

When he first saw the Apollo Belvedere, he exclaimed: "A young Mohawk warrior!" to the disgust of every one who heard him, but he meant to compliment the noblest of forms. Europeans did not know how magnificent a figure the "young Mohawk warrior" could be; but West knew.

After his Indian impetus toward art he went to Philadelphia, and settled himself in a studio, where he painted portraits. His sitters went to him out of curiosity as much as anything else, but at last a Philadelphia gentleman, who knew what art meant, recognised Benjamin West's talent, and made some arrangement by which the young man went to Italy.

Life began to look beautiful and promising to the Pennsylvanian. He was in Italy for three years, and in that home of art the young man who had made the smile of his sister's sleeping baby immortal was given highest honours. He was elected a member of all the great art societies in Italy, and studied with the best artists of the time. He began to earn his living, we may be sure, and then he went to England, where, in spite of the prejudice there must have been against the colonists, he became at once a favourite of George III., a friend of Reynolds and of all the English artists of repute -- unless perhaps of Gainsborough, who made friends with none.

West was appointed "historical painter" to his Majesty, George III., and he was chosen to be one of four who should draw plans for a Royal Academy. He was one of the first members of that great organisation, and when Sir Joshua Reynolds, the first president, died, West became president, remaining in office for twenty-eight years.

About that time came the Peace of Amiens, and West was able to go to Paris, where he could see the greatest art treasures of Europe, which had been brought to France from every quarter as a consequence of the war. At that time, before Paris began to return these, and when she had just pillaged every great capital of Europe, artists need take but a single trip to see all the art worth seeing in the whole world.

After a long service in the Academy, West quarreled with some of the Academicians and sent in his resignation; but his fellow artists had too much sense and good feeling to accept it, and begged him to reconsider his action. He did so, and returned to his place as president. When West was sixty-five years old he made a picture, "Christ Healing the Sick," which he meant to give to the Quakers in Philadelphia, who were trying to get funds with which to build a hospital. This picture was to be sold for the fund; but it was no sooner finished and exhibited in London before being sent to America, than it was bought for 3,000 guineas for Great Britain. West did not contribute this money to the hospital fund, but he made a replica for the Quakers, and sent that instead of the original.

West was eighty-two years old when he died and he was buried in St. Paul's Cathedral after a distinguished and honoured life. Since Europe gave him his education and also supported him most of his life, we must consider him more English than American, his birth on American soil being a mere accident.

Plate -- The Death Of Wolfe

This death scene upon the Plains of Abraham, without the walls of Quebec in 1759, must not be taken as a realistic picture of an historic event. West drew upon his imagination and upon portraits of the prominent men supposed to have been grouped around the dying general, and he has produced a dramatic effect. One can imagine it is the two with fingers pointing backward who have just brought the memorable tidings, "They run! They run!"

"Who run?" asks Wolfe, for when he had fallen the issues of the fight were still undecided. "The French, sir. They give way everywhere." "Thank God! I die in peace," replied the English hero. At a time when the momentous results of this battle had set the whole of Great Britain afire with enthusiasm it is easy to understand the popularity of a picture such as this. It was sold in 1791 for £28, and now belongs to the Duke of Westminster. There is a replica of it in the Queen's drawing-room at Hampton Court.

Another famous historical picture by West is "The Battle of La Hogue."

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The Sword Of Antietam: A Story Of The Nation's Crisis

By

Joseph Alexander Altsheler



Chapter I. Cedar Mountain


The first youth rode to the crest of the hill, and, still sitting on his horse, examined the country in the south with minute care through a pair of powerful glasses. The other two dismounted and waited patiently. All three were thin and their faces were darkened by sun and wind. But they were strong alike of body and soul. Beneath the faded blue uniforms brave hearts beat and powerful muscles responded at once to every command of the will.

"What do you see, Dick?" asked Warner, who leaned easily against his horse, with one arm over the pommel of his saddle.

"Hills, valleys, mountains, the August heat shimmering over all, but no human being."

"A fine country," said young Pennington, "and I like to look at it, but just now my Nebraska prairie would be better for us. We could at least see the advance of Stonewall Jackson before he was right on top of us."

Dick took another long look, searching every point in the half circle of the south with his glasses. Although burned by summer the country was beautiful, and neither heat nor cold could take away its picturesqueness. He saw valleys in which the grass grew thick and strong, clusters of hills dotted with trees, and then the blue loom of mountains clothed heavily with foliage. Over everything bent a dazzling sky of blue and gold.

The light was so intense that with his glasses he could pick out individual trees and rocks on the far slopes. He saw an occasional roof, but nowhere did he see man. He knew the reason, but he had become so used to his trade that at the moment, he felt no sadness. All this region had been swept by great armies. Here the tide of battle in the mightiest of all wars had rolled back and forth, and here it was destined to surge again in a volume increasing always.

"I don't find anything," repeated Dick, "but three pairs of eyes are better than none. George, you take the glasses and see what you can see and Frank will follow."

He dismounted and stood holding the reins of his horse while the young Vermonter looked. He noticed that the mathematical turn of Warner's mind showed in every emergency. He swept the glasses back and forth in a regular curve, not looking here and now there, but taking his time and missing nothing. It occurred to Dick that he was a type of his region, slow but thorough, and sure to win after defeat.

"What's the result of your examination?" asked Dick as Warner passed the glasses in turn to Pennington.

"Let x equal what I saw, which is nothing. Let y equal the result I draw, which is nothing. Hence we have x + y which still equals nothing."

Pennington was swifter in his examination. The blood in his veins flowed a little faster than Warner's.

"I find nothing but land and water," he said without waiting to be asked, "and I'm disappointed. I had a hope, Dick, that I'd see Stonewall Jackson himself riding along a slope."

"Even if you saw him, how would you know it was Stonewall?"

"I hadn't thought of that. We've heard so much of him that it just seemed to me I'd know him anywhere."

"Same here," said Warner. "Remember all the tales we've heard about his whiskers, his old slouch hat and his sorrel horse."

"I'd like to see him myself," confessed Dick. "From all we hear he's the man who kept McClellan from taking Richmond. He certainly played hob with the plans of our generals. You know, I've got a cousin, Harry Kenton, with him. I had a letter from him a week ago -- passing through the lines, and coming in a round-about way. Writes as if he thought Stonewall Jackson was a demigod. Says we'd better quit and go home, as we haven't any earthly chance to win this war."

"He fights best who wins last," said Warner. "I'm thinking I won't see the green hills of Vermont for a long time yet, because I mean to pay a visit to Richmond first. Have you got your cousin's letter with you, Dick?"

"No, I destroyed it. I didn't want it bobbing up some time or other to cause either of us trouble. A man I know at home says he's kept out of a lot of trouble by 'never writin' nothin' to nobody.' And if you do write a letter the next best thing is to burn it as quick as you can."

"If my eyes tell the truth, and they do," said Pennington, "here comes a short, thick man riding a long, thick horse and he -- the man, not the horse -- bears a startling resemblance to our friend, ally, guide and sometime mentor, Sergeant Daniel Whitley."

"Yes, it's the sergeant," said Dick, looking down into the valley, "and I'm glad he's joining us. Do you know, boys, I often think these veteran sergeants know more than some of our generals."

"It's not an opinion. It's a fact," said Warner. "Hi, there, sergeant! Here are your friends! Come up and make the same empty report that we've got ready for the colonel."

Sergeant Daniel Whitley looked at the three lads, and his face brightened. He had a good intellect under his thatch of hair, and a warm heart within his strong body. The boys, although lieutenants, and he only a sergeant in the ranks, treated him usually as an equal and often as a superior.

Colonel Winchester's regiment and the remains of Colonel Newcomb's Pennsylvanians had been sent east after the defeat of the Union army at the Seven Days, and were now with Pope's Army of Virginia, which was to hold the valley and also protect Washington. Grant's success at Shiloh had been offset by McClellan's failure before Richmond, and the President and his Cabinet at Washington were filled with justifiable alarm. Pope was a western man, a Kentuckian, and he had insisted upon having some of the western troops with him.

The sergeant rode his horse slowly up the slope, and joined the lads over whom he watched like a father.

"And what have the hundred eyes of Argus beheld?" asked Warner.

"Argus?" said the sergeant. "I don't know any such man. Name sounds queer, too."

"He belongs to a distant and mythical past, sergeant, but he'd be mighty useful if we had him here. If even a single one of his hundred eyes were to light on Stonewall Jackson, it would be a great service."

The sergeant shook his head and looked reprovingly at Warner.

"It ain't no time for jokin'," he said.

"I was never further from it. It seems to me that we need a lot of Arguses more than anything else. This is the enemy's country, and we hear that Stonewall Jackson is advancing. Advancing where, from what and when? There is no Argus to tell. The country supports a fairly numerous population, but it hasn't a single kind or informing word for us. Is Stonewall Jackson going to drop from the sky, which rumor says is his favorite method of approach?"

"He's usin' the solid ground this time, anyway," said Sergeant Daniel Whitley. "I've been eight miles farther south, an' if I didn't see cavalry comin' along the skirt of a ridge, then my eyes ain't any friends of mine. Then I came through a little place of not more'n five houses. No men there, just women an' children, but when I looked back I saw them women an' children, too, grinnin' at me. That means somethin', as shore as we're livin' an' breathin'. I'm bettin' that we new fellows from the west will get acquainted with Stonewall Jackson inside of twenty-four hours."

"You don't mean that? It's not possible!" exclaimed Dick, startled. "Why, when we last heard of Jackson he was so far south we can't expect him in a week!"

"You've heard that they call his men the foot cavalry," said the sergeant gravely, "an' I reckon from all I've learned since I come east that they've won the name fair an' true. See them woods off to the south there. See the black line they make ag'inst the sky. I know, the same as if I had seen him, that Stonewall Jackson is down in them forests, comin' an' comin' fast."

The sergeant's tone was ominous, and Dick felt a tingling at the roots of his hair. The western troops were eager to meet this new Southern phenomenon who had suddenly shot like a burning star across the sky, but for the first time there was apprehension in his soul. He had seen but little of the new general, Pope, but he had read his proclamations and he had thought them bombastic. He talked lightly of the enemy and of the grand deeds that he was going to do. Who was Pope to sweep away such men as Lee and Jackson with mere words!

Dick longed for Grant, the stern, unyielding, unbeatable Grant whom he had known at Shiloh. In the west the Union troops had felt the strong hand over them, and confidence had flowed into them, but here they were in doubt. They felt that the powerful and directing mind was absent.

Silence fell upon them all for a little space, while the four gazed intently into the south, strange fears assailing everyone. Dick never doubted that the Union would win. He never doubted it then and he never doubted it afterward, through all the vast hecatomb when the flag of the Union fell more than once in terrible defeat.

But their ignorance was mystifying and oppressive. They saw before them the beautiful country, the hills and valleys, the forest and the blue loom of the mountains, so much that appealed to the eye, and yet the horizon, looking so peaceful in the distance, was barbed with spears. Jackson was there! The sergeant's theory had become conviction with them. Distance had been nothing to him. He was at hand with a great force, and Lee with another army might fall at any time upon their flank, while McClellan was isolated and left useless, far away.

Dick's heart missed a beat or two, as he saw the sinister picture that he had created in his own mind. Highly imaginative, he had leaped to the conclusion that Lee and Jackson meant to trap the Union army, the hammer beating it out on the anvil. He raised the glasses to his eyes, surveyed the forests in the South once more, and then his heart missed another beat.

He had caught the flash of steel, the sun's rays falling across a bayonet or a polished rifle barrel. And then as he looked he saw the flash again and again. He handed the glasses to Warner and said quietly:

"George, I see troops on the edge of that far hill to the south and the east. Can't you see them, too?"

"Yes, I can make them out clearly now, as they pass across a bit of open land. They're Confederate cavalry, two hundred at least, I should say."

Dick learned long afterward that it was the troop of Sherburne, but, for the present, the name of Sherburne was unknown to him. He merely felt that this was the vanguard of Jackson riding forward to set the trap. The men were now so near that they could be seen with the naked eye, and the sergeant said tersely:

"At last we've seen what we were afraid we would see."

"And look to the left also," said Warner, who still held the glasses. "There's a troop of horse coming up another road, too. By George, they're advancing at a trot! We'd better clear out or we may be enclosed between the two horns of their cavalry."

"We'll go back to our force at Cedar Run," said Harry, "and report what we've seen. As you say, George, there's no time to waste."

The four mounted and rode fast, the dust of the road flying in a cloud behind their horses' heels. Dick felt that they had fulfilled their errand, but he had his doubts how their news would be received. The Northern generals in the east did not seem to him to equal those of the west in keenness and resolution, while the case was reversed so far as the Southern generals were concerned.

But fast as they went the Southern cavalry was coming with equal speed. They continually saw the flash of arms in both east and west. The force in the west was the nearer of the two. Not only was Sherburne there, but Harry Kenton was with him, and besides their own natural zeal they had all the eagerness and daring infused into them by the great spirit and brilliant successes of Jackson.

"They won't be able to enclose us between the two horns of their horsemen," said Sergeant Whitley, whose face was very grave, "and the battle won't be to-morrow or the next day."

"Why not? I thought Jackson was swift," said Warner.

"Cause it will be fought to-day. I thought Jackson was swift, too, but he's swifter than I thought. Them feet cavalry of his don't have to change their name. Look into the road comin' up that narrow valley."

The eyes of the three boys followed his pointing finger, and they now saw masses of infantry, men in gray pressing forward at full speed. They saw also batteries of cannon, and Dick almost fancied he could hear the rumble of their wheels.

"Looks as if the sergeant was right," said Pennington. "Stonewall Jackson is here."

They increased their speed to a gallop, making directly for Cedar Run, a cold, clear little stream coming out of the hills. It was now about the middle of the morning and the day was burning hot and breathless. Their hearts began to pound with excitement, and their breath was drawn painfully through throats lined with dust.

A long ridge covered with forest rose on one side of them and now they saw the flash of many bayonets and rifle barrels along its lowest slope. Another heavy column of infantry was advancing, and presently they heard the far note of trumpets calling to one another.

"Their whole army is in touch," said the sergeant. "The trumpets show it. Often on the plains, when we had to divide our little force into detachments, they'd have bugle talk with one another. We must go faster if we can."

They got another ounce of strength out of their horses, and now they saw Union cavalry in front. In a minute or two they were among the blue horsemen, giving the hasty news of Jackson's advance. Other scouts and staff officers arrived a little later with like messages, and not long afterward they heard shots behind them telling them that the hostile pickets were in touch.

They watered their horses in Cedar Run, crossed it and rejoined their own regiment under Colonel Arthur Winchester. The colonel was thin, bronzed and strong, and he, too, like the other new men from the West, was eager for battle with the redoubtable Jackson.

"What have you seen, Dick?" he exclaimed. "Is it a mere scouting force of cavalry, or is Jackson really at hand?"

"I think it's Jackson himself. We saw heavy columns coming up. They were pressing forward, too, as if they meant to brush aside whatever got in their way."

"Then we'll show them!" exclaimed Colonel Winchester. "We've only seven thousand men here on Cedar Run, but Banks, who is in immediate command, has been stung deeply by his defeats at the hands of Jackson, and he means a fight to the last ditch. So does everybody else."

Dick, at that moment, the thrill of the gallop gone, was not so sanguine. The great weight of Jackson's name hung over him like a sinister menace, and the Union troops on Cedar Run were but seven thousand. The famous Confederate leader must have at least three times that number. Were the Union forces, separated into several armies, to be beaten again in detail? Pope himself should be present with at least fifty thousand men.

Their horses had been given to an orderly and Dick threw himself upon the turf to rest a little. All along the creek the Union army, including his own regiment, was forming in line of battle but his colonel had not yet called upon him for any duty. Warner and Pennington were also resting from their long and exciting ride, but the sergeant, who seemed never to know fatigue, was already at work with his men.

"Listen to those skirmishers," said Dick. "It sounds like the popping of corn at home on winter evenings, when I was a little boy."

"But a lot more deadly," said Pennington. "I wouldn't like to be a skirmisher. I don't mind firing into the smoke and the crowd, but I'd hate to sit down behind a stump or in the grass and pick out the spot on a man that I meant for my bullet to hit."

"You won't have to do any such work, Frank," said Warner. "Hark to it! The sergeant was right. We're going to have a battle to-day and a big one. The popping of your corn, Dick, has become an unbroken sound."

Dick, from the crest of the hillock on which they lay, gazed over the heads of the men in blue. The skirmishers were showing a hideous activity. A continuous line of light ran along the front of both armies, and behind the flash of the Southern firing he saw heavy masses of infantry emerging from the woods. A deep thrill ran through him. Jackson, the famous, the redoubtable, the unbeatable, was at hand with his army. Would he remain unbeaten? Dick said to himself, in unspoken words, over and over again, "No! No! No! No!" He and his comrades had been victors in the west. They must not fail here.

Colonel Winchester now called to them, and mounting their horses they gathered around him to await his orders. These officers, though mere boys, learned fast. Dick knew enough already of war to see that they were in a strong position. Before them flowed the creek. On their flank and partly in their front was a great field of Indian corn. A quarter of a mile away was a lofty ridge on which were posted Union guns with gunners who knew so well how to use them. To right and left ran the long files of infantry, their faces white but resolute.

"I think," said Dick to Warner, "that if Jackson passes over this place he will at least know that we've been here."

"Yes, he'll know it, and besides he'll make quite a halt before passing. At least, that's my way of thinking."

There was a sudden dying of the rifle fire. The Union skirmishers were driven in, and they fell back on the main body which was silent, awaiting the attack. Dick was no longer compelled to use the glasses. He saw with unaided eye the great Southern columns marching forward with the utmost confidence, heavy batteries advancing between the regiments, ready at command to sweep the Northern ranks with shot and shell.

Dick shivered a little. He could not help it. They were face to face with Jackson, and he was all that the heralds of fame had promised. He had eye enough to see that the Southern force was much greater than their own, and, led by such a man, how could they fail to win another triumph? He looked around upon the army in blue, but he did not see any sign of fear. Both the beaten and the unbeaten were ready for a new battle.

There was a mighty crash from the hill and the Northern batteries poured a stream of metal into the advancing ranks of their foe.

The Confederate advance staggered, but, recovering itself, came on again. A tremendous cheer burst from the ranks of the lads in blue. Stonewall Jackson with all his skill and fame was before them, but they meant to stop him. Numbers were against them, and Banks, their leader, had been defeated already by Jackson, but they meant to stop him, nevertheless.

The Southern guns replied. Posted along the slopes of Slaughter Mountain, sinister of name, they sent a sheet of death upon the Union ranks. But the regiments, the new and the old, stood firm. Those that had been beaten before by Jackson were resolved not to be beaten again by him, and the new regiments from the west, one or two of which had been at Shiloh, were resolved never to be beaten at all.

"The lads are steady," said Colonel Winchester. "It's a fine sign. I've news, too, that two thousand men have come up. We shall now have nine thousand with which to withstand the attack, and I don't believe they can drive us away. Oh, why isn't Pope himself here with his whole army? Then we could wipe Jackson off the face of the earth!"

But Pope was not there. The commander of a huge force, the man of boastful words who was to do such great things, the man who sent such grandiloquent dispatches from "Headquarters in the Saddle," to the anxious Lincoln at Washington, had strung his numerous forces along in detachments, just as the others had done before him, and the booming of Jackson's cannon attacking the Northern vanguard with his whole army could not reach ears so far away.

The fire now became heavy along the whole Union front. All the batteries on both sides were coming into action, and the earth trembled with the rolling crash. The smoke rose and hung in clouds over the hills, the valley and the cornfield. The hot air, surcharged with dust, smoke and burned gunpowder, was painful and rasping to the throat. The frightful screaming of the shells filled the air, and then came the hissing of the bullets like a storm of sleet.

Colonel Winchester and his staff dismounted, giving their horses to an orderly who led them to the rear. Horses would not be needed for the present, at least, and they had learned to avoid needless risk.

The attack was coming closer, and the bullets as they swept through their ranks found many victims. Colonel Winchester ordered his regiment to kneel and open fire, being held hitherto in reserve. Dick snatched up a rifle from a soldier who had fallen almost beside him, and he saw that Warner and Pennington had equipped themselves in like fashion.

A strong gust of wind lifted the smoke before them a little. Dick saw many splashes of water on the surface of the creek where bullets struck, and there were many tiny spurts of dust in the road, where other bullets fell. Then he saw beyond the dark masses of the Southern infantry. It seemed to him that they were strangely close. He believed that he could see their tanned faces, one by one, and their vengeful eyes, but it was only fancy.

The next instant the signal was given, and the regiment fired as one. There was a long flash of fire, a tremendous roaring in Dick's ears, then for an instant or two a vast cloud of smoke hid the advancing gray mass. When it was lifted a moment later the men in gray were advancing no longer. Their ranks were shattered and broken, the ground was covered with the fallen and the others were reeling back.

"We win! We win!" shouted Pennington, wild with enthusiasm.

"For the present, at least," said Warner, a deep flush blazing in either cheek.

There was no return fire just then from that point, and the smoke lifted a little more. Above the crash of the battle which raged fiercely on either flank, they heard the notes of a trumpet rising, loud, clear, and distinct from all other sounds. Dick knew that it was a rallying call, and then he heard Pennington utter a wild shout.

"I see him! I see him!" he cried. "It's old Stonewall himself! There on the hillock, on the little horse!"

The vision was but for an instant. Dick gazed with all his eyes, and he saw several hundred yards away a thickset man on a sorrel horse. He was bearded and he stooped a little, seeming to bend an intense gaze upon the Northern lines.

There was no time for anyone to fire, because in a few seconds the smoke came back, a huge, impenetrable curtain, and hid the man and the hillock. But Dick had not the slightest doubt that it was the great Southern leader, and he was right. It was Stonewall Jackson on the hillock, rallying his men, and Dick's own cousin, Harry Kenton, rode by his side.

They reloaded, but a staff officer galloped up and delivered a written order to Colonel Winchester. The whole regiment left the line, another less seasoned taking its place, and they marched off to one flank, where a field of wheat lately cut, and a wood on the extreme end, lay before them. Behind them they heard the battle swelling anew, but Dick knew that a new force of the foe was coming here, and he felt proud that his own regiment had been moved to meet an attack which would certainly be made with the greatest violence.

"Who are those men down in the wheat-field?" asked Pennington.

"Our own skirmishers," replied Warner. "See them running forward, hiding behind the shocks of straw and firing!"

The riflemen were busy. They fired from the shelter of every straw stack in the field, and they stung the new Southern advance, which was already showing its front. Southern guns now began to search the wheat field. A shell struck squarely in the center of one of the shocks behind which three Northern skirmishers were kneeling. Dick saw the straw fly into the air as if picked up by a whirlwind. When it settled back it lay in scattered masses and three dark figures lay with it, motionless and silent. He shuddered and looked away.

The edge of the wood was now lined with Southern infantry, and on their right flank was a numerous body of cavalry. Officers were waving their swords aloft, leading the men in person to the charge.

"The attack will be heavy here," said Colonel Winchester. "Ah, there are our guns firing over our heads. We need 'em."

The Southern cannon were more numerous, but the Northern guns, posted well on the hill, refused to be silenced. Some of them were dismounted and the gunners about them were killed, but the others, served with speed and valor, sprayed the whole Southern front with a deadly shower of steel.

It was this welcome metal that Dick and his comrades heard over their heads, and then the trumpets rang a shrill note of defiance along the whole line. Banks, remembering his bitter defeats and resolved upon victory now, was not awaiting the attack. He would make it himself.

The whole wing lifted itself up and rushed through the wheat field, firing as they charged. The cannon were pushed forward and poured in volleys as fast as the gunners could load and discharge them. Dick felt the ground reeling beneath his feet, but he knew that they were advancing and that the enemy was giving way again. Stonewall Jackson and his generals felt a certain hardening of the Northern resistance that day. The recruits in blue were becoming trained now. They did not break in a panic, although their lines were raked through and through by the Southern shells. New men stepped in the place of the fallen, and the lines, filled up, came on again.

The Northern wing charging through the wheat field continued to bear back the enemy. Jackson was not yet able to stop the fierce masses in blue. A formidable body of men issuing from the Northern side of the wood charged with the bayonet, pushing the charge home with a courage and a recklessness of death that the war had not yet seen surpassed. The Southern rifles and cannon raked them, but they never stopped, bursting like a tornado upon their foe.

One of Jackson's Virginia regiments gave way and then another. The men in blue from the wood and Colonel Winchester's regiment joined, their shouts rising above the smoke while they steadily pushed the enemy before them.

Dick as he shouted with the rest felt a wild exultation. They were showing Jackson what they could do! They were proving to him that he could not win always. His joy was warranted. No such confusion had ever before existed in Jackson's army. The Northern charge was driven like a wedge of steel into its ranks.

Jackson had able generals, valiant lieutenants, with him, Ewell and Early, and A. P. Hill and Winder, and they strove together to stop the retreat. The valiant Winder was mortally wounded and died upon the field, and Jackson, with his wonderful ability to see what was happening and his equal power of decision, swiftly withdrew that wing of his army, also carrying with it every gun.

A great shout of triumph rose from the men in blue as they saw the Southern retreat.

"We win! We win!" cried Pennington again.

"Yes, we win!" shouted Warner, usually so cool.

And it did seem even to older men that the triumph was complete. The blue and the gray were face to face in the smoke, but the gray were driven back by the fierce and irresistible charge, and, as their flight became swifter, the shells and grape from the Northern batteries plunged and tore through their ranks. Nothing stopped the blue wave. It rolled on and on, sweeping a mass of fugitives before it, and engulfing others.

Dick had no ordered knowledge of the charge. He was a part of it, and he saw only straight in front of him, but he was conscious that all around him there was a fiery red mist, and a confused and terrible noise of shouting and firing. But they were winning! They were beating Stonewall Jackson himself. His pulses throbbed so hard that he thought his arteries would burst, and his lips were dry and blackened from smoke, burned gunpowder and his own hot breath issuing like steam between them.

Then came a halt so sudden and terrible that it shook Dick as if by physical contact. He looked around in wonder. The charge was spent, not from its lack of strength but because they had struck an obstacle. They had reckoned ill, because they had not reckoned upon all the resources of Stonewall Jackson's mind. He had stemmed the rout in person and now he was pushing forward the Stonewall Brigade, five regiments, which always had but two alternatives, to conquer or to die. Hill and Ewell with fresh troops were coming up also on his flanks, and now the blue and the gray, face to face again, closed in mortal combat.

"We've stopped! We've stopped! Do you hear it, we've stopped!" exclaimed Pennington, his face a ghastly reek of dust and perspiration, his eyes showing amazement and wonder how the halt could have happened. Dick shared in the terrible surprise. The fire in front of him deepened suddenly. Men were struck down all about him. Heavy masses of troops in gray showed through the smoke. The Stonewall Brigade was charging, and regiments were charging with it on either side.

The column in blue was struck in front and on either flank. It not only ceased its victorious advance, but it began to give ground. The men could not help it, despite their most desperate efforts. It seemed to Dick that the earth slipped under their feet. A tremendous excitement seized him at the thought of victory lost just when it seemed won. He ran up and down the lines, shouting to the men to stand firm. He saw that the senior officers were doing the same, but there was little order or method in his own movements. It was the excitement and bitter humiliation that drove him on.

He stumbled in the smoke against Sergeant Whitley. The sergeant's forehead had been creased by a bullet, but so much dust and burned gunpowder had gathered upon it that it was as black as the face of a black man.

"Are we to lose after all?" exclaimed Dick.

It seemed strange to him, even at that moment, that he should hear his own voice amid such a roar of cannon and rifles. But it was an undernote, and he heard with equal ease the sergeant's reply:

"It ain't decided yet, Mr. Mason, but we've got to fight as we never fought before."

The Union men, both those who had faced Jackson before and those who were now meeting him for the first time, fought with unsurpassed valor, but, unequal in numbers, they saw the victory wrenched from their grasp. Jackson now had his forces in the hollow of his hand. He saw everything that was passing, and with the mind of a master he read the meaning of it. He strengthened his own weak points and increased the attack upon those of the North.

Dick remained beside the sergeant. He had lost sight of Colonel Winchester, Warner and Pennington in the smoke and the dreadful confusion, but he saw well enough that his fears were coming true.

The attack in front increased in violence, and the Northern army was also attacked with fiery energy on both flanks. The men had the actual physical feeling that they were enclosed in the jaws of a vise, and, forced to abandon all hope of victory, they fought now to escape. Two small squadrons of cavalry, scarce two hundred in number, sent forward from a wood, charged the whole Southern army under a storm of cannon and rifle fire. They equalled the ride of the Six Hundred at Balaklava, but with no poet to celebrate it, it remained like so many other charges in this war, an obscure and forgotten incident.

Dick saw the charge of the horsemen, and the return of the few. Then he lost hope. Above the roar of the battle the rebel yell continually swelled afresh. The setting sun, no longer golden but red, cast a sinister light over the trampled wheat field, the slopes and the woods torn by cannon balls. The dead and the wounded lay in thousands, and Banks, brave and tenacious, but with bitter despair in his heart, was seeking to drag the remains of his army from that merciless vise which continued to close down harder and harder.

Dick's excitement and tension seemed to abate. He had been keyed to so high a pitch that his pulses grew gentler through very lack of force, and with the relaxation came a clearer view. He saw the sinking red sun through the banks of smoke, and in fancy he already felt the cool darkness upon his face after the hot and terrible August day. He knew that night might save them, and he prayed deeply and fervently for its swift coming.

He and the sergeant came suddenly to Colonel Winchester, whose hat had been shot from his head, but who was otherwise unharmed. Warner and Pennington were near, Warner slightly wounded but apparently unaware of the fact. The colonel, by shout and by gesture, was gathering around him the remains of his regiment. Other regiments on either side were trying to do the same, and eventually they formed a compact mass which, driving with all its force back toward its old position, reached the hills and the woods just as the jaws of Stonewall Jackson's vise shut down, but not upon the main body.

Victory, won for a little while, had been lost. Night protected their retreat, and they fought with a valor that made Jackson and all his generals cautious. But this knowledge was little compensation to the Northern troops. They knew that behind them was a great army, that Pope might have been present with fifty thousand men, sufficient to overwhelm Jackson. Instead of the odds being more than two to one in their favor, they had been two to one against them.

It was a sullen army that lay in the woods in the first hour or two of the night, gasping for breath. These men had boasted that they were a match for those of Jackson, and they were, if they could only have traded generals. Dick and his comrades from the west began to share in the awe that the name of Stonewall Jackson inspired.

"He comes up to his advertisements. There ain't no doubt of it," said Sergeant Whitley. "I never saw anybody fight better than our men did, an' that charge of the little troop of cavalry was never beat anywhere in the world. But here we are licked, and thirty or forty thousand men of ours not many miles away!"

He spoke the last words with a bitterness that Dick had never heard in his voice before.

"It's simple," said Warner, who was binding up his little wound with his own hand. "It's just a question in mathematics. I see now how Stonewall Jackson won so many triumphs in the Valley of Virginia. Give Jackson, say, fifteen thousand men. We have fifty thousand, but we divide them into five armies of ten thousand apiece. Jackson fights them in detail, which is five battles, of course. His fifteen thousand defeat the ten thousand every time. Hence Jackson with fifteen thousand men has beaten our side. It's simple but painful. In time our leaders will learn."

"After we're all killed," said Pennington sadly.

"And the country is ripped apart so that it will take half a century to put the pieces back together again and put 'em back right," said Dick, with equal sadness.

"Never mind," said Sergeant Whitley with returning cheerfulness. "Other countries have survived great wars and so will ours."

Some food was obtained for the exhausted men and they ate it nervously, paying little attention to the crackling fire of the skirmishers which was still going on in the darkness along their front. Dick saw the pink flashes along the edges of the woods and the wheat field, but his mind, deadened for the time, took no further impressions. Skirmishers were unpleasant people, anyway. Let them fight down there. It did not matter what they might do to one another. A minute or two later he was ashamed of such thoughts.

Colonel Winchester, who had been to see General Banks, returned presently and told them that they would march again in half an hour.

"General Banks," he said with bitter irony, "is afraid that a powerful force of the rebels will gain his rear and that we shall be surrounded. He ought to know. He has had enough dealings with Jackson. Outmaneuvered and outflanked again! Why can't we learn something?"

But he said this to the young officers only. He forced a cheerfulness of tone when he spoke to the men, and they dragged themselves wearily to their feet in order to begin the retreat. But though the muscles were tired the spirit was not unwilling. All the omens were sinister, pointing to the need of withdrawal. The vicious skirmishers were still busy and a crackling fire came from many points in the woods. The occasional rolling thunder of a cannon deepened the somberness of the scene.

All the officers of the regiment had lost their horses and they walked now with the men. A full moon threw a silvery light over the marching troops, who strode on in silence, the wounded suppressing their groans. A full moon cast a silvery light over the pallid faces.

"Do you know where we are going?" Dick asked of the Vermonter.

"I heard that we're bound for a place called Culpeper Court House, six or seven miles away. I suppose we'll get there in the morning, if Stonewall Jackson doesn't insist on another interview with us."

"There's enough time in the day for fighting," said Pennington, "without borrowing of the night. Hear that big gun over there on our right! Why do they want to be firing cannon balls at such a time?"

They trudged gloomily on, following other regiments ghostly in the moonlight, and followed by others as ghostly. But the sinister omens, the flash of rifle firing and the far boom of a cannon, were always on their flanks. The impression of Jackson's skill and power which Dick had gained so quickly was deepening already. He did not have the slightest doubt now that the Southern leader was pressing forward through the woods to cut them off. As the sergeant had said truly, he came up to his advertisements and more. Dick shivered and it was a shiver of apprehension for the army, and not for himself.

In accordance with human nature he and the boy officers who were his good comrades talked together, but their sentences were short and broken.

"Marching toward a court house," said Pennington. "What'll we do when we get there? Lawyers won't help us."

"Not so much marching toward a court house as marching away from Jackson," said the Vermonter.

"We'll march back again," said Dick hopefully.

"But when?" said Pennington. "Look through the trees there on our right. Aren't those rebel troops?"

Dick's startled gaze beheld a long line of horsemen in gray on their flank and only a few hundred yards away.



Chapter II. At The Capital


The Southern cavalry was seen almost at the same time by many men in the regiments, and nervous and hasty, as was natural at such a time, they opened a scattering fire. The horsemen did not return the fire, but seemed to melt away in the darkness.

But the shrewdest of the officers, among whom was Colonel Winchester, took alarm at this sudden appearance and disappearance. Dick would have divined from their manner, even without their talk, that they believed Jackson was at hand. Action followed quickly. The army stopped and began to seek a strong position in the wood. Cannon were drawn up, their mouths turned to the side on which the horsemen had appeared, and the worn regiments assumed the attitude of defense. Dick's heart throbbed with pride when he saw that they were as ready as ever to fight, although they had suffered great losses and the bitterest of disappointments.

"What I said I've got to say over again," said Pennington ruefully: "the night's no time for fighting. It's heathenish in Stonewall Jackson to follow us, and annoy us in such a way."

"Such a way! Such a way!" said Dick impatiently. "We've got to learn to fight as he does. Good God, Frank, think of all the sacrifices we are making to save our Union, the great republic! Think how the hateful old monarchies will sneer and rejoice if we fall, and here in the East our generals just throw our men away! They divide and scatter our armies in such a manner that we simply ask to be beaten."

"Sh! sh!" said Warner, as he listened to the violent outbreak, so unusual on the part of the reserved and self-contained lad. "Here come two generals."

"Two too many," muttered Dick. A moment or two later he was ashamed of himself, not because of what he had said, but because he had said it. Then Warner seized him by the arm and pointed.

"A new general, bigger than all the rest, has come," he said, "and although I've never seen him before I know with mathematical certainty that it's General John Pope, commander-in-chief of the Army of Virginia."

Both Dick and Pennington knew instinctively that Warner was right. General Pope, a strongly built man in early middle years, surrounded by a brilliant staff, rode into a little glade in the midst of the troops, and summoned to him the leading officers who had taken part in the battle.

Dick and his two comrades stood on one side, but they could not keep from hearing what was said and done. In truth they did not seek to avoid hearing, nor did many of the young privates who stood near and who considered themselves quite as good as their officers.

Pope, florid and full-faced, was in a fine humor. He complimented the officers on their valor, spoke as if they had won a victory -- which would have been a fact had others done their duty -- and talked slightingly of Jackson. The men of the west would show this man his match in the art of war.

Dick listened to it all with bitterness in his heart. He had no doubt that Pope was brave, and he could see that he was confident. Yet it took something more than confidence to defeat an able enemy. What had become of those gray horsemen in the bush? They had appeared once and they could appear again. He had believed that Jackson himself was at hand, and he still believed it. His eyes shifted from Pope to the dark woods, which, with their thick foliage, turned back the moonlight.

"George," he whispered to Warner, "do you think you can see anything among those trees?"

"I can make out dimly one or two figures, which no doubt are our scouts. Ah-h!"

The long "Ah-h!" was drawn by a flash and the report of a rifle. A second and a third report came, and then the crash of a heavy fire. The scouts and sentinels came running in, reporting that a great force with batteries, presumably the whole army of Jackson, was at hand.

A deep murmur ran through the Union army, but there was no confusion. The long hours of fighting had habituated them to danger. They were also too tired to become excited, and in addition, they were of as stern stuff at night as they had been in the morning. They were ready to fight again.

Formidable columns of troops appeared through the woods, their bayonets glistening in the moonlight. The heavy rifle fire began once more, although it was nearly midnight, and then came the deep thunder of cannon, sending round shot and shells among the Union troops. But the men in blue, harried beyond endurance, fought back fiercely. They shared the feelings of Pennington. They felt that they had been persecuted, that this thing had grown inhuman, and they used rifles and cannon with astonishing vigor and energy.

Two heavy Union batteries replied to the Southern cannon, raking the woods with shell, round shot and grape, and Dick concluded that in the face of so much resolution Jackson would not press an attack at night, when every kind of disaster might happen in the darkness. His own regiment had lain down among the leaves, and the men were firing at the flashes on their right. Dick looked for General Pope and his brilliant staff, but he did not see them.

"Gone to bring up the reserves," whispered Warner, who saw Dick's inquiring look.

But the Vermonter's slur was not wholly true. Pope was on his way to his main force, doubtless not really believing that Jackson himself was at hand. But the little army that he left behind fighting with renewed energy and valor broke away from the Southern grasp and continued its march toward that court house, in which the boys could see no merit. Jackson himself, knowing what great numbers were ahead, was content to swing away and seek for prey elsewhere.

They emerged from the wood toward morning and saw ahead of them great masses of troops in blue. They would have shouted with joy, but they were too tired. Besides, nearly two thousand of their men were killed or wounded, and they had no victory to celebrate.

Dick ate breakfast with his comrades. The Northern armies nearly always had an abundance of provisions, and now they were served in plenty. For the moment, the physical overcame the mental in Dick. It was enough to eat and to rest and to feel secure. Thousands of friendly faces were around them, and they would not have to fight in either day or dark for their lives. Their bones ceased to ache, and the good food and the good coffee began to rebuild the worn tissues. What did the rest matter?

After breakfast these men who had marched and fought for nearly twenty hours were told to sleep. Only one command was needed. It was August, and the dry grass and the soft earth were good enough for anybody. The three lads, each with an arm under his head, slept side by side. At noon they were still sleeping, and Colonel Winchester, as he was passing, looked at the three, but longest at Dick. His gaze was half affection, half protection, but it was not the boy alone whom he saw. He saw also his fair-haired young mother in that little town on the other side of the mountains.

While Dick still slept, the minds of men were at work. Pope's army, hitherto separated, was now called together by a battle. Troops from every direction were pouring upon the common center. The little army which had fought so gallantly the day before now amounted to only one-fourth of the whole. McDowell, Sigel and many other generals joined Pope, who, with the strange faculty of always seeing his enemy too small, while McClellan always saw him too large, began to feed upon his own sanguine anticipations, and to regard as won the great victory that he intended to win. He sent telegrams to Washington announcing that his triumph at Cedar Run was only the first of a series that his army would soon achieve.

It was late in the afternoon when Dick awoke, and he was amazed to see that the sun was far down the western sky. But he rubbed his eyes and, remembering, knew that he had slept at least ten hours. He looked down at the relaxed figures of Warner and Pennington on either side of him. They still slumbered soundly, but he decided that they had slept long enough.

"Here, you," he exclaimed, seizing Warner by the collar and dragging him to a sitting position, "look at the sun! Do you realize that you've lost a day out of your bright young life?"

Then he seized Pennington by the collar also and dragged him up. Both Warner and Pennington yawned prodigiously.

"If I've lost a day, and it would seem that I have, then I'm glad of it," replied Warner. "I could afford to lose several in such a pleasant manner. I suppose a lot of Stonewall Jackson's men were shooting at me while I slept, but I was lucky and didn't know about it."

"You talk too long," said Pennington. "That comes of your having taught school. You could talk all day to boys younger than yourself, and they were afraid to answer back."

"Shut up, both of you," said Dick. "Here comes the sergeant, and I think from his look he has something to say worth hearing."

Sergeant Whitley had cleansed the blood and dust from his face, and a handkerchief tied neatly around his head covered up the small wound there. He looked trim and entirely restored, both mentally and physically.

"Well, sergeant," said Dick ingratiatingly, "if any thing has happened in this army you're sure to know of it. We'd have known it ourselves, but we had an important engagement with Morpheus, a world away, and we had to keep it. Now what is the news?"

"I don't know who Morpheus is," replied the sergeant, laughing, "but I'd guess from your looks that he is another name for sleep. There is no news of anything big happenin'. We've got a great army here, and Jackson remains near our battlefield of yesterday. I should say that we number at least fifty thousand men, or about twice the rebels."

"Then why don't we march against 'em at once?"

The sergeant shrugged his shoulders. It was not for him to tell why generals did not do things.

"I think," he said, "that we're likely to stay here a day or two."

"Which means," said Dick, his alert mind interpreting at once, "that our generals don't know what to do. Why is it that they always seem paralyzed when they get in front of Stonewall Jackson? He's only a man like the rest of them!"

He spoke with perfect freedom in the presence of Sergeant Whitley, knowing that he would repeat nothing.

"A man, yes," said Warner, in his precise manner, "but not exactly like the others. He seems to have more of the lightning flash about him. What a pity such a leader should be on the wrong side! Perhaps we'll have his equal in time."

"Is Jackson's army just sitting still?" asked Dick.

"So far as scouts can gather, an' I've been one of them," replied Sergeant Whitley, "it seems to be just campin'. But I wish I knew which way it was goin' to jump. I don't trust Jackson when he seems to be nappin'."

But the good sergeant's doubts were to remain for two days at least. The two armies sat still, only two miles apart, and sentinels, as was common throughout the great war, became friendly with one another. Often they met in the woods and exchanged news and abundant criticism of generals. At last there was a truce to bury the dead who still lay upon the sanguinary field of Cedar Run.

Dick was in charge of one of these burial parties, and toward the close of the day he saw a familiar figure, also in command of a burial party, although it was in a gray uniform. His heart began to thump, and he uttered a cry of joy. The unexpected, but not the unnatural, had happened.

"Oh, Harry! Harry!" he shouted.

The strong young figure in the uniform of a lieutenant in the Southern army turned in surprise at the sound of a familiar voice, and stood, staring.

"Dick! Dick Mason!" he cried. Then the two sprang forward and grasped the hands of each other. There was no display of emotion -- they were of the stern American stock, taught not to show its feelings -- but their eyes showed their gladness.

"Harry," said Dick, "I knew that you had been with Jackson, but I had no way of knowing until a moment ago that you were yet alive."

"Nor I you, Dick. I thought you were in the west."

"I was, but after Shiloh, some of us came east to help. It seemed after the Seven Days that we were needed more here than in the west."

"You never said truer words, Dick. They'll need you and many more thousands like you. Why, Dick, we're not led here by a man, we're led by a thunderbolt. I'm on his staff, I see him every day. He talks to me, and I talk to him. I tell you, Dick, it's a wonderful thing to serve such a genius. You can't beat him! His kind appears only a few times in the ages. He always knows what's to be done and he does it. Even if your generals knew what ought to be done, most likely they'd do something else."

Harry's face glowed with enthusiasm as he spoke of his hero, and Dick, looking at him, shook his head sadly.

"I'm afraid that what you say is true for the present at least, Harry," he said. "You beat us now here in the east, but don't forget that we're winning in the west. And don't forget that here in the east even, you can never wear us out. We'll be coming, always coming."

"All right, old Sober Sides, we won't quarrel about it. We'll let time settle it. Here come some friends of mine whom I want you to know. Curious that you should meet them at such a time."

Two other young lieutenants in gray uniforms at the head of burial parties came near in the course of their work, and Harry called to them.

"Tom! Arthur! A moment, please! This is my cousin, Dick Mason, a Yankee, though I think he's honest in his folly. Dick, this is Arthur St. Clair, and this is Tom Langdon, both friends of mine from South Carolina."

They shook hands warmly. There was no animosity between them. Dick liked the looks and manners of Harry's friends. He could have been their friend, too.

"Harry has talked about you often," said Happy Tom Langdon. "Says you're a great scholar, and a good fellow, all right every way, except the crack in your head that makes you a Yankee. I hope you won't get hurt in this unpleasantness, and when our victorious army comes into Washington we'll take good care of you and release you soon."

Dick smiled. He liked this youth who could keep up the spirit of fun among such scenes.

"Don't you pay any attention to Langdon, Mr. Mason," said St. Clair. "If he'd only fight as well and fast as he talks there'd be no need for the rest of us."

"You know you couldn't win the war without me," said Langdon.

They talked a little more together, then trumpets blew, the work was done and they must withdraw to their own armies. They had been engaged in a grewsome task, but Dick was glad to the bottom of his heart to have been sent upon it. He had learned that Harry still lived, and he had met him. He did not understand until then how dear his cousin was to him. They were more like brothers than cousins. It was like the affection their great-grandfathers, Henry Ware and Paul Cotter, had felt for each other, although those famous heroes of the border had always fought side by side, while their descendants were compelled to face each other across a gulf.

They shook hands and withdrew slowly. At the edge of the field, Dick turned to wave another farewell, and he found that Harry, actuated by the same motive at the same time, had also turned to make a like gesture. Each waved twice, instead of once, and then they disappeared among the woods. Dick returned to Colonel Winchester.

"While we were under the flag of truce I met my cousin, Harry Kenton," he said.

"One of the lucky fortunes of war."

"Yes, sir, I was very glad to see him. I did not know how glad I was until I came away. He says that we can never beat Jackson, that nothing but death can ever stop him."

"Youth often deceives itself, nor is age any exception. Never lose hope, Dick."

"I don't mean to do so, sir."

The next morning, when Dick was with one of the outposts, a man of powerful build, wonderfully quick and alert in his movements, appeared. His coming was so quick and silent that he seemed to rise from the earth, and Dick was startled. The man's face was uncommon. His features were of great strength, the eyes being singularly vivid and penetrating. He was in civilian's dress, but he promptly showed a pass from General Pope, and Dick volunteered to take him to headquarters, where he said he wished to go.

Dick became conscious as they walked along that the man was examining him minutely with those searching eyes of his which seemed to look one through and through.

"You are Lieutenant Richard Mason," said the stranger presently, "and you have a cousin, Harry Kenton, also a lieutenant, but in the army of Stonewall Jackson."

Dick stared at him in amazement.

"Everything you say is true," he said, "but how did you know it?"

"It's my business to know. Knowledge is my sole pursuit in this great war, and a most engrossing and dangerous task I find it. Yet, I would not leave it. My name is Shepard, and I am a spy. You needn't shrink. I'm not ashamed of my occupation. Why should I be? I don't kill. I don't commit any violence. I'm a guide and educator. I and my kind are the eyes of an army. We show the generals where the enemy is, and we tell them his plans. An able and daring spy is worth more than many a general. Besides, he takes the risk of execution, and he can win no glory, for he must always remain obscure, if not wholly unknown. Which, then, makes the greater sacrifice for his country, the spy or the general?"

"You give me a new point of view. I had not thought before how spies risked so much for so little reward."

Shepard smiled. He saw that in spite of his logic Dick yet retained that slight feeling of aversion. The boy left him, when they arrived at headquarters, but the news that Shepard brought was soon known to the whole army.

Jackson had left his camp. He was gone again, disappeared into the ether. "Retreated" was the word that Pope at once seized upon, and he sent forth happy bulletins. Shepard and other scouts and spies reported a day or two later that Jackson's army was on the Rapidan, one of the numerous Virginia rivers. Then Dick accompanied Colonel Winchester, who was sent by rail to Washington with dispatches.

He did not find in the capital the optimism that reigned in the mind of Pope. McClellan was withdrawing his army from Virginia, but the eyes of the nation were turned toward Pope. Many who had taken deep thought of the times and of men, were more alarmed about Pope than he was about himself. They did not like those jubilant dispatches from "Headquarters in the Saddle." There was ominous news that Lee himself was marching north, and that he and Jackson would soon be together. Anxious eyes scanned the hills about Washington. The enemy had been very near once before, and he might soon be near again.

Dick had an hour of leisure, and he wandered into an old hotel, at which many great men had lived. They would point to Henry Clay's famous chair in the lobby, and the whole place was thick with memories of Webster, Calhoun and others who had seemed almost demigods to their own generation.

But a different crowd was there now. They were mostly paunchy men who talked of contracts and profits. One, to whom the others paid deference, was fat, heavy and of middle age, with a fat, heavy face and pouches under his eyes. His small eyes were set close together, but they sparkled with shrewdness and cunning.

The big man presently noticed the lad who was sitting quietly in one of the chairs against the wall. Dick's was an alien presence there, and doubtless this fact had attracted his attention.

"Good day to you," said the stranger in a bluff, deep voice. "I take it from your uniform, your tan and your thinness that you've come from active service."

"In both the west and the east," replied Dick politely. "I was at Shiloh, but soon afterward I was transferred with my regiment to the east."

"Ah, then, of course, you know what is going on in Virginia?"

"No more than the general public does. I was at Cedar Run, which both we and the rebels claim as a victory."

The man instantly showed a great increase of interest.

"Were you?" he said. "My own information says that Banks and Pope were surprised by Jackson and that the rebel general has merely drawn off to make a bigger jump. Did you get that impression?"

"Will you tell me why you ask me these questions?" said Dick in the same polite tone.

"Because I've a big stake in the results out there. My name is John Watson, and I'm supplying vast quantities of shoes and clothing to our troops."

Dick turned up the sole of one of his shoes and picked thoughtfully at a hole half way through the sole. Little pieces of paper came out.

"I bought these, Mr. Watson, from a sutler in General Pope's army," he said. "I wonder if they came from you?"

A deeper tint flushed the contractor's cheeks, but in a moment he threw off anger.

"A good joke," he said jovially. "I see that you're ready of wit, despite your youth. No, those are not my shoes. I know dishonest men are making great sums out of supplies that are defective or short. A great war gives such people many opportunities, but I scorn them. I'll not deny that I seek a fair profit, but my chief object is to serve my country. Do you ever reflect, my young friend, that the men who clothe and feed an army have almost as much to do with winning the victory as the men who fight?"

"I've thought of it," said Dick, wondering what the contractor had in mind.

"What regiment do you belong to, if I may ask? My motive in asking these questions is wholly good."

"One commanded by Colonel Winchester, recently sent from the west. We've been in only one battle in the east, that fought at Cedar Run against Jackson."

Watson again looked at Dick intently. The boy felt that he was being measured and weighed by a man of uncommon perceptions. Whatever might be his moral quality there could be no question of his ability.

"I am, as I told you before," said Watson, "a servant of my country. A man who feeds and clothes the soldiers well is a patriot, while he who feeds and clothes them badly is a mere money grubber."

He paused, as if he expected Dick to say something, but the boy was silent and he went on:

"It is to the interest of the country that it be served well in all departments, particularly in the tremendous crisis that we now face. Yet the best patriot cannot always get a chance to serve. He needs friends at court, as they say. Now this colonel of yours, Colonel Winchester -- I've observed both him and you, although I approached you as if I'd never heard of either of you before -- is a man of character and influence. Certain words from him at the right time would be of great value, nor would his favorite aide suffer through bringing the matter to his attention."

Dick saw clearly now, but he was not impulsive. Experience was teaching him, while yet a boy, to speak softly.

"The young aide of whom you speak," he said, "would never think of mentioning such a matter to the colonel, of whom you also speak, and even if he should, the colonel wouldn't listen to him for a moment."

Watson shrugged his shoulders slightly, but made no other gesture of displeasure.

"Doubtless you are well informed about this aide and this colonel," he said, "but it's a pity. If more food is thrown to the sparrows than they can eat, is it any harm for other birds to eat the remainder?"

"I scarcely regard it as a study in ornithology."

"Ornithology? That's a big word, but I suppose it will serve. We'll drop the matter, and if at any time my words here should be quoted I'll promptly deny them. It's a bad thing for a boy to have his statements disputed by a man of years who can command wealth and other powerful influences. Unless he had witnesses nobody would believe the boy. I tell you this, my lad, partly for your own good, because I'm inclined to like you."

Dick stared. There was nothing insulting in the man's tone. He seemed to be thoroughly in earnest. Perhaps he regarded his point of view as right, and Dick, a boy of thought and resource, saw that it was not worth while to make a quarrel. But he resolved to remember Watson, feeling that the course of events might bring them together again.

"I suppose it's as you say," he said. "You're a man of affairs and you ought to know."

Watson smiled at him. Dick felt that the contractor had been telling the truth when he said that he was inclined to like him. Perhaps he was honest and supplied good materials, when others supplied bad.

"You will shake hands with me, Mr. Mason," he said. "You think that I will be hostile to you, but maybe some day I can prove myself your friend. Young soldiers often need friends."

His eyes twinkled and his smile widened. In spite of his appearance and his proposition, something winning had suddenly appeared in the manner of this man. Dick found himself shaking hands with him.

"Good-bye, Mr. Mason," said Watson. "It may be that we shall meet on the field, although I shall not be within range of the guns."

He left the lobby of the hotel, and Dick was rather puzzled. It was his first thought to tell Colonel Winchester about him, but he finally decided that Watson's own advice to him to keep silent was best. He and Colonel Winchester took the train from Washington the next day, and on the day after were with Pope's army on the Rapidan.

Dick detected at once a feeling of excitement or tension in this army, at least among the young officers with whom he associated most. They felt that a storm of some kind was gathering, either in front or on their flank. McClellan's army was now on the transports, leaving behind the Virginia that he had failed to conquer, and Pope's, with a new commander, was not yet in shape. The moment was propitious for Lee and Jackson to strike, and the elusive Jackson was lost again.

"Our scouts discover nothing," said Warner to Dick. "The country is chockfull of hostility to us. Not a soul will tell us a word. We have to see a thing with our own eyes before we know it's there, but the people, the little children even, take news to the rebels. A veil is hung before us, but there is none before them."

"There is one man who is sure to find out about Jackson."

"Who?"

Dick's only answer was a shake of the head. But he was thinking of Shepard. He did not see him about the camp, and he had no doubt that he was gone on another of his dangerous missions. Meanwhile newspapers from New York and other great cities reflected the doubts of the North. They spoke of Pope's grandiloquent dispatches, and they wondered what had become of Lee and Jackson.

Dick, an intense patriot, passed many bitter moments. He, like others, felt that the hand upon the reins was not sure. Instead of finding the enemy and assailing him with all their strength, they were waiting in doubt and alarm to fend off a stroke that would come from some unknown point out of the dark.

The army now lay in one of the finest parts of Virginia, a region of picturesque mountains, wide and fertile valleys, and of many clear creeks and rivers coming down from the peaks and ridges. To one side lay a great forest, known as the Wilderness, destined, with the country near it, to become the greatest battlefield of the world. Here, the terrible battles of the Second Manassas, Fredericksburg, Chancellorsville, the Wilderness, Spottsylvania, and others less sanguinary, but great struggles, nevertheless, were to be fought.

But these were yet in the future, and Dick, much as his eyes had been opened, did not yet dream how tremendous the epic combat was to be. He only knew that to-day it was the middle of August, the valleys were very hot, but it was shady and cool on the hills and mountains. He knew, too, that he was young, and that pessimism and gloom could not abide long with him.

He and Warner and Pennington had good horses, in place of those that they had lost at Cedar Run, and often they rode to the front to see what might be seen of the enemy, which at present was nothing. Their battlefield at Cedar Run had been reoccupied by Northern troops and Pope was now confirmed in his belief that his men had won a victory there. And this victory was to be merely a prelude to another and far greater one.

As they rode here and there in search of the enemy, Dick came upon familiar ground. Once more he saw the field of Manassas which had been lost so hardly the year before. He remembered every hill and brook and curve of the little river, because they had been etched into his brain with steel and fire. How could anyone forget that day?

"Looks as if we might fight our battle of last year over again, but on a much bigger scale," he said to Warner.

"Here or hereabouts," said the Vermonter, "and I think we ought to win. They've got the better generals, but we've got more men. Besides, our troops are becoming experienced and they've shown their mettle. Dick, here's a farmer gathering corn. Let's ask him some questions, but I'll wager you a hundred to one before we begin that he knows absolutely nothing about the rebel army. In fact, I doubt that he will know of its existence."

"I won't take your bet," said Dick.

They called to the man, a typical Virginia farmer in his shirt sleeves, tall and spare, short whiskers growing under his chin. There was not much difference between him and his brother farmer in New England.

"Good-day," said Warner.

"Good-day."

"You seem to be working hard."

"I've need to do it. Farm hands are scarce these days."

"Farming is hard work."

"Yes; but it's a lot safer than some other kinds men are doin' nowadays."

"True, no doubt, but have you seen anything of the army?"

"What army?"

"The one under Lee and Jackson, the rebel army."

"I ain't heard of no rebel army, mister. I don't know of any such people as rebels."

"You call it the Confederate army. Can you tell us anything about the Confederate army?"

"What Confederate army, mister? I heard last month when I went in to the court house that there was more than one of them."

"I mean the one under Lee and Jackson."

"That's cur'us. A man come ridin' 'long here three or four weeks ago. Mebbe he was a lightnin' rod agent an' mebbe he had patent medicines to sell, he didn't say, but he did tell me that General Jackson was in one place an General Lee was in another. Now which army do you mean?"

"That was nearly a month ago. They are together now."

"Then, mister, if you know so much more about it than I do, what are you askin' me questions for?"

"But I want to know about Lee and Jackson. Have you seen them?"

"Lord bless you, mister, them big generals don't come visitin' the likes o' me. You kin see my house over thar among the trees. You kin search it if you want to, but you won't find nothin'."

"I don't want to search your house. You can't hide a great army in a house. I want to know if you've seen the Southern Army. I want to know if you've heard anything about it."

"I ain't seed it. My sight's none too good, mister. Sometimes the blazin' sun gits in my eyes and kinder blinds me for a long time. Then, too, I'm bad of hearin'; but I'm a powerful good sleeper. When I sleep I don't hear nothin', of course, an' nothin' wakes me up. I just sleep on, sometimes dreamin' beautiful dreams. A million men wouldn't wake me, an' mebbe a dozen armies or so have passed in the night while I was sleepin' so good. I'd tell you anything I know, but them that knows nothin' has nothin' to tell."

Warner's temper, although he had always practiced self-control, had begun to rise, but he checked it, seeing that it would be a mere foolish display of weakness in the face of the blank wall that confronted him.

"My friend," he said with gravity, "I judge from the extreme ignorance you display concerning great affairs that you sleep a large part of the time."

"Mebbe so, an' mebbe not. I most gen'ally sleep when I'm sleepy. I've heard tell there was a big war goin' on in these parts, but this is my land, an' I'm goin' to stay on it."

"A good farmer, if not a good patriot. Good day."

"Good day."

They rode on and, in spite of themselves, laughed.

"I'm willing to wager that he knows a lot about Lee and Jackson," said Warner, "but the days of the rack and the thumbscrew passed long ago, and there is no way to make him tell."

"No," said Dick, "but we ought to find out for ourselves."

Nevertheless, they discovered nothing. They saw no trace of a Southern soldier, nor did they hear news of any, and toward nightfall they rode back toward the army, much disappointed. The sunset was of uncommon beauty. The hot day was growing cool. Pleasant shadows were creeping up in the east. In the west a round mountain shouldered its black bulk against the sky. Dick looked at it vaguely. He had heard it called Clark's Mountain, and it was about seven miles away from the Union army which lay behind the Rapidan River.

Dick liked mountains, and the peak looked beautiful against the red and yellow bars of the western horizon.

"Have you ever been over there?" he said to Pennington and Warner.

"No; but a lot of our scouts have," replied Pennington. "It's just a mountain and nothing more. Funny how all those peaks and ridges crop up suddenly around here out of what seems meant to have been a level country."

"I like it better because it isn't level," said Dick. "I'm afraid George and I wouldn't care much for your prairie country which just rolls on forever, almost without trees and clear running streams."

"You would care for it," said Pennington stoutly. "You'd miss at first the clear rivers and creeks, but then the spell of it would take hold of you. The air you breathe isn't like the air you breathe anywhere else."

"We've got some air of our own in Vermont that we could brag about, if we wanted to," said Warner, defiantly.

"It's good, but not as good as ours. And then the vast distances, the great spaces take hold of you. And there's the sky so high and so clear. When you come away from the great plains you feel cooped up anywhere else."

Pennington spoke with enthusiasm, his nostrils dilating and his eyes flashing. Dick was impressed.

"When the war's over I'm going out there to see your plains," he said.

"Then you're coming to see me!" exclaimed Pennington, with all the impulsive warmth of youth. "And George here is coming with you. I won't show you any mountains like the one over there, but boys, west of the Platte River, when I was with my father and some other men I watched for three days a buffalo herd passing. The herd was going north and all the time it stretched so far from east to west that it sank under each horizon. There must have been millions of them. Don't you think that was something worth seeing?"

"We're surely coming," said Dick, "and you be equally sure to have your buffalo herd ready for us when we come."

"It'll be there."

"Meanwhile, here we are at the Rapidan," said the practical Warner, "and beyond it is our army. Look at that long line of fires, boys. Aren't they cheering? A fine big army like ours ought to beat off anything. We almost held our own with Jackson himself at Cedar Run, and he had two to one."

"We will win! We're bound to win!" said Dick, with sudden access of hope. "We'll crush Lee and Jackson, and next summer you and I, George, will be out on the western plains with Frank, watching the buffalo millions go thundering by!"

They forded the Rapidan and rejoined their regiment with nothing to tell. But it was cheerful about the fires. Optimism reigned once more in the Army of Virginia. McClellan had sent word to Pope that he would have plenty of soldiers to face the attack that now seemed to be threatened by the South. Brigades from the Army of the Potomac would make the Army of Virginia invincible.

Dick having nothing particular to do, sat late with his comrades before one of the finest of the fires, and he read only cheerful omens in the flames. It was a beautiful night. The moon seemed large and near, and the sky was full of dancing stars. In the clear night Dick saw the black bulk of Clark's Mountain off there against the horizon, but he could not see what was behind it.



Chapter III. Beside The River


Dick was on duty early in the morning when he saw a horseman coming at a gallop toward the Rapidan. The man was in civilian clothing, but his figure seemed familiar. The boy raised his glasses, and he saw at once that it was Shepard. He saw, too, that he was urging his horse to its utmost speed.

The boy's heart suddenly began to throb, and there was a cold, prickling sensation at the roots of his hair. Shepard had made an extraordinary impression upon him and he did not believe that the man would be coming at such a pace unless he came with great news.

He saw Shepard stop, give the pass word to the pickets, then gallop on, ford the river and come straight toward the heart of the army. Dick ran forward and met him.

"What is it?" he cried.

"General Pope's tent! Where it is! I can't wait a minute."

Dick pointed toward a big marquee, standing in an open space, and Shepard leaping from his horse and abandoning it entirely, ran toward the marquee. A word or two to the sentinels, and he disappeared inside.

Dick, devoured with curiosity and anxiety, went to Colonel Winchester with the story of what he had seen.

"I know of Shepard," said the colonel. "He is the best and most daring spy in the whole service of the North. I think you're right in inferring that he rides so fast for good cause."

Shepard remained with the commander-in-chief a quarter of an hour. When he came forth from the tent he regained his horse and rode away without a word, going in the direction of Clark's Mountain. But his news was quickly known, because it was of a kind that could not be concealed. Pennington came running with it to the regiment, his face flushed and his eyes big.

"Look! Look at the mountain!" he exclaimed.

"I see it," said Warner. "I saw it there yesterday, too, in exactly the same place."

"So did I, but there's something behind it. Lee and Jackson are there with sixty or eighty thousand men! The whole Southern army is only six or seven miles away."

Even Warner's face changed.

"How do you know this?" he asked.

"A spy has seen their army. They say he is a man whose reports are never false. At any rate orders have already been issued for us to retreat and I hear that we're going back until we reach the Rappahannock, behind which we will camp."

Dick knew very well now that it was Shepard who brought the news, and Pennington's report about the retreat was also soon verified. The whole army was soon in motion and a feeling of depression replaced the optimism of the night before. The advance had been turned into a retreat. Were they to go back and forth in this manner forever? But Colonel Winchester spoke hopefully to his young aides and said that the retreat was right.

"We're drawing out of a trap," he said, "and time is always on our side. The South to win has to hit hard and fast, and in this case the Army of the Potomac and the Army of Virginia may join before Lee and Jackson can come up."

The lads tried to reconcile themselves, but nevertheless they did not like retreat. Dick with his powerful glasses often looked back toward the dark bulk of Clark's Mountain. He saw nothing there, nor anything in the low country between, save the rear ranks of the Union army marching on.

But Shepard had been right. Lee and Jackson, advancing silently and with every avenue of news guarded, were there behind the mountain with sixty thousand men, flushed with victories, and putting a supreme faith in their great commanders who so well deserved their trust. The men of the valley and the Seven Days, wholly confident, asked only to be led against Pope and his army, and most of them expected a battle that very day, while the Northern commander was slipping from the well-laid trap.

Pope's judgment in this case was good and fortune, too, favored him. Before the last of his men had left the Rapidan Lee himself, with his staff officers, climbed to the summit of Clark's Mountain. They were armed with the best of glasses, but drifting fogs coming down from the north spread along the whole side of the mountain and hung like a curtain between it and the retreating army. None of their glasses could pierce the veil, and it was not until nearly night that rising winds caught the fog and took it away. Then Lee and his generals saw a vast cloud of dust in the northwest and they knew that under it marched Pope's retreating army.

The Southern army was at once ordered forward in pursuit and in the night the vanguard, wading the Rapidan, followed eagerly. Dick and his comrades did not know then that they were followed so closely, but they were destined to know it before morning. The regiment of Colonel Winchester, one of the best and bravest in the whole service, formed a part of the rearguard, and Dick, Warner and Pennington rode with their chief.

The country was broken and they crossed small streams. Sometimes they were in open fields, and again they passed through long stretches of forest. There was a strong force of cavalry with the regiment, and the beat of the horses' hoofs made a steady rolling sound which was not unpleasant.

But Dick found the night full of sinister omens. They had left the Rapidan in such haste that there was still a certain confusion of impressions. The gigantic scale of everything took hold of him. One hundred and fifty thousand men, or near it, were marching northward in two armies which could not be many miles apart. The darkness and the feeling of tragedy soon to come oppressed him.

He listened eagerly for the sounds of pursuit, but the long hours passed and he heard nothing. The rear guard did not talk. The men wasted no strength that way, but marched stolidly on in the moonlight. Midnight passed and after a while it grew darker. Colonel Winchester and his young officers rode at the very rear, and Pennington suddenly held up his hand.

"What is it?" asked Colonel Winchester.

"Somebody following us, sir. I was trained out on the plains to take notice of such things. May I get down and put my ear to the ground? I may look ridiculous, sir, but I can make sure."

"Certainly. Go ahead."

Pennington sprang down and put his ear to the road. He did not listen long, but when he stood up again he said:

"Horsemen are coming. I can't tell how many, but several hundreds at least."

"As we're the very last of our own army, they must be Southern cavalry," said Colonel Winchester. "If they want to attack, I dare say our boys are willing."

Very soon they heard clearly the gallop of the cavalry, and the men heard it also. They looked up and turned their faces toward those who must be foes. Despite the dimness Dick saw their eyes brighten. Colonel Winchester had judged rightly. The boys were willing.

The rear guard turned back and waited, and in a few minutes the Southern horsemen came in sight, opening fire at once. Their infantry, too, soon appeared in the woods and fields and the dark hours before the dawn were filled with the crackle of small arms.

Dick kept close to Colonel Winchester who anxiously watched the pursuit, throwing his own regiment across the road, and keeping up a heavy fire on the enemy. The Union loss was not great as most of the firing in the dusk, of necessity, was at random, and Dick heard bullets whistling all about him. Some times the bark flew from trees and now and then there was a rain of twigs, shorn from the branches by the showers of missiles.

It was arduous work. The men were worn by the darkness, the uncertainty and the incessant pursuit. The Northern rear guard presented a strong front, retreating slowly with its face to the enemy, and always disputing the road. Dick meanwhile could hear through the crash of the firing the deep rumble of Pope's great army with its artillery and thousands of wagons continually marching toward the Rappahannock. His mind became absorbed in a vital question. Would Lee and Jackson come up before they could reach the bigger river? Would a battle be forced the next day while the Union army was in retreat? He confided his anxieties to Warner who rode by his side.

"I take it that it's only a vanguard that's pursuing us," said the Vermonter. "If they were in great force they'd have been pushing harder and harder. We must have got a good start before Lee and Jackson found us out. We know our Jackson, Dick, and he'd have been right on top of us without delay."

"That's right, George. It must be their cavalry mostly. I suppose Jeb Stuart is there leading them. At any rate we'll soon know better what's doing. Look there toward the east. Don't you see a ray of light behind that hill?"

"I see it, Dick."

"Is it the first ray of the morning, or is it just a low star?"

"It's the dawn, Dick, and mighty glad I am to see it. Look how fast it comes!"

The sun shot up, over the hill. The sky turning to silver soon gave way to gold, and the clear August light poured in a flood over the rolling country.

Dick saw ahead of him a vast cloud of dust extending miles from east to west, marking where the army of Pope pushed on its retreat to the Rappahannock. There was no need to search for the Northern force. The newest recruit would know that it was here.

The Southern vanguard was behind them and not many hundred yards away. Dick distinctly saw the cavalry, riding along the road, and hundreds of skirmishers pushing through the woods and fields. He judged that the force did not number many thousands and that it could not think of assailing the whole Union army. But with the coming of day the vigor of the attack increased. The skirmishers fired from the shelter of every tree stump, fence or hillock and the bullets pattered about Dick and his comrades.

The Union rear guard maintained its answering fire, but as it was retreating it was at a disadvantage. The regiments began to suffer. Many men were wounded. The fire became most galling. A sudden charge by the rearguard was ordered and it was made with spirit. The Southern van was driven back, but when the retreat was resumed the skirmishers and the cavalry came forward again, always firing at their retreating foe.

"I judge that it's going to be a very hot morning," said Colonel Winchester, wiping away a few drops of blood, where a bullet had barely touched his face. "I think the wind of that bullet hurt me more than its kiss. There will be no great battle to-day. We can see now that they are not yet in strong enough force, but we'll never know a minute's rest until we're behind the Rappahannock. Oh, Dick, if McClellan's army were only here also! This business of retreating is as bitter as death itself!"

Dick saw the pain on his colonel's face and it was reflected on his own.

"I feel it, sir, in the same way. Our men are just as eager as the Johnnies to fight and they are as brave and tenacious. What do you think will happen, sir?"

"We'll reach the Rappahannock and take refuge behind it. We command the railroad bridge there, and can cross and destroy it afterward. But the river is broad and deep with high banks and the army of the enemy cannot possibly force the passage in any way while we defend it."

"And after that, sir?"

"God alone knows. Look out, Dick, those men are aiming at us!"

Colonel Winchester seized the bridle of Dick's horse and pulled him violently to one side, pulling his own horse in the same direction in the same manner. The bullets of half a dozen Southern skirmishers, standing under the boughs of a beech tree less than two hundred yards away, hissed angrily by them.

"A close call," said the colonel. "There, they've been scattered by our own riflemen and one of them remains to pay the toll."

The reply of the Northern skirmishers had been quick, and the gray figure lying prone by the trunk of the tree told Dick that the colonel had been right. He was shaken by a momentary shudder, but he could not long remember one among so many. They rode on, leaving the prone figure out of sight, and the Southern cavalry and skirmishers pressed forward afresh.

Many of the Union men had food in their saddle bags, and supplies were sent back for those who did not have it. Colonel Winchester who was now thoroughly cool, advised his officers to eat, even if they felt no hunger.

"I'm hungry enough," said Pennington to Dick. "Out on the plains, where the air is so fresh and so full of life I was always hungry, and I suppose I brought my appetite here with me. Dick, I've opened a can of cove oysters, and that's a great deal for a fellow on horseback to do. Here, take your share, and they'll help out that dry bread you're munching."

Dick accepted with thanks. He learned that he, too, could eat with a good appetite while bullets were knocking up dust only twenty yards away. Meanwhile there was a steady flash of firing from every wood and cornfield behind them.

As he ate he watched and he saw an amazing panorama. Miles in front the great cloud of dust, cutting across from horizon to horizon swelled slowly on toward the Rappahannock. Behind them rode the Southern cavalry and masses of infantry were pressing forward, too. Far off on either flank rolled the pleasant country, its beauty heightened by the loom of blue mountains.

Colonel Winchester had predicted truly. The fighting between the Northern rearguard, and the Southern vanguard never ceased. Every moment the bullets were whistling, and occasionally a cannon lent its deep roar to the crackling fire of the rifles. Daring detachments of the Southern cavalry often galloped up and charged lagging regiments. And they were driven off with equal courage and daring.

The three boys took especial notice of those cavalry bands and began to believe at last that they could identify the very men in them. Dick looked for his cousin, Harry Kenton. He was sure that he would be there in the front -- but he did not see him. Instead he saw after a while an extraordinary figure on a large black horse, a large man in magnificent uniform, with a great plume in his hat. He was nearer to them than any other Southern horseman, and he seemed to be indifferent to danger.

"Look! look! There's Jeb Stuart!" exclaimed Dick. He had heard so much about the famous Stuart and his gorgeous uniform that he knew him instinctively, and, Warner and Pennington, as their eyes followed his pointing finger felt the same conviction.

Three of the Northern riflemen fired at once at the conspicuous target, and Dick breathed a little sigh of relief when all their bullets missed. Then the brilliant figure turned to one side and was lost in the smoke.

"Well," said Pennington. "We've seen Stonewall Jackson and Jeb Stuart both in battle against us. I wonder who will come next."

"Lee is due," said Warner, "but I doubt whether his men will let him expose himself in such a way. We'll have to slip under cover to get a chance of seeing him."

The hours went on, and the fight between rear guard and vanguard never ceased. That column of dust miles long was at the same distance in front, continuing in its slow course for the river, but the foes in contact were having plenty of dust showers of their own. Dick's throat and mouth burned with the dust and heat of the pitiless August day, and his bones ached with the tension and the long hours in the saddle. But his spirit was high. They were holding off the Southern cavalry and he felt that they would continue to do so.

About noon he ate more cold food, and then rode on, while the sun blazed and blazed and the dust whirled in clouds like the "dust devils" of the desert, continually spitting forth bullets instead of sand. Late in the afternoon he heard the sound of many trumpets, and saw the Southern cavalry getting together in a great mass. A warning ran instantly among the Union troops and the horsemen in blue and one or two infantry regiments drew closer together.

"They're going to charge in force," said Colonel Winchester to Dick. "See, our rearguard has lost touch with our main army, leaving a side opening between. They see this chance and intend to make the most of it."

"But our men are willing and anxious to meet them," said Dick. "You can see it in their faces."

He had made no mistake, as the fire in their rear deepened, and they saw the gathering squadrons of gray cavalry, a fierce anger seized the retreating Union rearguard. Those wasps had been buzzing and stinging them all day long and they had had enough of it. They could fight, and they would, if their officers would let them. Now it seemed that the officers were willing.

A deep and menacing mutter of satisfaction ran along the whole line. They would show the Southerners what kind of men they were. Colonel Winchester drew his infantry regiment into a small wood which at that point skirted the road.

"There is no doubt that we've found it at the right time," said Warner.

Both knew that the forest would protect the infantry from the fierce charges of the Southern cavalry, while proving no obstacle to the Northern defense. His own cavalry was gathering in the road ready to meet Jeb Stuart and his squadrons.

The three boys sat on their horses within the covering of the trees, and watched eagerly, while the hostile forces massed for battle. The Southern cavalry was supported by infantry also on its flanks, and once again Dick caught sight of Jeb Stuart with his floating plume. But that time he was too far away for any of the Northern riflemen to reach him with a bullet, and as before he disappeared quickly in the clouds of dust and smoke which never ceased to float over both forces.

"Look out! The charge!" suddenly exclaimed Colonel Winchester.

They heard the thunder of the galloping horses, and also the flash of many rifles and carbines. Cavalry met cavalry but the men in gray reeled back, and as they retreated the Northern infantry in the wood sent a deadly fire into the flank of the attacking force. The Southern infantry replied, and a fierce battle raged along the road and through the woods. Dick heard once more the rattling of bullets on bark, and felt the twigs falling upon his face as they were shorn off by the missiles.

"We hold the road and we'll hold it for a while," exclaimed Colonel Winchester, exultation showing in his tone.

"Why can't we hold it all the time?" Dick could not refrain from asking.

"Because we are retreating and the Southerners are continually coming up, while our army wishes to go away."

Dick glanced through the trees and saw that great clouds of dust still were rolling toward the northwest. It must be almost at the Rappahannock now, and he began to appreciate what this desperate combat in the woods meant. They were holding back the Southern army, while their men could cross the river and reform behind it.

The battle swayed back and forth, and it was most desperate between the cavalry. The bugles again and again called the gray horsemen to the charge, and although the blue infantry supported their own horsemen with a heavy rifle fire, and held the wood undaunted, the Northern rear guard was forced to give way at last before the pressure of numbers and attacks that would not cease.

Their own bugles sounded the retreat and they began to retire slowly.

"Do we run again?" exclaimed Pennington, a tear ploughing its way through the smoky grime on his cheek.

"No, we don't run," replied Warner calmly, "We're forced back, and the rebels will claim a victory but we haven't fought for nothing. Lee and Jackson will never get up in time to attack our army before it's over the river."

The regiment began its slow retreat. It had not suffered much, owing to the shelter of the forest, and, full of courage and resolution, it was a formidable support on the flank of the slowly retreating cavalry.

The evening was now at hand. The sun was setting once more over the Virginia hills destined to be scarred so deeply by battle, but attack and defense went on. As night came the thudding of cannon added to the tumult, and then the three boys saw the Rappahannock, a deep and wide stream flowing between high banks crested with timber. Ahead of them Pope's army was crossing on the bridge and in boats, and masses of infantry supported by heavy batteries had turned to protect the crossing. The Southern vanguard could not assail such a powerful force, and before the night was over the whole Union army passed to the Northern side of the Rappahannock.

Dick felt a mixture of chagrin and satisfaction as he crossed the river, chagrin that this great army should draw back, as McClellan's had been forced to draw back at the Seven Days, and satisfaction that they were safe for the time being and could prepare for a new start.

But the feeling of exultation soon passed and gave way wholly to chagrin. They were retreating before an army not exceeding their own, in numbers, perhaps less. They had another great force, the Army of the Potomac, which should have been there, and then they could have bade defiance to Lee and Jackson. The North with its great numbers, its fine courage and its splendid patriotism should never be retreating. He felt once more as thousands of others felt that the hand on the reins was neither strong nor sure, and that the great trouble lay there. They ought not to be hiding behind a river. Lee and Jackson did not do it. Dick remembered that grim commander in the West, the silent Grant, and he did not believe he would be retreating.

Long after darkness came the firing continued between skirmishers across the stream, but finally it, too, waned and Dick was permitted to throw himself upon the ground and sleep with the sleeping thousands. Warner and Pennington slept near him and not far away was the brave sergeant. Even he was overpowered by fatigue and he slept like one dead, never stirring.

Dick was awakened next morning by the booming of cannon. He had become so much used to such sounds that he would have slept on had not the crashes been so irregular. He stood up, rubbed his eyes and then looked in the direction whence came the cannonade. He saw from the crest of a hill great numbers of Confederate troops on the other side of the river, the August sun glittering over thousands of bayonets and rifle barrels, and along the somber batteries of great guns. The firing, so far as he could determine, was merely to feel out or annoy the Northern army.

It was a strange sight to Dick, one that is not looked upon often, two great armies gazing across a river at each other, and, sure to meet, sooner or later, in mortal combat. It was thrilling, awe-inspiring, but it made his heart miss a beat or two at the thought of the wounds and death to come, all the more terrible because those who fought together were of the same blood, and the same nation.

Warner and Pennington joined him on the height where he stood, and they saw that in the early hours before dawn the Northern generals had not been idle. The whole army of Pope was massed along the left bank of the river and every high point was crowned with heavy batteries of artillery. There had been a long drought, and at some points the Rappahannock could be forded, but not in the face of such a defence as the North here offered.

Colonel Winchester himself came a moment or two later and joined them as they gazed at the two armies and the river between. Both he and the boys used their glasses and they distinctly saw the Southern masses.

"Will they try to cross, sir?" asked Dick of the colonel.

"I don't think so, but if they do we ought to beat them back. Meanwhile, Dick, my boy, every day's delay is a fresh card in our hand. McClellan is landing his army at Aquia Creek, whence it can march in two days to a junction with us, when we would become overwhelming and irresistible. But I wish it didn't take so long to disembark an army!"

The note of anxiety in his voice did not escape Dick. "You wish then to be sure of the junction between our two armies before Lee and Jackson strike?"

"Yes, Dick. That is what is on my mind. The retreat of this army, although it may have caused us chagrin, was most opportune. It gave us two chances, when we had but one before. But, Dick, I'm afraid. I wouldn't say this to anybody but you and you must not repeat me. I wish I could divine what is in the mind of those two men, Lee and Jackson. They surely have a plan of some kind, but what is it?"

"Have we any definite news from the other side, sir?"

"Shepard came in this morning. But little ever escapes him, and he says that the whole Southern army is up. All their best leaders are there. Lee and Jackson and Longstreet and the Hills and Early and Lawton and the others. He says that they are all flushed with confidence in their own courage and fighting powers and the ability of their leaders. Oh, if only the Army of the Potomac would come! If we could only stave off battle long enough for it to reach us!"

"Don't you think we could do it, sir? Couldn't General Pope retreat on Washington then, and, as they continued to follow us, we could turn and spring on them with both armies."

But Colonel Winchester shook his head.

"It would never do," he said. "All Europe, eager to see the Union split, would then help the Confederacy in every possible manner. The old monarchies would say that despite our superior numbers we're not able to maintain ourselves outside the defenses of Washington. And these things would injure us in ways that we cannot afford. Remember, Dick, my boy, that this republic is the hope of the world, and that we must save it."

"It will be done, sir," said Dick, almost in the tone of a young prophet. "I know the spirit of the men. No matter how many defeats are inflicted upon us by our own brethren we'll triumph in the end."

"It's my own feeling, Dick. It cannot, it must not be any other way!"

Dick remained upborne by a confidence in the future rather than in the present, and throughout the morning he remained with his comrades, under arms, but doing little, save to hear the fitful firing which ran along a front of several miles. But later in the day a heavy crash came from a ford further up the stream.

Under cover of a great artillery fire Stuart's cavalry dashed into the ford, and drove off the infantry and a battery posted to defend it. Then they triumphantly placed heavy lines of pickets about the ford on the Union side.

It was more than the Union lads could stand. A heavy mass of infantry, Colonel Winchester's regiment in the very front of it, marched forward to drive back these impertinent horsemen. They charged with so much impetuosity that Stuart's cavalry abandoned such dangerous ground. All the pickets were drawn in and they retreated in haste across the stream, the water foaming up in spurts about them beneath the pursuing bullets.

Then came a silence and a great looking back and forth. The threatening armies stared at each other across the water, but throughout the afternoon they lay idle. The pitiless August sun burned on and the dust that had been trodden up by the scores of thousands hung in clouds low, but almost motionless.

Dick went down into a little creek, emptying into the Rappahannock, and bathed his face and hands. Hundreds of others were doing the same. The water brought a great relief. Then he went back to Colonel Winchester and his comrades, and waited patiently with them until evening.

He remembered Colonel Winchester's words earlier in the day, and, as the darkness came, he began to wonder what Lee and Jackson were thinking. He believed that two such redoubtable commanders must have formed a plan by this time, and, perhaps in the end, it would be worth a hundred thousand men to know it. But he could only stare into the darkness and guess and guess. And one guess was as good as another.

The night seemed portentous to him. It was full of sinister omens. He strove to pierce the darkness on the other shore with his eyes, and see what was going on there, but he distinguished only a black background and the dim light of fires.

Dick was not wrong. The Confederate commanders did have a plan and the omens which seemed sinister to him were sinister in fact. Jackson with his forces was marching up his side of the Rappahannock and the great brain under the old slouch hat was working hard.

When Lee and Jackson found that the Union army on the Rapidan had slipped away from them they felt that they had wasted a great opportunity to strike the retreating force before it reached the Rappahannock, and that, as they followed, the situation of the Confederacy would become most critical. They would leave McClellan and the Army of the Potomac nearer to Richmond, their own capital, than they were. Nevertheless Lee, full of daring despite his years, followed, and the dangers were growing thicker every hour around Pope.

Dick, with his regiment, moved the next morning up the river. The enemy was in plain view beyond the stream, and Shepard and the other spies reported that the Southern army showed no signs of retiring. But Shepard had said also that he would not be able to cross the river again. The hostile scouts and sharpshooters had become too vigilant. Yet he was sure that Lee and Jackson would attempt to force a passage higher up, where the drought had made good fords.

"It's well that we're showing vigilance," said Colonel Winchester to Dick. He had fallen into the habit of talking much and confidentially to the boy, because he liked and trusted him, and for another reason which to Dick was yet in the background.

"Do you feel sure that the rebels will attempt the crossing?" asked Dick.

"Beyond a doubt. They have every reason to strike before the Army of the Potomac can come. Besides, it is in accord with the character of their generals. Both Lee and Jackson are always for the swift offensive, and Early, Longstreet and the Hills are the same way. Hear that booming ahead! They're attacking one of the fords now!"

At a ford a mile above and also at another a mile or two further on, the Southern troops had begun a heavy fire, and gathered in strong masses were threatening every moment to attempt the passage. But the Union guns posted on hills made a vigorous reply and the time passed in heavy cannonades. Colonel Winchester, his brows knitted and anxious, watched the fire of the cannon. He confided at last to his favorite aide his belief that what lay behind the cannonade was more important than the cannonade itself.

"It must be a feint or a blind," he said. "They fire a great deal, but they don't make any dash for the stream. Now, the rebels haven't ammunition to waste."

"Then what do you think they're up to, sir?"

"They must be sending a heavy force higher up the river to cross where there is no resistance. And we must meet them there, with my regiment only, if we can obtain no other men."

The colonel obtained leave to go up the Rappahannock until nightfall, but only his own regiment, now reduced to less than four hundred men, was allotted to him. In truth his division commander thought his purpose useless, but yielded to the insistence of Winchester who was known to be an officer of great merit. It seemed to the Union generals that they must defend the fords where the Southern army lay massed before them.

Dick learned that there was a little place called Sulphur Springs some miles ahead, and that the river there was spanned by a bridge which the Union cavalry had wrecked the day before. He divined at once that Colonel Winchester had that ford in mind, and he was glad to be with him on the march to it.

They left behind them the sound of the cannonade which they learned afterward was being carried on by Longstreet, and followed the course of the stream as fast as they could over the hills and through the woods. But with so many obstacles they made slow progress, and, in the close heat, the men soon grew breathless. It was also late in the afternoon and Dick was quite sure that they would not reach Sulphur Springs before nightfall.

"I've felt exactly this same air on the great plains," said Pennington, as they stopped on the crest of a hill for the troops to rest a little. "It's heavy and close as if it were being all crowded together. It makes your lungs work twice as hard as usual, and it's also a sign."

"Tell your sign, old weather sharp," said Warner.

"It's simple enough. The sign may not be so strong here, but it applies just as it does on the great plains. It means that a storm is coming. Anybody could tell that. Look there, in the southwest. See that cloud edging itself over the horizon. Things will turn loose to-night. Don't you say the same, sergeant? You've been out in my country."

Sergeant Whitley was standing near them regarding the cloud attentively.

"Yes, Mr. Pennington," he replied. "I was out there a long time and I'd rather be there now fighting the Indians, instead of fighting our own people, although no other choice was left me. I've seen some terrible hurricanes on the plains, winds that would cut the earth as if it was done with a ploughshare, and these armies are going to be rained on mighty hard to-night."

Dick smiled a little at the sergeant's solemn tone, and formal words, but he saw that he was very much in earnest. Nor was he one to underrate weather effects upon movements in war.

"What will it mean to the two armies, sergeant?" he asked.

"Depends upon what happens before she busts. If a rebel force is then across it's bad for us, but if it ain't the more water between us an' them the better. This, I take it, is the end of the drought, and a flood will come tumbling down from the mountains."

The sun now darkened and the clouds gathered heavily on the Western horizon. Colonel Winchester's anxiety increased fast. It became evident that the regiment could not reach Sulphur Springs until far into the night, and, still full of alarms, he resolved to take a small detachment, chiefly of his staff, and ride forward at the utmost speed.

He chose about twenty men, including Dick, Warner, Pennington, Sergeant Whitley, and another veteran who were mounted on the horses of junior officers left behind, and pressed forward with speed. A West Virginian named Shattuck knew something of the country, and led them.

"What is this place, Sulphur Springs?" asked Colonel Winchester of Shattuck.

"Some big sulphur springs spout out of the bank and run down to the river. They are fine and healthy to drink an' there's a lot of cottages built up by people who come there to stay a while. But I guess them people have gone away. It ain't no place for health just at this time."

"That's a certainty," said Colonel Winchester.

"An' then there's the bridge, which, as we know, the cavalry has broke down."

"Fortunately. But can't we go a little faster, boys?"

There was a well defined road and Shattuck now led them at a gallop. As they approached the springs they checked their speed, owing to the increasing darkness. But Dick's good ears soon told him that something was happening at the springs. He heard faintly the sound of voices, and the clank and rattle which many men with weapons cannot keep from making now and then.

"I'm afraid, sir," he said to Colonel Winchester, "that they're already across."

The little troop stopped at the command of its leader and all listened intently. It was very dark now and the wood was moaning, but the columns of air came directly from the wood, bearing clearly upon their crest the noises made by regiments.

"You're right, Dick," said Colonel Winchester, bitter mortification showing in his tone. "They're there, and they're on our side of the river. Oh, we might have known it! They say that Stonewall Jackson never sleeps, and they make no mistake, when they call his infantry foot cavalry!"

Dick was silent. He shared his leader's intense disappointment, but he knew that it was not for him to speak at this moment.

"Mr. Shattuck," said Colonel Winchester, "how near do you think we can approach without being seen?"

"I know a neck of woods leading within a hundred yards of the cottages. If we was to leave our horses here with a couple of men we could slip down among the trees and bushes, and there ain't one chance in ten that we'd be seen on so dark a night."

"Then you lead us. Pawley, you and Woodfall hold the horses. Now follow softly, lads! All of you have hunted the 'coon and 'possum at night, and you should know how to step without making noise."

Shattuck advanced with certainty, and the others, true to their training, came behind him in single file, and without noise. But as they advanced the sounds of an army ahead of them increased, and when they reached the edge of the covert they saw a great Confederate division on their side of the stream, in full possession of the cottages and occupying all the ground about them. Many men were at work, restoring the wrecked bridge, but the others were eating their suppers or were at rest.

"There must be seven or eight thousand men here," said Dick, who did not miss the full significance of the fact.

"So it seems," said Warner, "and I'm afraid it bodes ill for General Pope."



Chapter IV. Springing The Trap


Lying close in the bushes the little party watched the Southerners making themselves ready for the night. The cottages were prepared for the higher officers, but the men stacked arms in the open ground all about. As well as they could judge by the light of the low fires, soldiers were still crossing the river to strengthen the force already on the Union side.

Colonel Winchester suppressed a groan. Dick noticed that his face was pallid in the uncertain shadows, and he understood the agony of spirit that the brave man must suffer when he saw that they had been outflanked by their enemy.

Sergeant Whitley, moving forward a little, touched the colonel on the arm.

"All the clouds that we saw a little further back," he said, "have gathered together, an' the storm is about to bust. See, sir, how fast the Johnnies are spreadin' their tents an' runnin' to shelter."

"It's so, sergeant," said Colonel Winchester. "I was so much absorbed in watching those men that I thank you for reminding me. We've seen enough anyway and we'd better get back as fast as we can."

They hurried through the trees and bushes toward their horses, taking no particular pains now to deaden their footsteps, since the Southerners themselves were making a good deal of noise as they took refuge.

But the storm was upon them before they could reach their horses. The last star was gone and the somber clouds covered the whole heavens. The wind ceased to moan and the air was heavy with apprehension. Deep and sullen thunder began to mutter on the southwestern horizon. Then came a mighty crash and a great blaze of lightning seemed to cleave the sky straight down the center.

The lightning and thunder made Dick jump, and for a few moments he was blinded by the electric glare. He heard a heavy sound of something falling, and exclaimed:

"Are any of you hurt?"

"No," said Warner, who alone heard him, "but we're scared half to death. When a drought breaks up I wish it wouldn't break up with such a terrible fuss. Listen to that thunder again, won't you!"

There was another terrible crash of thunder and the whole sky blazed with lightning. Despite himself Dick shrank again. The first bolt had struck a tree which had fallen within thirty feet of them, but the second left this bit of the woods unscathed.

A third and a fourth bolt struck somewhere, and then came the rush and roar of the rain, driven on by a fierce wind out of the southwest. The close, dense heat was swept away, and the first blasts of the rain were as cold as ice. The little party was drenched in an instant, and every one was shivering through and through with combined wet and cold.

The cessation of the lightning was succeeded by pitchy darkness, and the roaring of the wind and rain was so great that they called loudly to one another lest they lose touch in the blackness. Dick heard Warner on his right, and he followed the sound of his voice. But before he went much further his foot struck a trailing vine, and he fell so hard, his head striking the trunk of a tree, that he lay unconscious.

The cold rain drove so fiercely on the fallen boy's face and body that he revived in two or three minutes, and stood up. He clapped his hand to the left side of his head, and felt there a big bump and a sharp ache. His weapons were still in his belt and he knew that his injuries were not serious, but he heard nothing save the drive and roar of the wind and rain. There was no calling of voices and no beat of footsteps.

He divined at once that his comrades, wholly unaware of his fall, when no one could either see or hear it, had gone on without missing him. They might also mount their horses and gallop away wholly ignorant that he was not among them.

Although he was a little dazed, Dick had a good idea of direction and he plunged through the mud which was now growing deep toward the little ravine in which they had hitched their horses. All were gone, including his own mount, and he had no doubt that the horse had broken or slipped the bridle in the darkness and followed the others.

He stood a while behind the trunk of a great tree, trying to shelter himself a little from the rain, and listened. But he could hear neither his friends leaving nor any foes approaching. The storm was of uncommon fury. He had never seen one fiercer, and knowing that he had little to dread from the Southerners while it raged he knew also that he must make his way on foot, and as best he could, to his own people.

Making a calculation of the direction and remembering that one might wander in a curve in the darkness, he set off down the stream. He meant to keep close to the banks of the Rappahannock, and if he persisted he would surely come in time to Pope's army. The rain did not abate. Both armies were flooded that night, but they could find some measure of protection. To the scouts and skirmishers and to Dick, wandering through the forest, nature was an unmitigated foe.

But nothing could stop the boy. He was resolved to get back to the army with the news that a heavy Southern force was across the Rappahannock. Others might get there first with the fact, but one never knew. A hundred might fall by the wayside, leaving it to him alone to bear the message.

He stumbled on. He was able to keep his cartridges dry in his pouch, but that was all. His wet, cold clothes flapped around him and he shivered to the bone. He could see only the loom of the black forest before him, and sometimes he slipped to the waist in swollen brooks. Then the wind shifted and drove the sheets of rain, sprinkled with hail, directly in his face. He was compelled to stop a while and take refuge behind a big oak. While he shivered in the shelter of the tree the only things that he thought of spontaneously were dry clothes, hot food, a fire and a warm bed. The Union and its fate, gigantic as they were, slipped away from his mind, and it took an effort of the will to bring them back.

But his will made the effort, and recalling his mission he struggled on again. He had the river on his right, and it now became an unfailing guide. It had probably been raining much earlier in the mountains along the headwaters and the flood was already pouring down. The river swished high against its banks and once or twice, when he caught dim glimpses of it through the trees, he saw a yellow torrent bearing much brushwood upon its bosom.

He had very little idea of his progress. It was impossible to judge of pace under such circumstances. The army might be ten miles further on or it might be only two. Then he found himself sliding down a muddy and slippery bank. He grasped at weeds and bushes, but they slipped through his hands. Then he shot into a creek, swollen by the flood, and went over his head.

He came up, gasping, struck out and reached the further shore. Here he found bushes more friendly than the others and pulled himself upon the bank. But he had lost everything. His belt had broken in his struggles, and pistols, small sword and ammunition were gone. He would be helpless against an enemy. Then he laughed at the idea. Surely enemies would not be in search of him at such a time and such a place.

Nevertheless when he saw an open space in front of him he paused at its edge. He could see well enough here to notice a file of dim figures riding slowly by. At first his heart leaped up with the belief that they were Colonel Winchester and his own people, but they were going in the wrong direction, and then he was able to discern the bedraggled and faded Confederate gray.

The horsemen were about fifty in number and most of them rode with the reins hanging loose on their horses' necks. They were wrapped in cloaks, but cloaks and uniforms alike were sodden. A stream of water ran from every stirrup to the ground.

Dick looked at them attentively. Near the head of the column but on one side rode a soldierly figure, apparently that of a young man of twenty-three or four. Just behind came three youths, and Dick's heart fairly leaped when he saw the last of the three. He could not mistake the figure, and a turning of the head caused him to catch a faint glimpse of the face. Then he knew beyond all shadow of doubt. It was Harry and he surmised that the other two were his comrades, St. Clair and Langdon, whom he had met when they were burying the dead.

Dick was so sodden and cold and wretched that he was tempted to call out to them -- the sight of Harry was like a light in the darkness -- but the temptation was gone in an instant. His way lay in another direction. What they wished he did not wish, and while they fought for the triumph of the South it was his business to endure and struggle on that he might do his own little part for the Union.

But despite the storm and his sufferings, he drew courage from nature itself. While a portion of the Southern army was across it must be a minor portion, and certainly the major part could not span such a flood and attack. The storm and time allied were now fighting for Pope.

He wandered away a little into the open fields in order to find easier going, but he came back presently to the forest lining the bank of the river, for fear he should lose his direction. The yellow torrent of the Rappahannock was now his only sure guide and he stuck to it. He wondered why the rain and wind did not die down. It was not usual for a storm so furious to last so long, but he could not see any abatement of either.

He became conscious after a while of a growing weakness, but he had recalled all the powers of his will and it was triumphant over his body. He trudged on on feet that were unconscious of sensation, and his face as if the flesh were paralyzed no longer felt the beat of the rain.

A mile or two further and in the swish of the storm he heard hoofbeats again. Looking forth from the bushes he saw another line of horsemen, but now they were going in the direction of Pope's army. Dick recognized these figures. Shapeless as he might appear on his horse that was Colonel Winchester, and there were the broad shoulders of Sergeant Whitley and the figures of the others.

He rushed through the dripping forest and shouted in a tone that could be heard above the shriek of wind and rain. Colonel Winchester recognized the voice, but the light was so dim that he did not recognize him from whom it came. Certainly the figure that emerged from the forest did not look human.

"Colonel," cried Dick, "it is I, Richard Mason, whom you left behind!"

"So it is," said Sergeant Whitley, keener of eye than the others.

The whole troop set up a shout as Dick came forward, taking off his dripping cap.

"Why, Dick, it is you!" exclaimed Colonel Winchester in a tone of immeasurable relief. "We missed you and your horse and hoped that you were somewhere ahead. Your horse must have broken loose in the storm. But here, you look as if you were nearly dead! Jump up behind me!"

Dick made an effort, but his strength failed and he slipped back to the ground. He had not realized that he was walking on his spirit and courage and that his strength was gone, so powerful had been the buffets of the wind and rain.

The colonel reached down, gave him a hand and a strong pull, and with a second effort Dick landed astride the horse behind the rider. Then Colonel Winchester gave the word and the sodden file wound on again.

"Dick," said the colonel, looking back over his shoulder, "you come as near being a wreck as anything that I've seen in a long time. It's lucky we found you."

"It is, sir, and I not only look like a wreck but I feel like one. But I had made up my mind to reach General Pope's camp, with the news of the Confederates crossing, and I think I'd have done it."

"I know you would. But what a night! What a night! Not many men can be abroad at such a time. We have seen nothing."

"But I have, sir."

"You have! What did you see?"

"A mile or two back I passed a line of Southern horsemen, just as wet and bedraggled as ours."

"Might they not have been our own men? It would be hard to tell blue and gray apart on such a night."

"One could make such a mistake, but in this case it was not possible. I saw my own cousin, Harry Kenton, riding with them. I recognized them perfectly."

"Then that settles it. The Confederate scouts and cavalry are abroad to-night also, and on our side of the river. But they must be few who dare to ride in such a storm."

"That's surely true, sir."

But both Dick and his commanding officer were mistaken. They still underrated the daring and resolution of the Confederate leaders, the extraordinary group of men who were the very bloom and flower of Virginia's military glory, the equal of whom -- two at least being in the very first rank in the world's history -- no other country with so small a population has produced in so short a time.

Earlier in the day Stuart, full of enterprise, and almost insensible to fatigue, had crossed the Rappahannock much higher up and at the head of a formidable body of his horsemen, unseen by scouts and spies, was riding around the Union right. They galloped into Warrenton where the people, red hot as usual for the South, crowded around them cheering and laughing and many of the women crying with joy. It was like Jackson and Stuart to drop from the clouds this way and to tell them, although the land had been occupied by the enemy, that their brave soldiers would come in time.

News, where a Northern force could not have obtained a word, was poured out for the South. They told Stuart that none of the Northern cavalry was about, and that Pope's vast supply train was gathered at a little point only ten miles to the southeast. Stuart shook his plumed head until his long golden hair flew about his neck. Then he laughed aloud and calling to his equally fiery young officers, told them of the great spoil that waited upon quickness and daring.

The whole force galloped away for the supply train, but before it reached it the storm fell in all its violence upon Stuart and his men. Despite rain and darkness Stuart pushed on. He said afterward that it was the darkest night he had ever seen. A captured negro guided them on the final stage of the gallop and just when Dick was riding back to camp behind Colonel Winchester, Stuart fell like a thunderbolt upon the supply train and its guard.

Stuart could not drive wholly away the Northern guard, which though surprised, fought with great courage, but he burned the supply train, then galloped off with prisoners, and Pope's own uniform, horses, treasure chest and dispatch book. He found in the dispatch book minute information about the movements of all the Union troops, and Pope's belief that he ought to retreat from the river on Washington. Doubtless the Confederate horseman shook his head again and again and laughed aloud, when he put this book, more precious than jewels, inside his gold braided tunic, to be taken to Lee and Jackson.

But these things were all hidden from the little group of weary men who rode into Pope's camp. Colonel Winchester carried the news of the crossing -- Early had made it -- to the commander, and the rest sought the best shelter to be found. Dick was lucky enough to be taken into a tent that was thoroughly dry, and the sergeant who had followed him managed to obtain a supply of dry clothing which would be ready for him when he awoke.

Dick did not revive as usual. He threw all of his clothing aside and water flew where it fell, put on dry undergarments and crept between warm blankets. Nevertheless he still felt cold, and he was amazed at his own lack of interest in everything. He might have perished out there in the stream, but what did it matter? He would probably be killed in some battle anyway. Besides, their information about the crossing of the rebels was of no importance either. The rebels might stay on their side of the Rappahannock, or they might go back. It was all the same either way. All things seemed, for the moment, useless to him.

He began to shiver, but after a while he became so hot that he wanted to throw off all the cover. But he retained enough knowledge and will not to do so, and he sank soon into a feverish doze from which he was awakened by the light of a lantern shining in his face.

He saw Colonel Winchester and another man, a stranger, who held a small leather case in his hand. But Dick was in such a dull and apathetic state that he had no curiosity about them and he shut his eyes to keep out the light of the lantern.

"What is it, doctor?" he heard Colonel Winchester asking.

"Chill and a little fever, brought on by exposure and exhaustion. But he's a hardy youth. Look what a chest and shoulders! With the aid of these little white pills of mine he'll be all right in the morning. Colonel, Napoleon said that an army fights on its stomach, which I suppose is true, but in our heavily watered and but partly settled country, it must fight sometimes on a stomach charged with quinine."

"I was afraid it might be worse. A dose or two then will bring him around?"

"Wish I could be so sure of a quick cure in every case. Here, my lad, take two of these. A big start is often a good one."

Dick raised his head obediently and took the two quinine pills. Soon he sank into a condition which was as near stupor as sleep. But before he passed into unconsciousness he heard the doctor say:

"Wake him soon enough in the morning, Colonel, to take two more. What a wonderful thing for our armies that we can get all the quinine we want! The rebel supply, I know, is exhausted. With General Quinine on our side we're bound to win."

"But that isn't the only reason, doctor. Now -- " Their voices trailed away as Dick sank into oblivion. He had a dim memory of being awakened the next morning and of swallowing two more pills, but in a minute or two he sank back into a sleep which was neither feverish nor troubled. When he awoke the dark had come a second time. The fever was wholly gone, and his head had ceased to ache.

Dick felt weak, but angry at himself for having broken down at such a time, he sat up and began to put on the dry uniform that lay in the tent. Then he was astonished to find how great his weakness really was, but he persevered, and as he slipped on the tunic Warner came into the tent.

"You've been asleep a long time," he said, looking at Dick critically.

"I know it. I suppose I slept all through the night as well as the day."

"And the great battle was fought without you."

Dick started, and looked at his comrade, but Warner's eyes were twinkling.

"There's been no battle, and you know it," Dick said.

"No, there hasn't been any; there won't be any for several days at least. That whopping big rain last night did us a service after all. It was Early who crossed the river, and now he is in a way cut off from the rest of the Southern army. We hear that he'll go back to the other side. But Stuart has curved about us, raided our supply train and destroyed it. And he's done more than that. He's captured General Pope's important papers."

"What does it mean for us?"

"A delay, but I don't know anything more. I suppose that whatever is going to happen will happen in its own good time. You feel like a man again, don't you Dick? And you can have the consolation of knowing that nothing has happened all day long when you slept."

Dick finished his dressing, rejoined his regiment and ate supper with the other officers around a fine camp fire. He found that he had a good appetite, and as he ate strength flowed rapidly back into his veins. He gathered from the talk of the older officers that they were still hoping for a junction with McClellan before Lee and Jackson could attack. They expected at the very least to have one hundred and fifty thousand men in line, most of them veterans.

But Dick saw Shepard again that evening. He had come from a long journey and he reported great activity in the Southern camp. When Dick said that Lee and Jackson would have to fight both Pope and McClellan the spy merely replied:

"Yes, if Pope and McClellan hurry."

But Dick learned that night that Pope was not discouraged. He had an army full of fighting power, and eager to meet its enemy. He began the next day to move up the river in order that he might face Lee's whole force as it attempted to cross at the upper fords. Their spirits increased as they learned that Early, through fear of being cut off, was going back to join the main Southern army.

The ground had now dried up after the great storm, but the refreshed earth took on a greener tinge, and the air was full of sparkle and life. Dick had not seen such elasticity among the troops in a long time. As they marched they spoke confidently of victory. One regiment took up a song which had appeared in print just after the fall of Sumter:


"Men of the North and West, Wake in your might. Prepare as the rebels have done For the fight. You cannot shrink from the test; Rise! Men of the North and West."


Another regiment took up the song, and soon many thousands were singing it; those who did not know the words following the others. Dick felt his heart beat and his courage mount high, as he sang with Warner and Pennington the last verse:


"Not with words; they laugh them to scorn, And tears they despise. But with swords in your hands And death in your eyes! Strike home! Leave to God all the rest; Strike! Men of the North and West!"


The song sung by so many men rolled off across the fields, and the woods and the hills gave back the echo.

"We will strike home!" exclaimed Dick, putting great emphasis on the "will." "Our time for victory is at hand."

"The other side may think they're striking home; too," said Warner, speaking according to the directness of his dry mathematical mind. "Then I suppose it will be a case of victory for the one that strikes the harder for home."

"That's a fine old mind of yours. Don't you ever feel any enthusiasm?"

"I do, when the figures warrant it. But I must reckon everything with care before I permit myself to feel joy."

"I'm glad I'm not like you, Mr. Arithmetic, Mr. Algebra, Mr. Geometry and Mr. Trigonometry."

"You mustn't make fun of such serious matters, Dick. It would be a noble thing to be the greatest professor of mathematics in the world."

"Of course, George, but we wouldn't need him at this minute. But here we are back at those cottages in which I saw the Southern officers sheltering themselves. Well, they're ours again and I take it as a good omen."

"Yes, here we rest, as the French general said, but I don't know that I care about resting much more. I've had about all I want of it."

Nevertheless they spent the day quietly at the Sulphur Springs, and lay down in peace that night. But the storm cloud, the blackest storm cloud of the whole war so far, was gathering.

Lee, knowing the danger of the junction between Pope and McClellan had resolved to hazard all on a single stroke. He would divide his army. Jackson, so well called "the striking arm," would pass far around through the maze of hills and mountains and fall like a thunderbolt upon Pope's flank. At the sound of his guns Lee himself would attack in front.

As Dick and his young comrades lay down to sleep this march, the greatest of Stonewall Jackson's famous turning movements, had begun already. Jackson was on his horse, Little Sorrel, his old slouch hat drawn down over his eyes, his head bent forward a little, and the great brain thinking, always thinking. His face was turned to the North.

Just a little behind Jackson rode one of his most trusted aides, Harry Kenton, a mere youth in years, but already a veteran in service. Not far away was the gallant young Sherburne at the head of his troop of cavalry, and in the first brigade was the regiment of the Invincibles led by Colonel Leonidas Talbot and Lieutenant Colonel Hector St. Hilaire. Never had the two colonels seemed more prim and precise, and not even in youth had the fire of battle ever burned more brightly in their bosoms.

Jackson meant to pass around his enemy's right, crossing the Bull Run Mountain at Thoroughfare Gap, then strike the railway in Pope's rear. Longstreet, one of the heaviest hitters of the South, meanwhile was to worry Pope incessantly along the line of the Rappahannock, and when Jackson attacked they were to drive him toward the northeast and away from McClellan.

The hot August night was one of the most momentous in American history, and the next few days were to see the Union in greater danger than it has ever stood either before or since. Perhaps it was not given to the actors in the drama to know it then, but the retrospect shows it now. The North had not attained its full fighting strength, and the genius of the two great Southern commanders was at the zenith, while behind them stood a group of generals, full of talent and fearless of death.

Jackson had been directly before Sulphur Springs where Dick lay with the division to which he belonged. But Jackson, under cover of the darkness, had slipped away and the division of Longstreet had taken its place so quietly that the Union scouts and spies, including Shepard himself, did not know the difference.

Jackson's army marched swiftly and silently, while that of Pope slept. The plan of Lee was complicated and delicate to the last degree, but Jackson, the mainspring in this organism, never doubted that he could carry it out. His division soon left the rest of the army far behind, as they marched steadily on over the hills, the fate of the nation almost in the hollow of their hands.

The foot cavalry of Jackson were proud of their ability that night. They carried only three days' rations, expecting to feed off the enemy at the end of that time. Near midnight they lay down and slept a while, but long before dawn they were in line again marching over the hills and across the mountains. There were skirmishers in advance on either side, but they met no Union scouts. The march of Jackson's great fighting column was still unseen and unsuspected. A single Union scout or a message carried by a woman or child might destroy the whole plan, as a grain of dust stops all the wheels and levers of a watch, but neither the scout, the woman nor the child appeared.

Toward dawn the marching Southerners heard far behind them the thunder of guns along the Rappahannock. They knew that Longstreet had opened with his batteries across the river, and that those of Pope were replying. The men looked at one another. There was a deep feeling of excitement and suspense among them. They did not know what all this marching meant, but they had learned to trust the man who led them. He had led them only to victory, and they did not doubt that he was doing so again.

The march never paused for an instant. On they went, and the sound of the great guns behind them grew fainter and fainter until it faded away. Where were they going? Was it a raid on Washington? Were they to hurl themselves upon Pope's rear, or was there some new army that they were to destroy?

Up swept the sun and the coolness left by the storm disappeared. The August day began to blaze again with fierce burning heat, but there was no complaint among Jackson's men. They knew now that they were on one of his great turning movements, on a far greater scale than any hitherto, and full of confidence, they followed in the wake of Little Sorrel.

In the daylight now Jackson had scouts and skirmishers far in front and on either flank. They were to blaze the way for the army and they made a far out-flung line, through which no hostile scout could pass and see the marching army within. At the close of the day they were still marching, and when the sun was setting Jackson stood by the dusty roadside and watched his men as they passed. For the first time in that long march they broke through restraint and thundering cheers swept along the whole line as they took off their caps to the man whom they deemed at once their friend and a very god of war. The stern Jackson giving way so seldom to emotion was heard to say to himself:

"Who can fail to win battles with such men as these?"

Jackson's column did not stop until midnight. They had been more than twenty-four hours on the march, and they had not seen a hostile soldier. Harry Kenton himself did not know where they were going. But he lay down and gratefully, like the others, took the rest that was allowed to him. But a few hours only and they were marching again under a starry sky. Morning showed the forest lining the slopes of the mountains and then all the men seemed to realize suddenly which way they were going.

This was the road that led to Pope. It was not Washington, or Winchester, or some unknown army, but their foe on the Rappahannock that they were going to strike. A deep murmur of joy ran through the ranks, and the men who had now been marching thirty hours, with but little rest, suddenly increased their speed. Knowledge had brought them new strength.

They entered the forest and passed into Thoroughfare Gap, which leads through Bull Run Mountain. The files narrowed now and stretched out in a longer line. This was a deep gorge, pines and bushes lining the summits and crests. The confined air here was closer and hotter than ever, but the men pressed on with undiminished speed.

Harry Kenton felt a certain awe as he rode behind Jackson, and looked up at the lofty cliffs that enclosed them. The pines along the summit on either side were like long, green ribbons, and he half feared to see men in blue appear there and open fire on those in the gorge below. But reason told him that there was no such danger. No Northern force could be on Bull Run Mountain.

Harry had not asked a question during all that march. He had not known where they were going, but like all the soldiers he had supreme confidence in Jackson. He might be going to any of a number of places, but the place to which he was going was sure to be the right place. Now as he rode in the pass he knew that they were bound for the rear of Pope's army. Well, that would be bad for Pope! Harry had no doubt of it.

They passed out of the gap, leaving the mountain behind them, and swept on through two little villages, and over the famous plateau of Manassas Junction which many of them had seen before in the fire and smoke of the war's first terrible day. Here were the fields and hills over which they had fought and won the victory. Harry recognized at once the places which had been burned so vividly into his memory, and he considered it a good omen.

Not so far away was Washington, and so strongly was Harry's imagination impressed that he believed he could have seen through powerful glasses and from the crest of some tall hill that they passed, the dome of the Capitol shining in the August sun. He wondered why there was no attack, nor even any alarm. The cloud of dust that so many thousands of marching men made could be seen for miles. He did not know that Sherburne and the fastest of the rough riders were now far in front, seizing every Union scout or sentinel, and enabling Jackson's army to march on its great turning movement wholly unknown to any officer or soldier of the North. Soon he would stand squarely between Pope and Washington.

Before noon, Stuart and his wild horsemen joined them and their spirits surged yet higher. All through the afternoon the march continued, and at night Jackson fell upon Pope's vast store of supplies, surprising and routing the guard. Taking what he could use he set fire to the rest and the vast conflagration filled the sky.

Night came with Jackson standing directly in the rear of Pope. The trap had been shut down, and it was to be seen whether Pope was strong enough to break from it.



Chapter V. The Second Manassas


The sunbeams seemed fairly to dance over the dusty earth. The dust was not only over the earth, but over everything, men, animals, wagons and tents. Dick Mason who had struggled so hard through a storm but a few nights ago now longed for another like it. Anything to get away from this blinding blaze.

But he soon forgot heat and dust. He was conscious of a great quiver and thrill running through the whole army. Something was happening. Something had happened, but nobody knew what. Warner and Pennington felt the same quiver and thrill, because they looked at him as if in inquiry. Colonel Winchester showed it, too. He said nothing, but gazed uneasily toward the Northern horizon. Dick found himself looking that way also. Along the Rappahannock there was but little firing now, and he began to forget the river which had loomed so large in the affairs of the armies. Perhaps the importance of the Rappahannock had passed.

It was said that Pope himself with his staff had ridden away toward Washington, but Dick did not know. Far off toward the capital he saw dust clouds, but he concluded that they must be made by marching reinforcements.

The long hot hours dragged and then came a messenger. It was Shepard who had reported to headquarters and who afterwards came over to the shade of a tree where Colonel Winchester and his little staff were gathered. He was on the verge of exhaustion. He was black under the eyes and the veins of his neck were distended. Dust covered him from head to foot. He threw himself on the ground and drank deeply from a canteen of cool water that Dick handed to him. All saw that Shepard, the spy, the man whose life was a continual danger, who had never before shown emotion, was in a state of excitement, and if they waited a little he would speak of his own accord.

Shepard took the canteen from his lips, drew several long deep breaths of relief and said:

"Do you know what I have seen?"

"I don't, but I infer from your manner, Shepard, that it must be of great importance," said Colonel Winchester.

"I've seen Stonewall Jackson at the head of half of Lee's army behind us! Standing between us and Washington!"

"What! Impossible! How could he get there?"

"It's possible, because it's been done -- I've seen the rebel army behind us. In these civilian clothes of mine, I've been in their ranks, and I've talked with their men. While they were amusing us here on the Rappahannock with their cannon, Jackson with the best of the army crossed the river higher up, passed through Thoroughfare Gap, marching two or three days before a soul of ours knew it, and then struck our great camp at Bristoe Station."

"Shepard, you must be sunstruck!"

"My mind was never clearer. What I saw at close range General Pope himself saw at long range. He and his staff and a detachment came near enough to see the looting and burning of all our stores -- I don't suppose so many were ever gathered together before. But I was right there. You ought to have seen the sight, Colonel, when those ragged rebels who had been living on green corn burst into our camp. I've heard about the Goths and Vandals coming down on Rome and it must have been something like it. They ate as I never saw anybody eat before, and then throwing away their rags they put on our new uniforms which were stored there in thousands. At least half the rebel army must now be wearing the Union blue. And the way they danced about and sang was enough to make a loyal man's heart sick."

"You told all this to General Pope?"

"I did, sir, but I could not make him believe the half of it. He insists that it can only be a raiding detachment, that it is impossible for a great army to have come to such a place. But, sir, I was among them. I know Stonewall Jackson, and I saw him with my own eyes. He was there at the head of thirty thousand men, and we've already lost stores worth millions and millions. Jeb Stuart was there, too. I saw him. And I saw Munford, who leads Jackson's cavalry since the death of Turner Ashby. Oh, they'll find out soon enough that it's Jackson. We're trapped, sir! I tell you we're trapped, and our own commander-in-chief won't believe it. Good God, Colonel, the trap has shut down on us and if we get out of it we've got to be up and doing! This is no time for waiting!"

Colonel Winchester saw from the rapidity and emphasis with which Shepard spoke that his excitement had increased, but knowing the man's great devotion to the Union he had no rebuke for his plain speech.

"You have done splendid work, Mr. Shepard," he said, "and the commander-in-chief will recognize what great risks you have run for the cause. I've no doubt that the accuracy of your reports will soon be proved."

Colonel Winchester in truth believed every word that Shepard had said, sinister though they were. He said that Jackson was behind them, that he had done the great destruction at Bristoe Station and he had not the slightest doubt that Jackson was there.

Shepard flushing a little with gratification at Colonel Winchester's praise quickly recovered his customary self possession. Once more he was the iron-willed, self-contained man who daily dared everything for the cause he served.

"Thank you, Colonel," he said, "I've got to go out and get a little food now. All I say will be proved soon enough."

The three boys, like Colonel Winchester, did not doubt the truth of Shepard's news, and they looked northeast for the dust clouds which should mark the approach of Jackson.

"We've been outmaneuvered," said Warner to Dick, "but it's no reason why we should be outfought."

"No, George, it isn't. We've eighty thousand men as brave as any in the world, and, from what we hear they haven't as many. We ought to smash their old trap all to pieces."

"If our generals will only give us a chance."

Shepard's prediction that his news would soon prove true was verified almost at once. General Pope himself returned to his army and dispatch after dispatch arrived stating that Jackson and his whole force had been at Bristoe Station while the Union stores were burning.

"Now is our chance," said Dick to his comrades, "why doesn't the general move on Jackson at once, and destroy him before Lee can come to his help?"

"I'm praying for it," said Warner.

"From what I hear it's going to be done," said Pennington.

Their hopes came true. Pope at once took the bold course, and marched on Jackson, but the elusive Stonewall was gone. They tramped about in the heat and dust in search of him. One portion of the army including Colonel Winchester's regiment turned off in the afternoon toward a place of a few houses called Warrenton. It lay over toward the Gap through which Jackson had gone and while the division ten thousand strong did not expect to find anything there it was nevertheless ordered to look.

Dick rode by the side of his colonel ready for any command, but the mystery, and uncertainty had begun to weigh upon him again. It seemed when they had the first news that Jackson was behind them, that they had a splendid opportunity to turn upon him and annihilate him before Lee could come. But he was gone. They had looked upon the smoldering ruins of their great supply camp, but they had found there no trace of a Confederate soldier. Was Harry Kenton right, when he told them they could not beat Jackson? He asked himself angrily why the man would not stay and fight. He believed, too, that he must be off there somewhere to the right, and he listened eagerly but vainly for the distant throb of guns in the east.

A cloud of dust hovered over the ten thousand as they marched on in the blazing sunshine. The country was well peopled, but all the inhabitants had disappeared save a few, and from not one of these could they obtain a scrap of information.

Dick noticed through the dusty veil a heavy wood on their left extending for a long distance. Then as in a flash, he saw that the whole forest was filled with troops, and he saw also two batteries galloping from it toward the crest of a ridge. It occurred to him instantly that here was the army of Jackson, and others who saw had the same instinctive belief.

There was a flash and roar from the batteries. Shot and shell cut through the clouds of dust and among the ranks of the men in blue. Now came from the forest a vast shout, the defiant rebel yell and nobody in the column doubted that Jackson was there. He had swung away toward the Gap, where Lee could come to him more readily, and he would fight the whole Union army until Lee came up.

As the roar of the first discharge from the batteries was dying swarms of skirmishers sprang up from ambush and poured a storm of bullets upon the Union front and flanks. A cry as of anguish arose from the column and it reeled back, but the men, many of them hardy young farmers from the West, men of staunch stuff, were eager to get at the enemy and the terrible surprise could not daunt them. Uttering a tremendous shout they charged directly upon the Southern force.

It was a case largely of vanguards, the main forces not yet having come up, but the two detachments charged into each other with a courage and fierceness that was astounding. In a minute the woods and fields were filled with fire and smoke, and hissing shells and bullets. Men fell by hundreds, but neither side yielded. The South could not drive away the North and the North could not hurl back the South.

The field of battle became a terrible and deadly vortex. The fire of the opposing lines blazed in the faces of each other. Often they were only three or four score yards apart. Ewell, Jackson's ablest and most trusted lieutenant, fell wounded almost to death, and lay long upon the field. Other Southern generals fell also, and despite their superior numbers they could not drive back the North.

Dick never had much recollection of the combat, save a reek of fire and smoke in which men fought. He saw Colonel Winchester's horse pitch forward on his head and springing from his own he pulled the half-stunned colonel to his feet. Both leaped aside just in time to avoid Dick's own falling horse, which had been slain by a shell. Then the colonel ran up and down the lines of his men, waving his sword and encouraging them to stand fast.

The Southern lines spread out and endeavored to overlap the Union men, but they were held back by a deep railroad cut and masses of felled timber. The combat redoubled in fury. Cannon and rifles together made a continuous roar. Both sides seemed to have gone mad with the rage of battle.

The Southern generals astonished at such a resistance by a smaller force, ordered up more men and cannon. The Union troops were slowly pushed back by the weight of numbers, but then the night, the coming of which neither had noticed, swept down suddenly upon them, leaving fifteen hundred men, nearly a third of those engaged, fallen upon the small area within which the two vanguards had fought.

But the Union men did not retreat far. Practically, they were holding their ground, when the darkness put an end to the battle, and they were full of elation at having fought a draw with superior numbers of the formidable Jackson. Dick, although exultant, was so much exhausted that he threw himself upon the ground and panted for breath. When he was able to rise he looked for Warner and Pennington and found them uninjured. So was Sergeant Whitley, but the sergeant, contrary to his custom, was gloomy.

"What's the matter, sergeant?" exclaimed Dick in surprise. "Didn't we give 'em a great fight?"

"Splendid, Mr. Mason, I don't believe that troops ever fought better than ours did. But we're not many here. Where's all the rest of our army? Scattered, while I'm certain that Jackson with twenty-five or thirty thousand men is in front of us, with more coming. We'll fall back. We'll have to do it before morning."

The sergeant on this occasion had the power of divination. An hour after midnight the whole force which had fought with so much heroism was withdrawn. It was a strange night to the whole Union army, full of sinister omens.

Pope, in his quest for Jackson, had heard about sunset the booming of guns in the west, but he could not believe that the Southern general was there. Many of his dispatches had been captured by the hard-riding cavalry of Stuart. His own division commanders had lost touch with him. It was not possible for him to know what to do until morning, and no one could tell him. Meanwhile Longstreet was advancing in the darkness through the Gap to reinforce Jackson.

Dick had found another horse belonging to a slain owner, and, in the darkness, his heart full of bitterness, he rode back beside Colonel Winchester toward Manassas. Could they never win a big victory in the east? The men were brave and tenacious. They had proved it over and over again, but they were always mismanaged. It seemed to him that they were never sent to the right place at the right time.

Nevertheless, many of the Northern generals, able and patriotic, achieved great deeds before the dawn of that momentous morning. Messengers were riding in the darkness in a zealous attempt to gather the forces together. There was yet abundant hope that they could crush Jackson before Lee came, and in the darkness brigade after brigade marched toward Warrenton.

Dick, after tasting all the bitterness of retreat, felt his hopes rise again. They had not really been beaten. They had fought a superior force of Jackson's own men to a standstill. He could never forget that. He cherished it and rolled it under his tongue. It was an omen of what was to come. If they could only get leaders of the first rank they would soon end the war.

He found himself laughing aloud in the anticipation of what Pope's Army of Virginia would do in the coming day to the rebels. It might even happen that McClellan with the Army of the Potomac would also come upon the field. And then! Lee and Jackson thought they had Pope in a trap! Pope and McClellan would have them between the hammer and the anvil, and they would be pounded to pieces!

"Here, stop that foolishness, Dick! Quit, I say, quit it at once!"

It was Warner who was speaking, and he gripped Dick's arm hard, while he peered anxiously into his face.

"What's the matter with you?" he continued. "What do you find to laugh at? Besides, I don't like the way you laugh."

Dick shook himself, and then rubbed his hand across his brow.

"Thanks, George," he said. "I'm glad you called me back to myself. I was thinking what would happen to the enemy if McClellan and the Army of the Potomac came up also, and I was laughing over it."

"Well, the next time, don't you laugh at a thing until it happens. You may have to take your laugh back."

Dick shook himself again, and the nervous excitement passed.

"You always give good advice, George," he said. "Do you know where we are?"

"I couldn't name the place, but we're not so far from Warrenton that we can't get back there in a short time and tackle Jackson again. Dick, see all those moving lights to right and left of us. They're the brigades coming up in the night. Isn't it a weird and tremendous scene? You and I and Pennington will see this night over and over again, many and many a time."

"It's so, George," said Dick, "I feel the truth of what you say all through me. Listen to the rumble of the cannon wheels! I hear 'em on both sides of us, and behind us, and I've no doubt, too, that it's going on before us, where the Southerners are massing their batteries. How the lights move! It's the field of Manassas again, and we're going to win this time!"

All of Dick's senses were excited once more, and everything he saw was vivid and highly colored. Warner, cool of blood as he habitually was, had no words of rebuke for him now, because he, too, was affected in the same way. The fields and plains of Manassas were alive not alone with marching armies, but the ghosts of those who had fallen there the year before rose and walked again.

Despite the darkness everything swelled into life again for Dick. Off there was the little river of Manassas, Young's Branch, the railway station, and the Henry House, around which the battle had raged so fiercely. They would have won the victory then if it had not been for Stonewall Jackson. If he had not been there the war would have been ended on that sanguinary summer day.

But Jackson was in front of them now, and they had him fast. Lee and Jackson had thought to trap Pope, but Jackson himself was in the trap, and they would destroy him utterly. His admiration for the great Southern general had changed for the time into consuming rage. They must overwhelm him, annihilate him, sweep him from the face of the earth.

They mounted again and moved back, but did not go far.

"Get down, Dick," said Colonel Winchester. "Here's food for us, and hot coffee. I don't remember myself how long we've been in the saddle and how long we've been without food, but we mustn't go into battle until we've eaten."

Dick was the last of the officers to dismount. He, too, did not remember how long they had been in the saddle. He could not say at that moment, whether it had been one night or two. He ate and drank mechanically, but hungrily -- the Union army nearly always had plenty of stores -- and then he felt better and stronger.

A faint bluish tint was appearing under the gray horizon in the east. Dick felt the touch of a light wind on his forehead. The dawn was coming.

Yes, the dawn was coming, but it was coming heavy with sinister omens and the frown of battle. Before the bluish tint in the east had turned to silver Dick heard the faint and far thudding of great guns, and closer a heavy regular beat which he knew was the gallop of cavalry. Surely the North could not fail now. Fierce anger against those who would break up the Union surged up in him again.

The gray came at last, driving the bluish tint away, and the sun rose hot and bright over the field of Manassas which already had been stained with the blood of one fierce battle. But now the armies were far greater. Nearly a hundred and fifty thousand men were gathering for the combat, and Dick was still hoping that McClellan would come with seventy or eighty thousand more. But within the Confederate lines, where they must always win and never lose, because losing meant to lose all there was a stern determination to shatter Pope and his superior numbers before McClellan could come. Never had the genius and resolution of the two great Southern leaders burned more brightly.

As the brazen sun swung slowly up Dick felt that the intense nervous excitement he had felt the night before was seizing him again. The officers of the regiment remained on foot. Colonel Winchester had sent their horses away to some cavalrymen who had lost their own. He and his staff and other officers, dismounted, could lead the men better into battle.

And that it was battle, great and bloody, the youngest of them all could see. Never had an August day been brighter and hotter. Every object seemed to swell into new size in the vivid and burning sunlight. Plain before them lay Jackson's army. Two of his regiments were between them and a turnpike that Dick remembered well. Off to the left ran the dark masses in gray, until they ended against a thick wood. In the center was a huge battery, and Dick from his position could see the mouths of the cannon waiting for them.

But he also saw the great line of the Northern Army. It was both deeper and longer than that of the South, and he knew that the men were full of resolve and courage.

"How many have we got here?" Dick heard himself asking Warner.

"Forty or fifty thousand, I suppose," he heard Warner replying, "and before night there will be eighty thousand. Our line is two miles long now. We ought to wrap around Jackson and crush him to death. Listen to the bugles! What a mellow note! And how they draw men on to death! And listen to the throbbing of the big cannon, too!"

Warner's face was flushed. He had become excited, as the two armies stood there, and looked at each other a moment or two like prize fighters in the ring before closing in battle. Then they heard the order to charge and far up and down the line their own cannon opened with a crash so great that Dick and his comrades could not hear one another talking.

Then they charged. The whole army lifted itself up and rushed at the enemy, animated by patriotism, the fire of battle and the desire for revenge. Among the officers were Milroy and Schenck and others who had been beaten by Jackson in the valley. There, too, was the brigade of Germans whom Jackson had beaten at Cross Keyes. Many of them were veterans of the sternest discipline known in Europe and they longed fiercely for revenge. And there were more Germans, too, under Schurz -- hired Germans, fighting nearly a hundred years before to prevent the Union -- and free Germans now fighting to save it.

Driven forward thus by all the motives that sway men in battle, the Union army rushed upon Jackson. Confident from many victories and trusting absolutely in their leader the Southern defense received the mighty charge without flinching. The wood now swarmed with riflemen and they filled the air with their bullets, so many of them that their passage was like the continual rush of a hurricane. Along the whole line came the same metallic scream, and the great battery in the center was a volcano, pouring forth a fiery hurricane of shot and shell.

Dick felt their front lines being shorn. Although he was untouched it was an actual physical sensation. He could see but little save that fearful blaze in their faces, and the cries of the wounded and dying were drowned by the awful roar of so many cannon and rifles.

The cloud of dust and smoke had become immense and overwhelming in an instant, but it was pierced always in front by the blaze of fire, and by its flaming light Dick saw the long lines of the Southern men, their faces gray and fixed, as he knew those of his own comrades were.

But the charge, brave, even reckless, failed. The brigades broke in vain on Jackson's iron front. Riddled by the fire of the great battery and of the riflemen they could not go on and live. The Germans had longed for revenge, but they did not get it. The South Carolinians fell upon them at the edge of the wood and hurled them back. They rallied, and charged again, but again they were handled terribly, and were forced back by the charging masses of the Southerners.

Dick had been at Shiloh. He had seen the men of the west in a great battle, and now he saw the men of the east in a battle yet greater. There it had been largely in the forest, here it was mostly in the open, yet he saw but little more. One of the extraordinary features of this battle was dust. Trampled up from the dry fields by fighting men in scores of thousands it rose in vast floating clouds that permeated everything. It was even more persistent than the smoke. It clogged Dick's throat. It stung and burnt him like powder. Often it filled his eyes so completely that for a moment or two he could not see the blaze of the cannon and rifle fire, almost in his face.

But as they fell back he felt again that sensation of actual physical pain, although he was still untouched. Added to it was an intense mental anguish. They were failing! They had been driven back! They had not crushed Jackson! He forgot all about Colonel Winchester, and his comrades Warner and Pennington. He forgot all about his own danger in this terrible reversal of his hopes, and he began to shout angrily at the men to stand. He did not know by and by that no sound came from his mouth, that words could not come from a throat so choked with dust and burned gunpowder.

But the charge was made again. The thudding great guns now told all the Northern divisions where Jackson was. The eighty thousand men of Pope were crowding forward to attack him, and the batteries were galloping over the plateau to add to the volume of shot and shell that was poured upon the Southern ranks.

Dick was quite unconscious of the passage of time. Hope had sprung anew in his breast. He heard a report that ten thousand fresh troops under Kearney had arrived and were attacking the Southerners in the wood. He knew by the immense volume of fire coming from that point that the report was true, and he heard that McDowell, too, would soon be at hand with nearly thirty thousand men.

Then he saw Colonel Winchester, his face a mass of grime and his clothing flecked with blood. But he did not seem to have suffered any wound and he was calmly rallying his men.

"It's hot!" Dick shouted, why he knew not.

"Yes, my boy, and it will soon be hotter! Look at the new brigades coming into battle! See them on both right and left! We'll crush Jackson yet!"

It was now mid-morning, and neither Colonel Winchester nor any other of the Northern officers facing the Southern force knew that Lee and the other Southern army was at hand. The front ranks of Longstreet were already in battle, and the most difficult and dangerous of all tasks was accomplished. Two armies coming from points widely divergent, but acting in concert had joined upon the field of battle at the very moment when the junction meant the most. Lee had come, but McClellan and the Army of the Potomac were far away.

Dick heard the trumpets calling again, and once more they charged, hurling heavy masses now upon the wood, which was held by the Southern general, A. P. Hill. Rifle fire gave way to bayonet charges by either side, and after swaying back and forth the Union men held the wood for a while, but at last they were driven out to stay, and as they retreated cannon and rifles decimated their ranks.

The regiment had suffered so terribly that after its retreat it was compelled to lie down a while and rest. Dick gasped for breath, but he was not as much excited as he had been earlier in the day. Perhaps one can become hardened to anything. Although he and his immediate comrades were resting he could see no diminution of the battle.

As far to left and right as the eye reached, cannon and rifles blazed and thundered. In front of their own exhausted regiment hundreds of sharpshooters, creeping forward, were now pouring a deadly fire among the Southern troops who held the wood. They were men of the west and northwest, accustomed all their lives to the use of firearms, and if a Confederate officer in the forest showed himself for a moment it was at the risk of his life. Captains and lieutenants fell fast beneath the aim of the sharpshooters.

The burning sun was at the zenith, pouring fiery rays upon the vast conflict which raged along a front of two miles. Pope himself was now upon the field and his troops were pouring from every point to his aid. So deadly was the fire of the sharpshooters that they regained the wood, driving out the Southerners who had exhausted their cartridges. Hill's division of the Confederates was almost cut to pieces by the cannon and rifles, and the Southern leaders from their posts on the hills saw brigades and regiments continually coming to the help of the North.

Dick saw or rather felt the fortunes of the North rising again, and as his regiment stood up for action once more he began to shout with the others in triumph. The roar of the battle grew so steady that the voices of men became audible and articulate beneath it.

"They shut their trap down upon us, but we're breaking that trap all to pieces," he heard Pennington say.

"Looks as if we might win a victory," said the cooler Warner.

Then he heard no more, as they were once again upon the enemy who received them almost hand to hand, and the battle swelled anew. It was now long past noon, and in that prodigious canopy of dust and fire and smoke it seemed for a while that the Union army in truth had shattered the trap. The men in gray were borne back by the courage and weight of their opponents. Hooker, Kearney, Reynolds and all the gallant generals of the North continually urged on their troops. Confidence in victory at last passed through all the army, and incited it to greater efforts.

But Jackson was undaunted. Never was he cooler. Never did his genius shine more brilliantly. Never did any man in all the fury and turmoil of battle, amid a thousand conflicting reports and appalling confusion, have a keener perception, a greater power to sum up what was actually passing, and a better knowledge of what to do.

Lee was a mile away, standing on a wooded hill, the bearded Longstreet by his side, watching the battle in his immediate front, where accumulating masses under Pope's own eye were gathering. On the other flank where Jackson stood and the conflict was heaviest he trusted all to his great lieutenant and not in vain.

Jackson had formed his plan. There came for a few moments a lull in the battle which had now lasted nine hours, and then gathering a powerful reserve he sent them charging through the wood with the bayonet. Dick saw the massive line of glittering steel coming on at the double quick and he felt his regiment giving back. The men could not help it. Physically exhausted and with ammunition running low they slowly yielded the wood. Many of the youths wept with rage, but although they had lost thousands in five desperate charges they were compelled to see all five fail.

Dick, aghast, gazed at Warner through the smoke.

"It's true!" gasped Warner, "we didn't break the trap, Dick. But maybe they'll succeed off there to the left! Our own commander is there, and they say that Lee himself has come to the help of Jackson!"

They had been driven back at all points and their own battle was dying, but off to the left it thundered a while longer, and then as night suddenly rushed over the field it, too, sank, leaving the hostile forces on that wing also still face to face, but with the North pushed back.

The coming of night was as sudden to Dick as if it had been the abrupt dropping of a great dark blanket. In the fury of conflict he had not noticed the gathering shadows in the west. The dimness around him, if he had taken time to think about it, he would have ascribed to the vast columns of dust that eddied and surged about.

Again it was the dust that he felt and remembered. The surging back and forth of seven score thousand men, the tread of horses and the wheels of hundreds of cannon raised it in such quantities that it covered the forest and the armies with a vast whitish curtain. Even in the darkness it showed dim and ghastly like a funeral veil.

Out of that fatal forest came a dreadful moaning. Dick did not know whether it was the wind among the leaves or the dying. Once more the ghosts of the year before walked the fatal field, but the ghosts of this year would be a far greater company. They had not broken the trap and Dick knew that the battle was far from over.

It would be renewed in the morning with greater fierceness than ever, but he was grateful for the present darkness and rest. He and his comrades had thrown themselves upon the ground, and they felt as if they could never move again. Their bones did not ache. They merely felt dead within them.

Dick was roused after a long time. The camp cooks were bringing food and coffee. He saw a figure lying at his feet as still as death, and he shoved it with his foot.

"Get up, Frank," he said. "You're not dead."

"No, I'm not, but I'm as good as dead. You just let me finish dying in peace."

Dick shoved him again and Pennington sat up. When he saw the food and coffee he suddenly remembered to be hungry. Warner was already eating and drinking. Off to the left they still heard cannon and rifles, although the sound was sinking. Occasionally flashes from the mouths of the great guns illumined the darkness.

Dick did not know what time it was. He had no idea how long he had been lying upon the ground panting, the air surcharged with menace and suspense. The vast clouds of dust, impregnated with burned gunpowder still floated about, and it scorched his mouth and throat as he breathed it.

The boys, after eating and drinking lay down again. They still heard the firing of pickets, but it was no more than the buzzing of bees to them, and after a while they fell into the sleep of nervous and physical exhaustion. But while many of the soldiers slept all of the generals were awake.

It was a singular fact but in the night that divided the great battle of the Second Manassas into two days both sides were full of confidence. Jackson's men, who had borne the brunt of the first day, rested upon their arms and awaited the dawn with implicit confidence in their leader. On the other flank Lee and Longstreet were massing their men for a fresh attack.

The losses within the Union lines were replaced by reinforcements. Pope rode among them, sanguine, full of hope, telegraphing to Washington that the enemy had lost two to his one, and that Lee was retreating toward the mountains.

Dick slept uneasily through the night, and rose to another hot August sun. Then the two armies looked at each other and it seemed that each was waiting for the other to begin, as the morning hours dragged on and only the skirmishers were busy. During this comparative peace, the heavy clouds of dust were not floating about, and Dick whose body had come to life again walked back and forth with his colonel, gazing through their glasses at the enemy. He scarcely noticed it, but Colonel Winchester's manner toward him had become paternal. The boy merely ascribed it to the friendly feeling an officer would feel for a faithful aide, but he knew that he had in his colonel one to whom he could speak both as a friend and a protector. Walking together they talked freely of the enemy who stood before them in such an imposing array.

"Colonel," said Dick, "do you think General Pope is correct in stating that one wing of the Southern army is already retreating through Thoroughfare Gap?"

"I don't, Dick. I don't think it is even remotely probable. I'm quite sure, too, that we have the whole Confederate army in front of us. We'll have to beat both Lee and Jackson, if we can."

"Where do you think the main attack will be?"

"On Jackson, who is still in front of us. But we have waited a long time. It must be full noon now."

"It is past noon, sir, but I hear the trumpets, calling up our men."

"They are calling to us, too."

The regiment shifted a little to the right, where a great column was forming for a direct attack upon the Confederate lines. Twenty thousand men stood in a vast line and forty thousand were behind them to march in support.

Dick had thought that he would be insensible to emotions, but his heart began to throb again. The spectacle thrilled and awed him -- the great army marching to the attack and the resolute army awaiting it. Soon he heard behind him the firing of the artillery which sent shot and shell over their heads at the enemy. A dozen cannon came into action, then twenty, fifty, a hundred and more, and the earth trembled with the mighty concussion.

Dick felt the surge of triumph. They had yet met no answering fire. Perhaps General Pope and not Colonel Winchester had been right after all, and the Confederates were crushed. Awaiting them was only a rear guard which would flee at the first flash of the bayonets in the wood.

The great line marched steadily onward, and the cannon thundered and roared over the heads of the men raking the wood with steel. Still no reply. Surely the sixty thousand Union men would now march over everything. They were driving in the swarms of skirmishers. Dick could see them retreating everywhere, in the wood over the hills and along an embankment.

Warner was on his right and Pennington on his left. Dick glanced at them and he saw the belief in speedy victory expressed on the faces of both. It seemed to him, too, that nothing could now stop the massive columns that Pope was sending forward against the thinned ranks of the Confederates.

They were much nearer and he saw gray lines along an embankment and in a wood. Then above the crash and thunder of their covering artillery he heard another sound. It was the Southern bugles calling with a piercing note to their own men just as the Northern trumpets had called.

Dick saw a great gray multitude suddenly pour forward. It looked to him in the blur and the smoke like an avalanche, and in truth it was a human avalanche, a far greater force of the South than they expected to meet there. Directly in front of the Union column stood the Stonewall Brigade, and all the chosen veterans of Stonewall Jackson's army.

"It's a fight, face to face," Dick heard Colonel Winchester say.

Then he saw a Union officer, whose name he did not know suddenly gallop out in front of the division, wave his saber over his head and shout the charge. A tremendous rolling cry came from the blue ranks and Dick physically felt the whole division leap forward and rush at the enemy.

Dick saw the officer who had made himself the leader of the charge gallop straight at a breastwork that the Southerners had built, reach and stand, horse and rider, a moment at the top, then both fall in a limp heap. The next instant the officer, not dead but wounded, was dragged a prisoner behind the embankment by generous foes who had refused to shoot at him until compelled to do so.

The Union men, with a roar, followed their champion, and Dick felt a very storm burst upon them. The Southerners had thrown up earthworks at midnight and thousands of riflemen lying behind them sent in a fire at short range that caused the first Union line to go down like falling grain. Cannon from the wood and elsewhere raked them through and through.

It was a vortex of fire and death. The Confederates themselves were losing heavily, but taught by the stern Jackson and knowing that his eye was upon them they refused to yield. The Northern charge broke on their front, but the men did not retreat far. The shrill trumpet called them back to the charge, and once more the blue masses hurled themselves upon the barrier of fire and steel, to break again, and to come yet a third time at the trumpet's call. Often the combatants were within ten yards of one another, but strive as they would the Union columns could not break through the Confederate defense.

Elsewhere the men of Hill and Longstreet showed a sternness and valor equal to that of Jackson's. Their ranks held firm everywhere, and now, as the long afternoon drew on, the eye of Lee, watching every rising and falling wave of the battle, saw his chance. He drew his batteries together in great masses and as the last charge broke on Jackson's lines the trumpets sounded the charge for the Southern troops who hitherto had stood on the defensive.

Dick heard a tremendous shout, the great rebel yell, that he had heard so often before, and that he was destined to hear so often again. Through the clouds of smoke and dust he saw the long lines of Southern bayonets advancing swiftly. His regiment, which had already lost more than half its numbers, was borne back by an appalling weight.

Then hope deserted the boy for the first time. The Union was not to be saved here on this field. It was instead another lost Manassas, but far greater than the first. The genius of Lee and Jackson which bore up the Confederacy was triumphing once again. Dick shut his teeth in grim despair. He heard the triumphant shouts of the advancing enemy, and he saw that not only his own regiment, but the whole Northern line, was being driven back, slowly it is true, but they were going.

Now at the critical moment, Lee was hurling forward every man and gun. Although his army was inferior in numbers he was always superior at the point of contact, and his exultant veterans pressed harder and harder upon their weakening foes. Only the artillery behind them now protected Dick and his comrades. But the Confederates still came with a rush.

Jackson was leading on his own men who had stood so long on the defensive. The retreating Union line was broken, guns were lost, and there was a vast turmoil and confusion. Yet out of it some order finally emerged, and although the Union army was now driven back at every point it inflicted heavy losses upon its foe, and under the lead of brave commanders great masses gathered upon the famous Henry Hill, resolved, although they could not prevent defeat, to save the army from destruction.

Night was coming down for the second time upon the field of battle, lost to the North, although the North was ready to fight again.

Lee and Jackson looked upon the heavy Union masses gathered at the Henry Hill, and then looking at the coming darkness they stopped the attack. Night heavier than usual came down over the field, covering with its friendly veil those who had lost and those who had won, and the twenty-five thousand who had fallen.



Chapter VI. The Mournful Forest


As the night settled down, heavy and dark, and the sounds of firing died away along the great line, Dick again sank to the ground exhausted. Although the battle itself had ceased, it seemed to him that the drums of his ears still reproduced its thunder and roar, or at least the echo of it was left upon the brain.

He lay upon the dry grass, and although the night was again hot and breathless, surcharged with smoke and dust and fire, he felt a chill that went to the bone, and he trembled all over. Then a cold perspiration broke out upon him. It was the collapse after two days of tremendous exertion, excitement and anxiety. He did not move for eight or ten minutes, blind to everything that was going on about him, and then through the darkness he saw Colonel Winchester standing by and looking down at him.

"Are you all right, Dick, my boy?" the colonel asked.

"Yes, sir," replied Dick, as his pride made him drag himself to his feet. "I'm not wounded at all. I was just clean played out."

"You're lucky to get off so well," said the colonel, smiling sadly. "We've lost many thousands and we've lost the battle, too. The killed or wounded in my regiment number more than two-thirds."

"Have you seen anything of Warner and Pennington, sir? I lost sight of them in that last terrible attack."

"Pennington is here. He has had a bullet through the fleshy part of his left arm, but he's so healthy it won't take him long to get well. I'm sorry to say that Warner is missing."

"Missing, sir? You don't say that George has been killed?"

"I don't say it. I'm hoping instead that he's been captured."

Dick knew what the colonel meant. In Colonel Winchester's opinion only two things, death or capture, could keep Warner from being with them.

"Maybe he will come in yet," he said. "We were mixed up a good deal when the darkness fell, and he may have trouble in finding our position."

"That's true. There are not so many of us left, and we do not cover any great area of ground. Lie still, Dick, and take a little rest. We don't know what's going to happen in the night. We may have to do more fighting yet, despite the darkness."

The colonel's figure disappeared in the shadow, and Dick, following his advice, lay quiet. All around him were other forms stretched upon the earth, motionless. But Dick knew they were not dead, merely sleeping. His own nervous system was being restored by youth and the habit of courage. Yet he felt a personal grief, and it grew stronger with returning physical strength. Warner, his comrade, knitted to him by ties of hardship and danger, was missing, dead no doubt in the battle. For the moment he forgot about the defeat. All his thoughts were for the brave youth who lay out there somewhere, stretched on the dusty field.

Dick strained his eyes into the darkness, as if by straining he might see where Warner lay. He saw, indeed, dim fires here and there along a long line, marking where the Confederates now stood, or rather lay. Then a bitter pang came. It was ground upon which the Union army had stood in the morning.

The rifle fire, which had died down, began again in a fitful way. Far off, skirmishers, not satisfied with the slaughter of the day, were seeing what harm they could do in the dark. Somewhere the plumed and unresting Stuart was charging with his horsemen, driving back some portion of the Union army that the Confederate forces might be on their flank in the morning.

But Dick, as he lay quietly and felt his strength, mental and physical, returning, was taking a resolution. Down there in front of them and in the darkness was the wood upon which they had made five great assaults, all to fail. In front of that mournful forest, and within its edge, more than ten thousand men had fallen. He had no doubt that Warner was among them.

His sense of direction was good, and, as his blurred faculties regained their normal keenness, he could mark the exact line by which they had advanced, and the exact line by which they had retreated. Warner unquestionably lay near the edge of the wood and he must seek him. Were it the other way, Warner would do the same.

Dick stood up. He was no longer dizzy, and every muscle felt steady and strong. He did not know what had become of Colonel Winchester, and his comrades still lay upon the ground in a deep stupor.

It could not be a night of order and precision, with every man numbered and in his place, as if they were going to begin a battle instead of just having finished one, and Dick, leaving his comrades, walked calmly toward the wood. He passed one sentinel, but a few words satisfied him, and he continued to advance. Far to right and left he still heard the sound of firing and saw the flash of guns, but these facts did not disturb him. In front of him lay darkness and silence, with the horizon bounded by that saddest of all woods where the heaped dead lay.

Dick looked back toward the Henry Hill, on the slopes of which were the fragments of his own regiment. Lights were moving there, but they were so dim they showed nothing. Then he turned his face toward the enemy's position and did not look back again.

The character of the night was changing. It had come on dark and heavy. Hot and breathless like the one before, he had taken no notice of the change save for the increased darkness. Now he felt a sudden damp touch on his face, as if a wet finger had been laid there. The faintest of winds had blown for a moment or two, and when Dick looked up, he saw that the sky was covered with black clouds. The saddest of woods had moved far away, but by some sort of optical illusion he could yet see it.

Save for the distant flash of random firing, the darkness was intense. Every star was gone, and Dick moved without any guide. But he needed none. His course was fixed. He could not miss the mournful wood hanging there like a pall on the horizon.

His feet struck against something. It was a man, but he was past all feeling, and Dick went on, striking by and by against many more. It was impossible at the moment to see Warner's face, but he began to feel of the figures with his hands. There was none so long and slender as Warner's, and he continued his search, moving steadily toward the wood.

He saw presently a lantern moving over the field, and he walked toward it. Three men were with the lantern, and the one who carried it held it up as he approached. The beams fell directly upon Dick, revealing his pale face and torn and dusty uniform.

"What do you want, Yank?" called the man.

"I'm looking for a friend of mine who must have fallen somewhere near here."

The man laughed, but it was not a laugh of joy or irony. It was a laugh of pity and sadness.

"You've shorely got a big look comin'," he said. "They're scattered all around here, coverin' acres an' acres, just like dead leaves shook by a storm from the trees. But j'in us, Yank. You can't do nothin' in the darkness all by yourself. We're Johnny Rebs, good and true, and I may be shootin' straight at you to-morrow mornin', but I reckon I've got nothin' ag'in you now. We're lookin' for a brother o' mine."

Dick joined them, and the four, the three in gray and the one in blue, moved on. A friendly current had passed between him and them, and there would be no thought of hostility until the morning, when it would come again. It was often so in this war, when men of the same blood met in the night between battles.

"What sort of a fellow is it that you're lookin' for?" asked the man with the lantern.

"About my age. Very tall and thin. You could mark him by his height."

"It takes different kinds of people to make the world. My brother ain't like him a-tall. Sam's short, an' thick as a buffalo. Weighs two twenty with no fat on him. What crowd do you belong to, youngster?"

"The division on our right. We attacked the wood there."

"Well, you're a bully boy. Give me your hand, if you are a Yank. You shorely came right up there and looked us in the eyes. How often did you charge us?"

"Five times, I think. But I may be mistaken. You know it wasn't a day when a fellow could be very particular about his count."

"Guess you're right there. I made it five. What do you say, Jim?"

"Five she was."

"That settles it. Jim kin always count up to five an' never make a mistake. What you fellers goin' to do in the mornin'?"

"I don't know."

"Pope ain't asked you yet what to do. Well, Bobby Lee and Old Stonewall ain't been lookin' for me either to get my advice, but, Yank, you fellers do just what I tell you."

"What's that?"

"Pack up your clothes before daylight, say good-bye, and go back to Washington. You needn't think you kin ever lick Marse Bobby an' Stonewall Jackson."

"But what if we do think it? We've got a big army back there yet, and more are always coming to us. We'll beat you yet."

"There seems to be a pow'ful wide difference in our opinions, an' I can't persuade you an' you can't persuade me. We'll just let the question rip. I'm glad, after all, Yank, it's so dark. I don't want to see ten thousand dead men stretched out in rows."

"We're going to get a wettin'," said the man to Jim. "The air's already damp on my face. Thar, do you hear that thunder growlin' in the southwest? Tremenjously like cannon far away, but it's thunder all the same."

"What do we care 'bout a wettin', Jim? Fur the last few days this young Yank here an' his comrades have shot at me 'bout a million cannon balls an' shells, an' more 'n a hundred million rifle bullets. Leastways I felt as if they was all aimed at me, which is just as bad. After bein' drenched fur two days with a storm of steel an' lead an' fire, what do you think I care for a summer shower of rain, just drops of rain?"

"But I don't like to get wet after havin' fit so hard. It's unhealthy, likely to give me a cold."

"Never min' 'bout ketchin' cold. You're goin' to get wet, shore. Thunder, but I thought fur a second that was the flash of a hull battery aimed at me. Fellers, if you wasn't with me I'd be plumb scared, prowlin' 'roun' here in a big storm on the biggest graveyard in the world. Keep close, Yank, we don't want to lose you in the dark."

A tremendous flash of lightning had cut the sky down the middle, as if it intended to divide the world in two halves, but after its passage the darkness closed in thicker and heavier than ever. The sinister sound of thunder muttering on the horizon now went on without ceasing.

Dick was awed. Like many another his brain exposed to such tremendous pressure for two or three days, was not quite normal. It was quickly heated and excited by fancies, and time and place alone were enough to weigh down even the coolest and most seasoned. He pressed close to his Confederate friends, whose names he never knew, and who never knew his, and they, feeling the same influence, never for an instant left the man who held the lantern.

The muttering thunder now came closer and broke in terrible crashes. The lightning flashed again and again so vividly that Dick, with involuntary motion, threw up his hands to shelter his eyes. But he could see before him the mournful forest, where so many good men had fallen, and, turned red in the gleam of the lightning, it was more terrifying than it had been in the mere black of the night. The wind, too, was now blowing, and the forest gave forth what Dick's ears turned into a long despairing wail.

"She's about to bust," said the lantern bearer, looking up at the menacing sky. "Jim, you'll have to take your wettin' as it comes."

A moment later the storm burst in fact. The rain rushed down on them, soaking them through in an instant, but Dick, so far from caring, liked it. It cooled his heated body and brain, and he knew that it was more likely to help than hurt the wounded who yet lay on the ground.

The lightning ceased before the sweep of the rain, but the lantern was well protected by its glass cover, and they still searched. The lantern bearer suddenly uttered a low cry.

"Boys!" he said, "Here's Sam!"

A thick and uncommonly powerful man lay doubled up against a bush. His face was white. Dick saw that blood had just been washed from it by the rain. But he could see no rising and falling of the chest, and he concluded that he was dead.

"Take the lantern, Jim," said the leader. Then he knelt down and put his finger on his brother's wrist.

"He ain't dead," he said at last. "His pulse is beatin' an' he'll come to soon. The rain helped him. Whar was he hit? By gum, here it is! A bullet has ploughed all along the side of his head, runnin' 'roun' his skull. Here, you Yank, did you think you could kill Sam by shootin' him in the head with a bullet? We've stood him up in front of our lines, and let you fellows break fifty pound shells on his head. You never done him no harm, 'cept once when two solid shot struck him at the same time an' he had a headache nigh until sundown. Besides havin' natural thickness of the skull Sam trained his head by buttin' with the black boys when he was young."

Dick saw that the man really felt deep emotion and was chattering, partly to hide it. He was glad that they had found his brother, and he helped them to lift him. Then they rubbed Sam's wrists and poured a stimulant down his throat. In a few minutes he stood alone on his feet, yawned mightily, and by the light of the dim lantern gazed at them in a sort of stupid wonder.

"What's happened?" he asked.

"What's happened?" replied his brother. "You was always late with the news, Sam. Of course you've been takin' a nap, but a lot has happened. We met the Yankees an' we've been fightin' 'em for two days. Tremenjous big battle, an' we've whipped 'em. 'Scuse me, Yank, I forgot you was with us. Well, nigh onto a million have been killed, which ought to be enough for anybody. I love my country, but I don't care to love another at such a price. But resumin' 'bout you pussonally, Sam, you stopped so many shells an' solid shot with that thick head of yourn that the concussion at last put you to sleep, an' we've found you so we kin take you in out of the wet an' let you sleep in a dry place. Kin you walk?"

Sam made an effort, but staggered badly.

"Jim, you an' Dave take him by each shoulder an' walk him back to camp," said the lantern bearer. "You jest keep straight ahead an' you'll butt into Marse Bob or old Stonewall, one or the other."

"You lead the way with the lantern."

"Never you mind about me or the lantern."

"What you goin' to do?"

"Me? I'm goin' to keep this lantern an' help Yank here find his friend. Ain't he done stuck with us till we found Sam, an' I reckon I'll stick with him till he gits the boy he's lookin for, dead or alive. Now, you keep Sam straight, and walk him back to camp. He ain't hurt. Why, that bullet didn't dent his skull. It said to itself when it came smack up against the bone: 'This is too tough for me, I guess I'll go 'roun'.' An' it did go 'roun'. You can see whar it come out of the flesh on the other side. Why, by the time Sam was fourteen years old we quit splittin' old boards with an axe or a hatchet. We jest let Sam set on a log an' we split 'em over his head. Everybody was suited. Sam could make himself pow'ful useful without havin' to work."

Nevertheless, the lantern bearer gave his brother the tenderest care, and watched him until he and the men on either side of him were lost in the darkness as they walked toward the Southern camp.

"I jest had to come an' find old Sam, dead or alive," he said. "Now, which way, Yank, do you think this friend of yours is layin'?"

"But you're comin' with us," repeated Jim.

"No, I'm not. Didn't Yank here help us find Sam? An' are we to let the Yanks give us lessons in manners? I reckon not. 'Sides, he's only a boy, an' I'm goin' to see him through."

"I thank you," said Dick, much moved.

"Don't thank me too much, 'cause while I'm walkin' 'roun' with you friendly like to-night I may shoot you to-morrow."

"I thank you, all the same," said Dick, his gratitude in nowise diminished.

"Them that will stir no more are layin' mighty thick 'roun' here, but we ought to find your friend pretty soon. By gum, how it rains! W'all, it'll wash away some big stains, that wouldn't look nice in the mornin'. Say, sonny, what started this rumpus, anyway?"

"I don't know."

"An' I don't, either, so I guess it's hoss an' hoss with you an' me. But, sonny, I'll bet you a cracker ag'in a barrel of beef that none of them that did start the rumpus are a-layin' on this field to-night. What kind of lookin' feller did you say your young friend was?"

"Very tall, very thin, and about my age or perhaps a year or two older."

"Take a good look, an' see if this ain't him."

He held up the lantern and the beams fell upon a long figure half raised upon an elbow. The figure was turned toward the light and stared unknowing at Dick and the Southerner. There was a great clot of blood upon his right breast and shoulder, but it was Warner. Dick swallowed hard.

"Yes," he said, "it's my comrade, but he's hurt badly."

"So bad that he don't know you or anybody else. He's clean out of his head."

They leaned over him, and Dick called:

"George! George! It's Dick Mason, your comrade, come to help you back to camp!"

But Warner merely stared with feverish, unseeing eyes.

"He's out of his head, as I told you, an' he's like to be for many hours," said the lantern bearer. "It's a shore thing that I won't shoot him to-morrow, nor he won't shoot me."

He leaned over Warner and carefully examined the wound.

"He's lucky, after all," he said, "the bullet went in just under the right shoulder, but it curved, as bullets have a way of doin' sometimes, an' has come out on the side. There ain't no lead in him now, which is good. He was pow'ful lucky, too, in not bein' hit in the head, 'cause he ain't got no such skull as Sam has, not within a mile of it. His skull wouldn't have turned no bullet. He has lost a power of blood, but if you kin get him back to camp, an' use the med'cines which you Yanks have in such lots an' which we haven't, he may get well."

"That's good advice," said Dick. "Help me up with him."

"Take him on your back. That's the best way to carry a sick man."

He set down his lantern, took up Warner bodily and put him on Dick's back.

"I guess you can carry him all right," he said. "I'd light you with the lantern a piece of the way, but I've been out here long enough. Marse Bob an' old Stonewall will get tired waitin' fur me to tell 'em how to end this war in a month."

Dick, holding Warner in place with one hand, held out the other, and said:

"You're a white man, through and through, Johnny Reb. Shake!"

"So are you, Yank. There's nothin' wrong with you 'cept that you happened to get on the wrong side, an' I don't hold that ag'in you. I guess it was an innercent mistake."

"Good-bye."

"Good-bye. Keep straight ahead an' you'll strike that camp of yourn that we're goin' to take in the mornin'. Gosh, how it rains!"

Dick retained his idea of direction, and he walked straight through the darkness toward the Northern camp. George was a heavy load, but he did not struggle. His head sank down against his comrade's and Dick felt that it was burning with fever.

"Good old George," he murmured to himself rather than to his comrade, "I'll save you."

Excitement and resolve had given him a strength twice the normal, a strength that would last the fifteen or twenty minutes needed until this task was finished. Despite the darkness and the driving rain, he could now see the lights in his own camp, and bending forward a little to support the dead weight on his back, he walked in a straight course toward them.

"Halt! Who are you?"

The form of a sentinel, rifle raised, rose up before him in the darkness and the rain.

"Lieutenant Richard Mason of Colonel Winchester's regiment, bringing in Lieutenant George Warner of the same regiment, who is badly wounded."

The sentinel lowered his rifle and looked at them sympathetically.

"Hangs like he's dead, but he ain't," he said. "You'll find a sort of hospital over thar in the big tents among them trees."

Dick found the improvised hospital, and put George down on a rude cot, within the shelter of one of the tents.

"He's my friend," he said to a young doctor, "and I wish you'd save him."

"There are hundreds of others who have friends also, but I'll do my best. Shot just under the right shoulder, but the bullet, luckily, has turned and gone out. It's loss of blood that hurt him most. You soldiers kill more men than we doctors can save. I'm bound to say that. But your friend won't die. I'll see to it."

"Thank you," said Dick. He saw that the doctor was kind-hearted, and a marvel of endurance and industry. He could not ask for more at such a time, and he went out of the tent, leaving George to his care.

It was still raining, but the soldiers managed to keep many fires going, despite it, and Dick passed between them as he sought Colonel Winchester, and the fragments of his regiment. He found the colonel wrapped in a greatcoat, leaning against a tree under a few feet of canvas supported on sticks. Pennington, sound asleep, sat on a root of the same tree, also under the canvas, but with the rain beating on his left arm and shoulder.

Colonel Winchester looked inquiringly at Dick, but said nothing.

"I've been away without leave, sir," said Dick, "but I think I have sufficient excuse."

"What is it?"

"I've brought in Warner."

"Ah! Is he dead?"

"No, sir. He's had a bullet through him and he's feverish and unconscious, but the doctor says that with care he'll get well."

"Where did you find him?"

"Over there by the edge of the wood, sir, within what is now the Confederate lines."

"A credit to your courage and to your heart. Sit down here. There's a little more shelter under the canvas, and go to sleep. You're too much hardened now to be hurt seriously by wet clothes."

Dick sat down with his back against the tree, and, despite his soaked condition, slept as soundly as Pennington. When he awoke in the morning the hot sun was shining again, and his clothes soon dried on him. He felt a little stiffness and awkwardness at first, but in a few minutes it passed away. Then breakfast restored his strength, and he looked curiously about him.

Around him was the Northern army, and before him was the vast battlefield, now occupied by the foe. He heard sounds of distant rifle shots, indicating that the skirmishers were still restless, but it was no more now than the buzzing of flies. Pennington, coming back from the hospital, hailed him.

"George has come to," he said. "Great deed of yours last night, Dick. Wish I'd done it myself. They let old George talk just a little, but he's his real old Vermont self again. Says chances were ninety-nine and a half per cent that he would die there on the battlefield, but that the half per cent, which was yourself, won. Fancy being only half of one per cent, and doing a thing like that. No, you can't see him. Only one visitor was allowed, and that's me. His fever is leaving him, and he swallowed a little soup. Now, he's going to sleep."

Dick felt very grateful. Pennington had been up some time, and as they sat down in the sun he gave Dick the news.

"It was a bad night," he said. "After you staggered in with George, the rebels, in spite of the rain, harassed us. I was waked up after midnight, and the colonel began to believe that we would have to fight again before morning, though the need didn't come, so far as we were concerned. But we were terribly worried on the flanks. They say it was Stuart and his cavalry who were bothering us."

"What's the outlook for to-day?"

"I don't know. I hear that General Pope has sent a dispatch saying that the enemy is badly whipped, and that we'll hold our own here. But between you and me, Dick, I don't believe it. We've been driven out of all our positions, so we can hardly call it a victory for our side."

"But we may hold on where we are and win a victory yet. McClellan and the Army of the Potomac may come. Anyway, we can get big reinforcements."

Pennington clasped his arms over his knees and sang:

"The race is not to him that's got The longest legs to run, Nor the battle to those people That shoot the biggest gun."

"Where did you get that song?" asked Dick. "I'll allow, under the circumstances, that there seems to be some sense in it."

"A Texan that we captured last night sang it to us. He was a funny kind of fellow. Didn't seem to be worried a bit because he was taken. Said if his own people didn't retake him that he'd escape in a week, anyhow. Likely enough he will, too. But he was good company, and he sang us that song. Impudent, wasn't he?"

"But true so far, at least in the east. I fancy from what you say, Frank, that we'll be here a day longer anyhow. I hope so, I want to rest."

"So do I. I won't fight to-day, unless I'm ordered to do it. But I'm thinking with you, Dick, that we'll retreat. We were outmaneuvered by Lee and Jackson. That circuit of Jackson's through Thoroughfare Gap and the attack from the rear undid us. It comes of being kept in the dark by the enemy, instead of your keeping him in the dark. We never knew where the blow was going to fall, and when it fell a lot of us weren't there. But, Dick, old boy, we're going to win, in the end, aren't we, in spite of Lee, in spite of Jackson, and in spite of everybody and everything?"

"As surely as the rising and setting of the sun, Frank."

Although Dick had little to do that day, events were occurring. It was in the minds of Lee and Jackson that they might yet destroy the army which they had already defeated, and heavy divisions of the Southern army were moving. Dick heard about night that Jackson had marched ten miles, through fields deep in mud, and meant to fall on Pope's flank or rear again. Stuart and his unresting cavalry were also on their right flank and in the rear, doing damage everywhere. Longstreet had sent a brigade across Bull Run, and at many points the enemy was pressing closer.

The next morning, Pope, alarmed by all the sinister movements on his flanks and in his rear, gathered up his army and retreated. It was full time or the vise would have shut down on him again. Late that day the division under Kearney came into contact with Jackson's flanking force in the forest. A short but fierce battle ensued, fought in the night and amid new torrents of driving rain. General Kearney was killed by a skirmisher, but the night and the rain grew so dense, and they were in such a tangle of thickets and forests that both sides drew off, and Pope's army passed on.

Dick was not in this battle, but he heard it's crash and roar above the sweep of the storm. He and the balance of the regiment were helping to guard the long train of the wounded. Now and then, he leaned from his horse and looked at Warner who lay in one of the covered wagons.

"I'm getting along all right, Dick, old man," said Warner. "What's all that firing off toward the woods?"

"A battle, but it won't stop us. We retreated in time."

"And we've been defeated. Well, we can stand it. It takes a good nation to stand big defeats. You know I taught school once, Dick, and I learned that the biggest nation the world has ever known was the one that suffered the biggest defeats. Look at the terrible knocks the Romans got! Why the Gauls nearly ate 'em alive two or three times, and for years Hannibal whipped 'em every time he could get at 'em. But they ended by whipping everybody who had whipped them. They whipped the whole world, and they kept it whipped until they played out from old age."

Dick laughed cheerily.

"Now, you shut up, George," he said. "You've talked too much. What's the use of going back as far as the old Romans for comfort. We can win without having to copy a lot of old timers."

He dropped the flap of canvas and rode on listening to the sounds of the combat. A powerful figure stepped out of the bushes and stood beside his horse. It was Sergeant Whitley, who had passed through the battle without a scratch.

"What has happened, Sergeant?" asked Dick, as he sat in the rain and listened to the dying fire.

"There has been a fight, and both are quitting because they can't see enough to carry it on any longer. But General Kearney has been killed."

The retreat continued until they reached the Potomac and were in the great fortifications before Washington. Then Pope resigned, and the star of McClellan rose again. The command of the armies about Washington was entrusted to him, and the North gathered itself anew for the mighty struggle.



Chapter VII. Orders No. 191


When the Union army, defeated at the Second Manassas fell back on Washington, Dick was detached for a few days from the regiment by Colonel Winchester, partly that he might have a day or two of leave, and partly that he might watch over Warner, who was making good progress.

Warner was in a wagon that contained half a dozen other wounded men, or rather boys, and they were all silent like stoics as they passed over the bridge to a hospital in Washington. His side and shoulder pained him, and he had recurrent periods of fever, but he was making fine progress.

Dick found his comrade on a small cot among dozens of others in a great room. But George's cot was near a window and the pleasant sunshine poured in. It was now the opening of September, and the hot days were passing. There was a new sparkle and crispness in the air, and Warner, wounded as he was, felt it.

"We're back in the capital to enjoy ourselves a while," he said lightly to Dick, "and I'm glad to see that the weather will be fine for sight-seeing."

"Yes, here we are," said Dick. "The Johnnies beat us this time. They didn't outfight us, but they had the best generals. As soon as you're well, George, we'll start out again and lick 'em."

"I'm glad you told 'em to wait for me, Dick. That's what you ought to do. I hear that McClellan is at the head of things again."

"Yes, the Army of the Potomac is to the front once more, and it's taken over the Army of Virginia. We hear that Pope is going out to the northwest to fight Indians."

"McClellan is not likely to be trapped as Pope was, but he's so tremendously cautious that he'll never trap anything himself. Now, which kind of a general would you choose, Dick?"

"As between those two I'll take McClellan. The soldiers at least like him and believe in him. And George, our man in the east hasn't come yet. The generals we've had don't hammer. They don't concentrate, rush right in and rain blows on the enemy."

"Do you think you know the right man, Dick?"

"I'm making a guess. It's Grant. We saw him at Donelson and Shiloh. Surprised at both places, he won anyhow. He wouldn't be beat. That's the kind of man we want here in the east."

"You may be right, Dick, but the politicians in this part of the country all run him down. Halleck has been transferred to Washington as a sort of general commander and adviser to the President, and they say he doesn't like Grant."

Further talk was cut short by a young army surgeon, and Dick left George, saying that he would come back the next day. The streets of Washington were full of sunshine, but not of hope and cheerfulness. The most terrible suspense reigned there. Never before or since was Washington in such alarm. A hostile and victorious army was within a day's march. Pope almost to the last had talked of victory. Then came a telegram, asking if the capital could be defended in case his army was destroyed. Next came the army preceded by thousands of stragglers and heralds of disaster.

The people were dropped from the golden clouds of hope to the hard earth of despair. They strained their eyes toward Manassas, where the flag of the Union had twice gone down in disaster. It was said, and there was ample cause for the saying of it, that Lee and Jackson with their victorious veterans would appear any moment before the capital. There were rumors that the government was packing up in order to flee northward to Philadelphia or even New York.

But Dick believed none of these rumors. In fact, he was not greatly alarmed by any of them. He was sure that McClellan, although without genius, would restore the stamina of the troops, if indeed it were ever lost, which he doubted very much. He had seen how splendidly they fought at the Second Manassas, and he knew that there was no panic among them. Moreover, the North was an inexhaustible storehouse of men and material, and whenever one soldier fell two grew in his place.

So he strode through the crowded streets, calm of face and manner, and took his way once more to the hotel, where he had sat and listened to the talk before the Second Manassas. The lobby was packed with men, and there was but one topic, the military situation. Would Lee and Jackson advance, hot upon the heels of their victory? Would Washington fall? Would McClellan be able to save them? Why weren't the generals of the North as good as those of the South?

Dick listened to the talk which was for all who might choose to hear. He did not assume any superior frame of mind, merely because he had fought in many battles and these men had fought in none. He retained the natural modesty of youth, and knowing that one who looked on might sometimes be a better judge of what was happening than the one who took part, he weighed carefully what they said.

He was in a comfortable chair by the wall, and while he sat there a heavy man of middle age, whom he remembered well, approached and stood before him, regarding him with a keen and measuring eye.

"Good morning, Mr. Watson," said Dick politely.

"Ah, it is you, Lieutenant Mason!" said the contractor. "I thought so, but I was not sure, as you are thinner than you were when I last saw you. I'll just take this seat beside you."

A man in the next chair had moved and the contractor dropped into it. Then he crossed his legs, and smoothed the upper knee with a strong, fat hand.

"You've had quite a trip since I last saw you, Mr. Mason," he said.

"We didn't go so terribly far."

"It's not length that makes a trip. It's what you see and what happens."

"I saw a lot, and a hundred times more than what I saw happened."

The contractor took two fine cigars from his vest pocket and handed one to Dick.

"No, thank you," said the boy, "I've never learned to smoke."

"I suppose that's because you come from Kentucky, where they raise so much tobacco. When you see a thing so thick around you, you don't care for it. Well, we'll talk while I light mine and puff it. And so, young man, you ran against Lee and Jackson!"

"We did, or they ran against us, which comes to the same thing."

"And got well thrashed. There's no denying it."

"I'm not trying to do so."

"That's right. I thought from the first that you were a young man of sense. I'm glad to see that you didn't get yourself killed."

"A great many good men did."

"That's so, and a great many more will go the same way. You just listen to me. I don't wear any uniform, but I've got eyes to see and ears to hear. I suppose that more monumental foolishness has been hidden under cocked hats and gold lace than under anything else, since the world began. Easy now, I don't say that fools are not more numerous outside armies than in them -- there are more people outside -- but the mistakes of generals are more costly."

"I suppose our generals are doing the best they can. You will let me speak plainly, will you, Mr. Watson?"

"Of course, young man. Go ahead."

"Perhaps you feel badly over a disaster of your own. I saw the smoking fires at Bristoe Station. The rebels burned there several million dollars worth of stores belonging to us. Maybe a large part of them were your own goods."

The contractor rubbed his huge knee with one hand, took his cigar out of his mouth with the other hand, blew several rings of fine blue smoke from his nose, and watched them break against the ceiling.

"Young man," he said, "you're a good guesser, but you don't guess all. More than a million dollars worth of material that I supplied was burned or looted at Bristoe Station. But it had all been paid for by a perfectly solvent Union government. So, if I were to consider it from the purely material standpoint, which you imagine to be the only one I have, I should rejoice over the raids of the rebels because they make trade for contractors. I'm a patriot, even if I do not fight at the front. Besides my feelings have been hurt."

"In what way?"

The contractor drew from his pocket a coarse brown envelope, and he took from the envelope a letter, written on paper equally coarse and brown.

"I received this letter last night," he said. "It was addressed simply 'John Watson, Washington, D. C.,' and the post office people gave it to me at once. It came from somebody within the Confederate lines. You know how the Northern and Southern pickets exchange tobacco, newspapers and such things, when they're not fighting. I suppose the letter was passed on to me in that way. Listen."



"John Watson,  Washington, D. C.

"My dear sir: I have never met you, but certain circumstances have made me acquainted with your name. Believing therefore that you are a man of judgment and fairness I feel justified in making to you a complaint which I am sure you will agree with me is well-founded. At a little place called Bristoe Station I recently obtained a fine, blue uniform, the tint of which wind and rain will soon turn to our own excellent Confederate gray. I found your own name as maker stamped upon the neck band of both coat and vest.

"I ought to say however that after I had worn the coat only twice the seams ripped across both shoulders, I admit that the fit was a little tight, but work well done would not yield so quickly. I also picked out a pair of beautiful shoes, bearing your name stamped upon them. The leather cracked after the first day's use, and good leather will never crack so soon.

"Now, my dear Mr. Watson, I feel that you have treated me unfairly. I will not use any harsher word. We do not expect you to supply us with goods of this quality, and we certainly look for something better from you next time.

"Your obedient servant, ARTHUR ST. CLAIR, Lieutenant 'The Invincibles,' C. S. A."


"Now, did you ever hear of another piece of impudence like that?" said Watson. "It has its humorous side, I admit, and you're justified in laughing, but it's impudence all the same."

"Yes, it is impudence, and do you know, Mr. Watson, I've met the writer of that letter. He is a South Carolinian, and from his standpoint he has a real grievance. I never knew anybody else as particular about his clothes, and it seems that the uniform and shoes you furnished him are not all right. He's a gentleman and he wouldn't lie. I met him at Cedar Run, when the burying parties were going over the field. He was introduced to me by my cousin, Harry Kenton, who is on the other side. Harry wouldn't associate with any fellow who isn't all right."

"All the same, if I ever catch that young jackanapes of a St. Clair -- it's an easy name to remember -- I'll strip my uniform off him and turn him loose for his own comrades to laugh at."

"But we won't catch either him or his comrades for a long time."

"That's so, but in the end we'll catch 'em. Now, Mr. Mason, you don't agree with me about many things, but you're only a boy and you'll know better later on. Anyway, I like you, and if you need help at any time and can reach me, come."

"I'll do so, and I thank you now," said Dick, who saw that the contractor's tone was sincere.

"That's right, good-bye. I see a senator whom I need."

They shook hands and Watson hurried away with great lightness and agility for so large a man.

Dick stayed two days longer in Washington, visiting Warner twice a day and seeing with gladness his rapid improvement. When he was with him the last time, and told him he was going to join the Army of the Potomac, Warner said:

"Dick, old man, I haven't spoken before of the way you brought me in from that last battlefield. Pennington has told me about it -- but if I didn't it was not because I wasn't grateful. Up in Vermont we're not much on words -- our training I suppose, though I don't say it is the best training. It's quite sure that I'd have died if you hadn't found me."

"Why, George, I looked for you as a matter of course. You'd have done exactly the same for me."

"That's just it, but I didn't get the chance. Now, Dick, there's going to be another big battle before long, and I shall be up in time for it. You'll be there, too. Couldn't you get yourself shot late in the afternoon, lie on the ground, feverish and delirious until far in the night, when I'd come for you. Then I could pay you back."

Dick laughed. He knew that at the bottom of Warner's jest lay a resolve to match the score, whenever the chance should come.

"Good-bye, George," he said. "I'll look for you in two weeks."

"Make it only ten days. McClellan will need me by that time."

But it seemed to Dick that McClellan would need him and every other man at once. Lee was marching. Passing by the capital he had advanced into Maryland, a Southern state, but one that had never seceded. The Southerners expected to find many reinforcements here among their kindred. The regiments in gray, flushed with victory, advanced singing:


"The despot's heel is on thy shore, Maryland! His torch is at thy temple door, Maryland! Avenge the patriotic gore That flecked the streets of Baltimore And be the battle queen of yore, Maryland, my Maryland!"


Dick knew that the South expected much of Maryland. Her people were Southerners. Their valor in the Revolution was unsurpassed. People still talked of the Maryland line and its great deeds. Many of the Marylanders had already come to Lee and Jackson, and now that the Southern army, led by its famous leaders and crowned with victories, was on their soil, it was expected that they would pour forward in thousands, relieved from the fear of Northern armies.

Alarm, deep and intense, spread all through the North. McClellan, as usual, doubled Lee's numbers but he organized with all speed to meet him. Dick heard that Lee was already at Frederick, giving his troops a few days' repose before meeting any enemy who might come. The utmost confidence reigned in the South.

McClellan marched, but he advanced slowly. The old mystery and uncertainty about the Southern army returned. It suddenly disappeared from Frederick, and McClellan became extremely cautious. He had nearly a hundred thousand men, veterans now, but he believed that Lee had two hundred thousand.

Colonel Winchester again complained bitterly to Dick, who was a comrade as well as an aide.

"What we need," he said, "is a general who doesn't see double, and we haven't got him yet. We must spend less time counting the rebels and more hammering them."

"A civilian in Washington told me that," said Dick. "I believed then that he was right, and I believe it yet. If General Grant were here he'd attack instead of waiting to be attacked."

But the Army of the Potomac continued to march forward in a slow and hesitating fashion. Dick, despite his impatience, appreciated the position of General McClellan. No one in the Union army or in the North knew the plans of Lee and Jackson. Lee had not even consulted the President of the Confederacy but had merely notified him that he was going into Maryland.

Now Lee and Jackson had melted away again in the mist that so often overhung their movements. McClellan could not be absolutely sure they intended an important invasion of Maryland. They might be planning to fall upon the capital from another direction. The Union commander must protect Washington and at the same time look for his enemy.

The army marched near the Potomac, and Dick, as he rode with his regiment, saw McClellan several times. It had not been many months since he took his great army by sea for what seemed to be the certain capture of Richmond, but McClellan, although a very young man for so high a position, had already changed much. His face was thinner, and it seemed to Dick that he had lost something of his confident look. The awful Seven Days and his bitter disappointment had left their imprint. Nevertheless he was trim, neat and upright, and always wore a splendid uniform. An unfailing favorite with the soldiers, they cheered him as he passed, and he would raise his hat, a flush of pride showing through the tan of his cheeks.

"If a general, after being defeated, can still retain the confidence of his army he must have great qualities of some kind," said Dick to Colonel Winchester.

"That's true, Dick. McClellan lost at the Seven Days, and he has just taken over an army that was trapped and beaten under Pope, but behold the spirits of the men, although the Second Manassas is only a few days away. McClellan looks after the private soldier, and if he could only look after an army in the way that he organizes it this war would soon be over."

Dick noticed that the colonel put emphasis on the "if" and his heart sank a little. But it soon rose again. The Army of the Potomac was now a veteran body. It had been tested in the fire of defeat, and it had emerged stronger and braver than ever.

But Dick did not like the mystery about Lee and Jackson. They had an extraordinary ability to drop out of sight, to draw a veil before them so completely that no Union scout or skirmisher could penetrate it. And these disappearances were always full of sinister omens, portending a terrible attack from an unknown quarter. But when Dick looked upon the great and brave Army of the Potomac, nearly a hundred thousand strong, his apprehensions disappeared. The Army of the Potomac could not be beaten, and since Lee and Jackson were venturing so far from their base, they might be destroyed. He confided his faith to Pennington who rode beside him.

"I tell you, Frank, old man," he said, "the Southern army may never get back into Virginia."

"Not if we light a prairie fire behind it and set another in front. Then we'll have 'em trapped same as they trapped us at Manassas. Wouldn't it be funny if we'd turn their own trick on 'em, and end the war right away?"

"It would be more than funny. It would be grand, superb, splendid, magnificent. But I wish old George was here. Why did he want to get in the way of that bullet? I hate to think of ending the war without him."

"Maybe he'll get up in time yet, Dick. I saw him a few hours before we started. The doctors said that youth, clean blood and clean living counted for a lot -- I guess George would put it at ninety per cent, and that his wound, the bullet having gone through, would heal at a record rate."

"Then we'll see him soon. When he's strong enough to ride a horse, nothing can hold him back."

"That's so. I see houses ahead. What place is it, Dick?"

"It must be Frederick. We had reports that the Johnnies were about here, but they must have vanished, since no bullets meet us. The colonel is looking through his glasses, and, as he does not check his horse, it is evident that the enemy is not there."

"But maybe he has been there, and if he has we'll just take his place. I like the looks of these Maryland towns, Frank, and they're not so hostile to us."

Colonel Winchester's skeleton regiment, now not amounting to more than three hundred men, was in the vanguard and it rode forward rapidly. The people received them without either enthusiasm or marked hostility. Yet the Union vanguard obtained news. Lee had been there with his army, but he had gone away! Where! They could not say. The Southern officers had been silent and the soldiers had not known. None of the people of Frederick had been allowed to follow. A cloud of cavalry covered the Southern movements.

"Not so definite after all," said Dick. "We know that the Southern army has been here, but we don't know where it has gone."

"At any rate," said Pennington, "we're on the trail, and we're bound to find it sooner or later. I learned from the hunters in Nebraska that when you strike the trail of a buffalo herd, all you had to do was to keep on and you'd strike the herd itself."

It was not yet noon and McClellan's army began to go into camp at Frederick. Dick and Pennington got a chance to stroll about a little, and they picked up much gossip. Young women, with strong Southern proclivities, looked with frowning eyes upon their blue uniforms, but the frank and pleasant smiles of the two lads disarmed them. Older women of the same proclivities did not melt so easily, but continued to regard them with a hard and burning gaze.

But there were men strongly for the Union, and the two friendly lads picked up many details from them. They showed them a grove in which Lee, Jackson, Longstreet and D. H. Hill had all been camped at once. People had gone there daily for a glimpse of these famous men.

They also showed the boys the very spot where Stonewall Jackson had come near to making an ignominious end of his great career. His faithful horse, Little Sorrel, had been worn out by incessant marchings and must rest for a while. The people gave him a splendid horse, but one that had not been broken well. The first time he mounted it a band happened to begin playing, the horse sprang wildly, the saddle girth broke and Jackson was thrown heavily to the ground.

"You'd better believe there was excitement then," said the narrator, a clerk in one of the stores. "Everybody ran forward to pick up the general. He had been thrown so hard that he was stunned and had big bruises. That horse did him more damage than all the armies of the North have done. I can tell you there was alarm for a while among the Johnnies, but they say he was all over it before he left."

They wandered back toward their own command and the obliging guide pointed out to them a house which the Confederate generals had made their headquarters. They saw Colonel Winchester entering it, and thanking the clerk, followed him.

Union officers were already in the house looking with curiosity at the chairs and tables that Jackson and Lee and Longstreet had occupied. Dick caught sight of a small package lying on one of the tables, but another man picked it up first. As he did so he looked at Dick and said in triumph:

"Three good cigars that the rebels have left behind. Have one, Mason?"

"Thanks, but I don't smoke."

"All right, I'll find someone else who does."

He pulled off a piece of paper wrapped around them, threw it on the floor and put the cigars in his pocket. Dick was about to turn away when he happened to glance at the wrapping lying on the floor.

His eyes were caught by the words written in large letters:

Headquarters Of The Army Of North -- 

Something seemed to shoot through his brain. It was like a flash of warning or command and he obeyed at once. He picked up the paper and smoothed it out in his hand. The full line read like the headline in a newspaper:


HEADQUARTERS OF THE ARMY OF NORTHERN VIRGINIA. September 9, 1862.

Then with eyes bulging in his head he read:

HEADQUARTERS OF THE ARMY OF NORTHERN VIRGINIA. September 9, 1862. Special Orders, No. 191.

The army will resume its march tomorrow, taking the Hagerstown road. General Jackson's command will form the advance, and after passing Middletown with such portions as he may select, take their route toward Sharpsburg, cross the Potomac at the most convenient point and by Friday morning take possession of the Baltimore and Ohio Railway, capture such of them as may be at Martinsburg, and intercept such as may attempt to escape from Harper's Ferry.

General Longstreet's command will pursue the main road as far as Boonsborough, where it will halt with the reserve supply and baggage train of the army.

General McLaws with his own division and that of General R. H. Anderson will follow General Longstreet. On reaching Middletown will take the route to Harper's Ferry, and by Friday morning possess himself of the Maryland Heights and endeavor to capture the enemy at Harper's Ferry and vicinity.


Dick stopped a moment and gasped.

"Come on," called the man with the cigars, "there is nothing more to be seen here."

"Wait a moment," said Dick.

Perhaps it was his duty to rush at once with it to a superior officer, but the spell was too strong. He read on:


General Walker with his division, after accomplishing the object on which he is now engaged, will cross the Potomac at Cheek's Ford, ascend its right bank to Lovettsville, take possession of Sundown Heights, if practicable, by Friday morning, Key's Grove on his left, and the road between the end of the mountains and the Potomac on his right. He will, as far as practicable, co-operate with General McLaws and General Jackson, and intercept the retreat of the enemy.

General D. H. Hill's division will form the rear-guard of the army, pursuing the road taken by the main body. The reserve artillery, ordinance and supply trains, etc., will precede General Hill.


Dick gasped and he heard someone calling again to him to come, but he read on:


General Stuart will detach a squadron of cavalry to accompany the commands of Generals Longstreet, Jackson and McLaws, and with the main body of the cavalry will cover the route of the army, bringing up all the stragglers that may have been left behind.

The commands of General Jackson, McLaws and Walker, after accomplishing the objects for which they have been detached, will join the main body of the army at Boonsborough or Hagerstown.

Each regiment on the march will habitually carry its axes in the regimental ordnance wagons, for use of the men at their encampments, to procure wood, etc.                  R. H. CHILTON, Assistant Adjutant General.


Dick clutched the paper in his hands and for the moment his throat seemed to contract so tightly that he could not breathe. Then he felt a burst of wild joy.

One of the most extraordinary incidents in the whole history of war had occurred. He knew in an instant that this was Lee's general orders to his army, and that at such a time nothing could be more important. Evidently copies of it had been sent to all his division commanders, and this one by some singular chance either had not reached its destination, or had been tossed carelessly aside after reading. Found by those who needed it most wrapped around three cigars! It was a miracle! Nothing short of it! How could the Union army be defeated after such an omen?

It was the copy intended for the Southern general, D. H. Hill -- he denied that he ever received it -- but it did not matter to Dick then for whom it was intended. He saw at once all the possibilities. Lee and Jackson had divided their army again. Emboldened by the splendid success of their daring maneuver at Manassas they were going to repeat it.

He looked again at the date on the order. September 9th! And this was the 13th! Jackson was to march on the 10th. He had been gone three days with the half, perhaps, of Lee's army, and Lee himself must be somewhere near at hand. The Union scouts could quickly find him and the ninety thousand veterans of the Army of the Potomac could crush him to powder in a day. What a chance! No, it was not a chance. It was a miracle. The key had been put in McClellan's hand and it would take but one turn of his wrist to unlock the door upon dazzling success.

Dick saw the war finished in a month. Lee could not have more than twenty or twenty-five thousand men with him, and Jackson was three or four days' march away. He clutched the order in his hand and ran toward Colonel Winchester.

"Here, take it, sir! Take it!" he exclaimed.

"Take what?"

"Look! Look! See what it is!"

Colonel Winchester took one glance at it, and then he, too, became excited. He hurried with it to General McClellan, and that day the commander-in-chief telegraphed to the anxious President at Washington:

"I have all the plans of the rebels, and will catch them in my own trap, if my men are equal to the emergency."

The shrewd Lincoln took notice of the qualifying clause, "if my men are equal to the emergency," and sighed a little. Already this general, so bold in design and so great in preparation was making excuses for possible failure in action -- if he failed his men and not he would be to blame.



Chapter VIII. The Duel In The Pass


Dick carried the news to Pennington who danced with delight.

"We've got 'em! we've got 'em!" he cried over and over again.

"So we have," said Dick, "we'll be marching in a half hour and then the trap will shut down so tight on Robert Lee that he'll never raise the lid again."

It was nearly noon, and they expected every moment the order to start, but it did not come. Dick began to be tormented by an astonished impatience, and he saw that Colonel Winchester suffered in the same way. The army showed no signs of moving. Was it possible that McClellan would not advance at once on Lee, whom the scouts had now located definitely? The hot afternoon hours grew long as they passed one by one, and many a brave man ate his heart out with anger at the delay. Dick saw Sergeant Whitley walking up and down, and he was eager to hear his opinion.

"What is it, sergeant?" he asked. "Why do we sit here, twiddling our thumbs when there is an army waiting to be taken by us?"

"You're a commissioned officer, sir, and I'm only a private."

"Never mind about that. You're a veteran of many years and many fights, and I know but little. Why do we sit still in the dust and fail to take the great prize that's offered to us?"

"The men of an army, sir, do the fighting, but its generals are its brains. It is for the brains to judge, to see and to command. The generals cannot win without the men, and the men cannot win without the generals. Now, in this case, sir, you can see -- "

He stopped and shrugged his shoulders, as if it were not for him to say any more.

"I see," said Dick bitterly. "You needn't say it, sergeant, but I'll say it for you. General McClellan has been overcome by caution again, and he sees two Johnnies where but one stands."

Sergeant Whitley shrugged his shoulders again, but said nothing. Dick was about to turn away, when he saw a tall, thin figure approaching.

"Mr. Warner," said Sergeant Whitley.

"So it is," exclaimed Dick. "It's really good old George come to help us!"

He rushed forward and shook hands with Warner who although thin and pale was as cool and apparently almost as strong as ever.

"Here I am, Dick," he said, "and the great battle hasn't been fought. I knew they couldn't fight it without me. The hospital at Washington dismissed me in disgrace because I got well so fast. 'What's the use,' said one of the doctors, 'in getting up and running away to the army to get killed? You could die much more comfortably here in bed.' 'Not at all,' I replied. 'I don't get killed when I'm with the army. I merely get nearly killed. Then I lie unconscious on the field, in the rain, until some good friend comes along, takes me away on his back and puts me in a warm bed. It's a lot safer than staying in your hospital all the time.'"

"Oh, shut up, George! Come and see the boys. They'll be glad to know you're back -- what's left of 'em."

Warner's welcome was in truth warm. He seemed more phlegmatic than ever, but he opened his eyes wide when they told him of the dispatch that had been lost and found.

"General McClellan must have been waiting for me," he said. "Tell him I've come."

But General McClellan did not yet move. The last long hour of the day passed. The sun set in red and gold behind the western mountains, and the Army of the Potomac still rested in its camp, although privates even knew that precious hours were being lost, and that booming cannon might already be telling the defenders of Harper's Ferry that Jackson was at hand.

Nor were they far wrong. While McClellan lingered on through the night, never moving from his camp, Jackson and his generals were pushing forward with fiery energy and at dawn the next day had surrounded Harper's Ferry and its doomed garrison of more than twelve thousand men.

But these were things that Dick could not guess that night. One small detachment had been sent ahead by McClellan, chiefly for scouting purposes, and in the darkness the boy who had gone a little distance forward with Colonel Winchester heard the booming of cannon. It was a faint sound but unmistakable, and Dick glanced at his chief.

"That detachment has come into contact with the rebels somewhere there in the mountains," he said, "and the ridges and valleys are bringing us the echoes. Oh, why in Heaven's name are we delayed here through all the precious moments! Every hour's delay will cost the lives of ten thousand good men!"

And it is likely that in the end Colonel Winchester's reckoning was too moderate. He and Dick gazed long in the direction in which Harper's Ferry lay, and they listened, too, to the faint mutter of the guns among the hills. Before dawn, scouts came in, saying that there had been hard fighting off toward Harper's Ferry, and that Lee with the other division of the Southern army was retreating into a peninsula formed by the junction of the river Antietam with the Potomac, where he would await the coming of Jackson, after taking Harper's Ferry.

"Jackson hasn't taken Harper's Ferry yet," said Dick, when he heard the news. "Many of Banks' veterans of the valley are there, and, our men instead of being crushed by defeat, are always improved by it."

"Still, I wish we'd march," said Warner. "I didn't come here merely to go into camp. I might as well have stayed in the hospital."

Nevertheless they moved at daylight. McClellan had made up his mind at last, and the army advanced joyfully to shut down the trap on Lee. Dick's spirits rose with the sun and the advance of the troops. They had delayed, but they would get Lee yet. There was nothing to tell them that Harper's Ferry had fallen, and Jackson's force must still be detained there far away. They ought to strike Lee on the morrow and destroy him, and then they would destroy Jackson. Oh, Lee and Jackson had been reckless generals to venture beyond the seceding states!

They marched fast now, and the fiery Hooker soon to be called Fighting Joe led the advance. He was eager to get at Lee, who some said did not now have more than twenty thousand men with him, although McClellan insisted on doubling or tripling his numbers and those of Jackson. Scouts and skirmishers came in fast now. Yes, Lee was between the Antietam and the Potomac and they ought to strike him on the morrow. The spirits of the Army of the Potomac continually rose.

Dick remained in a joyous mood. He had been greatly uplifted by the return of his comrade, Warner, for whom he had formed a strong attachment, and he could not keep down the thought that they would now be able to trap Lee and end the war. The terrible field of the Second Manassas was behind him and forgotten for the time. They rode now to a new battle and to victory.

Another great cloud of dust like that at Manassas rolled slowly on toward the little river or creek of Antietam, but the heat was not so great now. A pleasant breeze blew from the distant western mountains and cooled the faces of the soldiers. The country through which they were passing was old for America. They saw a carefully cultivated soil, good roads and stone bridges.

None of the lads and young men around Colonel Winchester rejoiced more than Warner. Released from the hospital and with his tried comrades once more he felt as if he were the dead come back. He was in time, too, for the great battle which was to end the war. The cool wind that blew upon his face tingled with life and made his pulses leap. Beneath the granite of his nature and a phlegmatic exterior, he concealed a warm heart that always beat steadfastly for his friends and his country.

"Dick," he said, "have they heard anything directly from Harper's Ferry?"

"Not a word, at least none that I've heard about, but it's quite sure that Jackson hasn't taken the place yet. Why should he? We have there twelve or thirteen thousand good men, most of whom have proven their worth in the valley. Why, they ought to beat him off entirely."

"And while they're doing that we ought to be taking Mr. Lee and a lot of well-known Confederate gentlemen. I've made a close calculation, Dick, and I figure that the chances are at least eighty per cent in favor of our taking or destroying Lee's army."

"I wish we had started sooner," said Pennington. "We've lost a whole day, one of the most precious days the world has ever known."

"You're right, Frank, and I've allowed that fact to figure importantly in my reckoning. If it were not for the lost day I'd figure our chance of making the finishing stroke at ninety-five per cent. But boys, it's glorious to be back with you. Once, I thought when we were marching back and forth so much that if I could only lie down and rest for a week or two I'd be the happiest fellow on earth. But it became awful as I lay there, day after day. I had suddenly left the world. All the great events were going on without me. North or South might win, while I lay stretched on a hospital bed. It was beyond endurance. If I hadn't got well so fast that they could let me go, I'd have climbed out of the window with what strength I had, and have made for the army anyhow. Did you ever feel a finer wind than this? What a beautiful country! It must be the most magnificent in the world!"

Dick and Pennington laughed. Old George was growing gushy. But they understood that he saw with the eyes of the released prisoner.

"It is beautiful," said Dick, "and it's a pity that it should be ripped up by war. Listen, boys, there's the call that's growing mighty familiar to us all!"

Far in front behind the hills they heard the low grumbling of cannon. And further away to the west they heard the same sinister mutter. The Confederates were scattered widely, and the fateful Orders No. 191 might cause their total destruction, but they were on guard, nevertheless. Jackson, foreseeing the possible advance of McClellan, had sent back Hill with a division to help Lee, and to delay the Northern army until he himself should come with all his force.

In this desperate crisis of the Confederacy, more desperate than any of the Southern generals yet realized, the brain under the old slouch hat never worked with more precision, clearness and brilliancy. He would not only do his own task, but he would help his chief while doing it. When McClellan began his march after a delay of a day he was nearer to Lee than Jackson was and every chance was his, save those that lightning perception and unyielding courage win.

The lads heard the mutter of the cannon grow louder, and rise to a distant thunder. Far ahead of them, where high hills thick with forest rose, they saw smoke and flashes of fire. A young Maryland cavalry officer, riding near, explained to them that the point from which the cannonade came was a gap in South Mountain, although it was as yet invisible, owing to the forest.

"We heard that Lee's army was much further away," said Warner to Dick. "What can it mean? What force is there fighting our vanguard?"

It was Shepard, the spy, who brought them the facts. He had already reported to General McClellan, when he approached Colonel Winchester. His face was worn and drawn, and he was black under the eyes. His clothes were covered with dust. His body was weary almost unto death, but his eyes burned with the fire of an undying spirit.

"I've been all the night and all this morning in the mountains and hills," he said. "Harper's Ferry is not yet taken, but I think it will fall. But Hill, McLaws and Longstreet are all in this pass or the other which leads through the mountain. They mean to hold us as long as they can, and then hang on to the flank of our army."

He passed on and the little regiment advanced more rapidly. Dick saw Colonel Winchester's eyes sparkling and he knew he was anxious to be in the thick of it. Other and heavier forces were deploying upon the same point, but Winchester's regiment led.

As they approached a deadly fire swept the plain and the hills. Rifle bullets crashed among them and shell and shrapnel came whining and shrieking. Once more the Winchester regiment, as it had come to be called, was smitten with a bitter and deadly hail. Men fell all around Dick but the survivors pressed on, still leading the way for the heavy brigades which they heard thundering behind them.

The mouth of the pass poured forth fire and missiles like a volcano, but Dick heard Colonel Winchester still shouting to his men to come on, and he charged with the rest. The fire became so hot that the vanguard could not live in it without shelter, and the colonel, shouting to the officers to dismount, ordered them all to take cover behind trees and rocks.

Dick who had been carried a little ahead of the rest, sprang down, still holding his horse, and made for a great rock which he saw on one side just within the mouth of the pass. His frightened horse reared and jerked so violently that he tore the bridle from the lad's hand and ran away.

Dick stood for a moment, scarcely knowing what to do, and then, as a half dozen bullets whistled by his head, urging him to do something, he finished his dash for the rock, throwing himself down behind it just as a half a dozen more bullets striking on the stone told him that he had done the right thing in the very nick of time.

He carried with him a light rifle of a fine improved make, a number of which had been captured at the Second Manassas, and which some of the younger officers had been allowed to take. He did not drop it in his rush for the rock, holding on to it mechanically.

He lay for at least a minute or two flat upon the ground behind the great stone, while the perspiration rolled from his face and his hair prickled at the roots. He could never learn to be unconcerned when a dozen or fifteen riflemen were shooting at him.

When he raised his head a little he saw that the Winchester regiment had fallen back, and that, in truth, the entire advance had stopped until it could make an attack in full force upon the enemy.

Dick recognized with a certain grim humor that he was isolated. He was just a little Federal island in a Confederate sea. Up the gap he saw cannon and masses of gray infantry. Gathered on a comparatively level spot was a troop of cavalry. He saw all the signs of a desperate defense, and, while he watched, the great guns of the South began to fire again, their missiles flying far over his head toward the Northern army.

Dick was puzzled, but for the present he did not feel great alarm about himself. He lay almost midway between the hostile forces, but it was likely that they would take no notice of him.

With a judgment born of a clear mind, he lay quite still, while the hostile forces massed themselves for attack and defense. Each was feeling out the other with cannon, but every missile passed well over his head, and he did not take the trouble to bow to them as they sailed on their errands. Yet he lay close behind that splendid and friendly rock.

He knew that the Southerners would have sharpshooters and skirmishers ahead of their main force. They would lie behind stones, trees and brush and at any moment one of them might pick him off. The Confederate force seemed to incline to the side of the valley, opposite the slope on which he lay, and he was hopeful that the fact would keep him hidden until the masses of his own people could charge into the gap.

It was painful work to flatten his body out behind a stone and lie there. No trees or bushes grew near enough to give him shade, and the afternoon sun began to send down upon him direct rays that burned. He wondered how long it would be until the Union brigades came. It seemed to him that they were doing a tremendous amount of waiting. Nothing was to be gained by this long range cannon fire. They must charge home with the bayonet.

He raised himself a little in order that he might peep over the stone and see if the charge were coming, and then with a little cry he dropped back, a fine gray powder stinging his face. A rifle had been fired across the valley and a bullet chipping the top of the rock sheltering Dick warned him that he was not the only sharpshooter who lay in an ambush.

Peeping again from the side of the rock, he saw curls of blue smoke rising from a point behind a stone just like his own on the other side of the valley. It was enough to tell him that a Southern sharpshooter lay there and had marked him for prey.

Dick's anger rose. Why should anyone seek his life, trying to pick him off as if he were a beast of prey? He had been keeping quiet, disturbing nobody, merely seeking a chance to escape, when this ruthless rebel had seen him. He became in his turn hot and fiercely ready to give bullet for bullet. Smoke floating through the pass and the flash of the cannon, made him more eager to hit the sharpshooter who was seeking so hard to hit him.

Watching intently he caught a glimpse of a gray cap showing above the rock across the valley, and, raising his light rifle, he fired, quick as a flash. The return shot came at once, and chipped the rock as before, but he dropped back unhurt, and peeping from the side he could see nothing. He might or might not have slain his enemy. The gray cap was no longer visible, and he watched to see if it would reappear.

He heard the sound of a great cannonade before the mouth of the pass, and he saw his own people advancing in force, their lines extending far to the left and right, with several batteries showing at intervals. Then came the rebel yell from the pass and as the Union lines advanced the Southerners poured upon them a vast concentrated fire.

Dick, watching through the smoke and forgetful of his enemy across the valley, saw the Union charge rolled back. But he also saw the men out of range gathering themselves for a new attack. Within the pass preparations were going on to repel it a second time. Then he glanced toward the opposite rock and dropped down just in time. He had seen a rifle barrel protruding above it, and a second later the bullet whistled where his head had been.

He grew angrier than ever. He had left that sharpshooter alone for at least ten minutes, while he watched charge and repulse, and he expected to be treated with the same consideration. He would pay him for such ferocity, and seeing an edge of gray shoulder, he fired.

No sign came from the rock, and Dick was quite sure that he had missed. The blood mounted to his head and surcharged his brain. A thousand little pulses that he had never heard of before began to beat in his head, and he was devoured by a consuming anger. He vowed to get that fellow yet.

Lying flat upon his stomach he drew himself around the edge of the rock and watched. There was a great deal of covering smoke from the artillery in the pass now, and he believed that it would serve his purpose.

But when he got a little distance away from the rock the bank of smoke lifted suddenly, and it was only by quickly flattening himself down behind a little ridge of stone that he saved his life. The sharpshooter's bullet passed so close to his head that Dick felt as if he had received a complete hair cut, all in a flash.

He fairly sprang back to the cover of his rock. What a fine rock that was! How big and thick! And it was so protective! In a spirit of defiance he fired at the top of the other stone and saw the gray dust shoot up from it. Quick came the answering shot, and a little piece of his coat flew with it. That was certainly a great sharpshooter across the valley! Dick gave him full credit for his skill.

Then he heard the rolling of drums and the mellow call of trumpets in front of the pass. Taking care to keep well under cover he looked back. The Union army was advancing in great force now, its front tipped with a long line of bayonets and the mouths of fifty cannon turned to the pass. In front of them swarmed the skirmishers, eager, active fellows leaping from rock to rock and from tree to tree.

Dick foresaw that the second charge would not fail. Its numbers were so great that it would at least enter the pass and hold the mouth of it. Already a mighty cannonade was pouring a storm of death over the heads of the skirmishers toward the defenders, and the brigades came on steadily and splendidly to the continued rolling of the drums.

Dick rose up again, watching now for his enemy who, he knew, could not remain much longer behind the rock, as he would soon be within range of the Northern skirmishers advancing on that side.

He fancied that he could hear the massive tread of the thousands coming toward the pass, and the roll of the drums, distinct amid the roar of the cannon, told him that his comrades would soon be at hand, driving everything before them. But his eyes were for that big rock on the other side of the valley. Now was his time for revenge upon the sharpshooter who had sought his life with such savage persistence. The Northern skirmishers were drawing nearer and the fellow must flee or die.

Suddenly the sharpshooter sprang from the rock, and up flew Dick's rifle as he drew a bead straight upon his heart. Then he dropped the weapon with a cry of horror. Across the valley and through the smoke he recognized Harry Kenton, and Harry Kenton looking toward his enemy recognized him also.

Each threw up his hand in a gesture of friendliness and farewell -- the roar of the battle was so loud now that no voice could have been heard at the distance -- and then they disappeared in the smoke, each returning to his own, each heart thrilling with a great joy, because its owner had always missed the sharpshooter behind the stone.

The impression of that vivid encounter in the pass was dimmed for a while for Dick by the fierceness of the fighting that followed. The defense had the advantage of the narrow pass and the rocky slopes, and numbers could not be put to the most account. Nevertheless, the Confederates were pressed back along the gap, and when night came the Union army was in full possession of its summit.

But at the other gap the North had not achieved equal success. Longstreet, marching thirteen miles that day, had come upon the field in time, and when darkness fell the Southern troops still held their ground there. But later in the night Hill and Longstreet, through fear of being cut off, abandoned their positions and marched to join Lee.

Dick and his comrades who did not lie down until after midnight had come, felt that a great success had been gained. McClellan had been slow to march, but, now that he was marching, he was sweeping the enemy out of his way.

The whole Army of the Potomac felt that it was winning and McClellan himself was exultant. Early the next morning he reported to his superior at Washington that the enemy was fleeing in panic and that General Lee admitted that he had been "shockingly whipped."

Full of confidence, the army advanced to destroy Lee, who lay between the peninsula of the Antietam and the Potomac, but just about the time McClellan was writing his dispatch, the white flag was hoisted at Harper's Ferry, the whole garrison surrendered, and messengers were on their way to Lee with the news that Stonewall Jackson was coming.



Chapter IX. Across The Stream


Dick and his comrades had not heard of the taking of Harper's Ferry and they were full of enthusiasm that brilliant morning in mid-September. McClellan, if slow to move, nevertheless had shown vigor in action, and the sanguine youths could not doubt that they had driven Lee into a corner. The Confederates, after the fierce fighting of the day before, had abandoned both gaps, and the way at last lay clear before the Army of the Potomac.

Dick was mounted again. In fact his horse, after pulling the reins from his hands and fleeing from the Confederate fire, had been retaken by a member of his own regiment and returned to him. It was another good omen. The lost had been found again and defeat would become victory.

But Dick said nothing to anybody of his duel with Harry Kenton. He shuddered even now when he recalled it. And yet there had been no guilt in either. Neither had known that the other lay behind the stone, but happy chance had made all their bullets go astray. Again he was thankful.

"How did you stand that fighting yesterday afternoon, George?" Dick asked of Warner.

"First rate. The open air agreed with me, and as no bullet sought me out I felt benefited. I didn't get away from that hospital too soon. How far away is this Antietam River, behind which they say Lee lies?"

"It's only eight miles from the gap," said Pennington, who had been making inquiries, "and as we have come three miles it must be only five miles away."

"Correct," said Warner, who was in an uncommonly fine humor. "Your mathematical power grows every day, Frank. Let x equal the whole distance from the gap to the Antietam, which is eight miles, let y equal the distance which we have come which is three miles, then x minus y equals the distance left, which is five miles. Wonderful! wonderful! You'll soon have a great head on you, Frank."

"If some rebel cannoneer doesn't shoot it off in the coming battle. By George, we're driving their skirmishers before us! They don't seem to make any stand at all!"

The vanguard certainly met with no very formidable resistance as it advanced over the rolling country. The sound of firing was continuous, but it came from small squads here and there, and after firing a few volleys the men in gray invariably withdrew.

Yet the Northern advance was slow. Colonel Winchester became intensely impatient again.

"Why don't we hurry!" he exclaimed. "Of all things in the world the one that we need most is haste. With Jackson tied up before Harper's Ferry, Lee's defeat is sure, unless he retreats across the Potomac, and that would be equivalent to a defeat. Good Heavens, why don't we push on?"

He had not yet heard of the fall of Harper's Ferry, and that Jackson with picked brigades was already on the way to join Lee. Had he known these two vital facts his anger would have burned to a white heat. Surely no day lost was ever lost at a greater cost than the one McClellan lost after the finding of Orders No. 191.

"Do you know anything about the Antietam, colonel?" asked Dick.

"It's a narrow stream, but deep, and crossed by several stone bridges. It will be hard to force a crossing here, but further up it can be done with ease since we outnumber Lee so much that we can overlap him by far. I have my information from Shepard, and he makes no mistakes. There is a church, too, on the upper part of the peninsula, a little church belonging to an order called the Dunkards."

"Ah," murmured Dick, "the little church of Shiloh!"

"What do you mean by that?"

"There was a little church at Shiloh, too. The battle raged all around it more than once. We lost it at first, but in the end we won. It's another good omen. We're bound to achieve a great victory, colonel."

"I hope and believe so. We've the materials with which to do it. But we've got to push and push hard."

The colonel raised his glasses and took a long look in front. Dick also had a pair and he, too, examined the country before them. It was a fine, rolling region and all the forest was gone, except clumps of trees here and there. The whole country would have been heavy with forest had it not been for the tramp of war.

It was now nearly noon and the sunlight was brilliant and intense. The glasses carried far. Dick saw a line of trees which he surmised marked the course of the Antietam, and he saw small detachments of cavalry which he knew were watching the advance of the Army of the Potomac. Their purpose convinced him that Lee had not retreated across the Potomac, but that he would fight and surely lose. Dick now believed that so many good omens could not fail.

A horseman galloped toward them. It was Shepard again, dustier than ever, his face pale from weariness.

"What is it, Mr. Shepard?" asked Colonel Winchester.

"I've just reported to General McClellan that our whole command at Harper's Ferry, thirteen thousand strong, surrendered early this morning and that Jackson with picked men has already started to join Lee!"

"My God! My God!" cried the colonel. "Oh, that lost day! We ought to have fought yesterday and destroyed Lee, while Harper's Ferry was still holding out! What a day! What a day! Nothing can ever pay us back for the losing of it!"

Dick, too, felt a sinking of the heart, but despair was not written on his face as it was on that of his colonel. Jackson might come, but it would only be with a part of his force, that which marched the swiftest, and the victory of the Army of the Potomac would be all the grander. The more enemies crushed the better it would be for the Union.

"Why, colonel!" he exclaimed, "we can beat them anyhow!"

"That's so, my lad, so we can! And so we will! It was childish of me to talk as I did. Here, Johnson, blow your best on that trumpet. I want our regiment to be the first to reach the Antietam."

Johnson blew a long and mellow tune and the Winchester regiment swung forward at a more rapid gait. The weather, after a day or two of coolness, had grown intensely hot again, and the noon sun poured down upon them sheaves of fiery rays. Dick looked back, and he saw once more that vast billowing cloud of dust made by the marching army. But in front he saw only quiet and peace, save for a few distant horsemen who seemed to be riding at random.

"There's a little town called Sharpsburg in the peninsula formed by the Potomac and the Antietam," said Shepard, who stayed with them, his immediate work done, "and the Potomac being very low, owing to the dry season, there is one ford by which Lee can cross and go back to Virginia. But he isn't going to cross without a battle, that's sure. The rebels are flushed with victory, they think they have the greatest leaders ever born and they believe, despite the disparity of numbers, that they can beat us."

"And I believe they can't," said Dick.

"If it were not for that lost day we'd have 'em beaten now," said Shepard, "and we'd be marching against Jackson."

The regiment in its swift advance now came nearer to the Antietam, the narrow but deep creek between its high banks. One or two shots from the far side warned them to come more slowly, and Colonel Winchester drew his men up on a knoll, waiting for the rest of the army to advance.

Dick put his glasses to his eyes, and slowly swept a wide curve on the peninsula of Antietam. Great armies drawn up for battle were a spectacle that no boy could ever view calmly, and his heart beat so hard that it caused him actual physical pain.

He saw through the powerful glasses the walls of the little village of Sharpsburg, and to the north a roof which he believed was that of the Dunkard Church, of which Shepard spoke. But his eyes came back from the church and rested on the country around Sharpsburg. The Confederate masses were there and he clearly saw the batteries posted along the Antietam. Beyond the peninsula he caught glimpses of the broad Potomac.

There lay Lee before them again, and now was the time to destroy his army. Jackson, even with his vanguard, could not arrive before night, and the main force certainly could not come from Harper's Ferry before the morrow. Here was a full half day for the Army of the Potomac, enough in which to destroy a divided portion of the Army of Northern Virginia.

But Colonel Winchester raged again and again in vain. There was no attack. Brigade after brigade in blue came up and sat down before the Antietam. The cannon exchanged salutes across the little river, but no harm was done, and the great masses of McClellan faced the whole peninsula, within which lay Lee with half of his army. The Winchester regiment was moved far to the north, where its officers hopefully believed that the first attack would be made. Here they extended beyond Lee's line, and it would be easy to cross the Antietam and hurl themselves upon his flank.

Despite the delay, Dick and his comrades, thrilled at the great and terrible panorama spread before them. The mid-September day had become as hot as those of August had been. The late afternoon sun was brazen, and immense clouds of dust drifted about. But they did not hide the view of the armies, arrayed for battle, and with only a narrow river between.

Dick, through his own glasses saw Confederate officers watching them also. He tried to imagine that this was Lee and that Longstreet, and that one of the Hills, and the one who wore a gorgeous uniform must surely be Stuart. Why should they be allowed to ride about so calmly? His heart fairly ached for the attack. McClellan said that fifty thousand men were there, and that Jackson was coming with fifty thousand more, but Shepard, who always knew, said that they did not number more than twenty thousand. What a chance! What a chance! He almost repeated Colonel Winchester's words, but he was only a young staff officer and it was not for him to complain. If he said anything at all he would have to say it in a guarded manner and to his best friends.

The Winchester regiment went into camp in a pleasant grove at the northern end of the Union line. Dick and his two young comrades had no fault to find with their quarters. They had dry grass, warm air and the open sky. A more comfortable summer home for a night could not be asked. And there was plenty of food, too. The Army of the Potomac never lacked it. The coffee was already boiling in the pots, and beef and pork were frying in the skillets. Heavenly aromas arose.

Dick and his comrades ate and drank, and then lay down in the grove. If they must rest they would rest well. Now and then they heard the booming of guns, and just before dark there had been a short artillery duel across the Antietam, but now the night was quiet, save for the murmur and movement of a great army. Through the darkness came the sound of many voices and the clank of moving wheels.

Dick asked permission for his two comrades and himself to go down near the river and obtained it.

"But don't get shot," cautioned Colonel Winchester. "The Confederate riflemen will certainly be on watch on the other side of the stream."

Dick promised and the three went forward very carefully among some bushes. They were led on by curiosity and they did not believe that they would be in any great danger. The singular friendliness which always marked the pickets of the hostile armies in the Civil War would prevail.

It was several hundred yards down to the Antietam, and luckily the ribbon of bushes held out. But when they were half way to the stream a thick, dark figure rose up before them. Dick, in an instant, recognized Sergeant Whitley.

"We want to get a nearer view of the enemy," said the boy.

"I'll go with you," said the sergeant. "I'm on what may be called scouting duty. Besides, I've a couple of friends down there by the river, but on the other side."

"Friends on the other side of the Antietam. What do you mean, sergeant?"

"I was scouting along there and I came across 'em. Only one in fact is an old acquaintance, an' he's just introduced me to the other."

"That's cryptic."

"I don't rightly know what 'cryptic' means, but I guess I don't make myself understood well. In my campaign on the plains against the Indians I had a comrade named Bill Brayton. A Tennesseean, Bill was an' a fine feller, too. Him an' me have bunked together many a time an' we've dug out of the snow together, too, after the blizzards was over. But when we saw the war comin' up, Bill had fool notions. Said he didn't know anything 'bout the right an' wrong of it, guessed there was some of each on each side, but whichever way his state would flop, he'd flop. Well, we waited. Tennessee flopped right out of the Union an' Bill flopped with it.

"I felt powerful sorry when Bill told me good-bye, and so did he. I ain't seen or heard of him since 'till to-night, when I was cruisin' down there by the side of the river in the dark an' keepin' under cover of the bushes. Had no intention of shootin' anybody. Just wanted to take a look. I saw on the other side a dim figure walkin' up an' down, rifle on shoulder. Thought I noticed something familiar about it, an' the longer I watched the shorer I was.

"At last I crept right to the edge of the bank an' layin' down lest some fool who didn't know the manners of our war take a pot shot at me, I called out, 'Bill Brayton, you thick-headed rebel, are you well an' doin' well?'

"You ought to have seen him jump. He stopped walkin', dropped his rifle in the hollow of his arm, looked the way my voice come and called out, likewise in a loud voice: 'Who's callin' me a thick-headed rebel? Is it some blue-backed Yankee? You know we see nothin' of you but your backs. Come out in the light, an' I'll let some sense into you with a bullet.'

"'Oh, no I won't,' says I, still layin' close, an' not mindin' his taunt 'bout seein' our backs only. 'You couldn't hit me if I stood up an' marked the place on my chest. Nothin' will save you but them days on the plain in the blizzards when you was more useful with a shovel than you are with a rifle, 'cause to-morrow at sunrise we're goin' to cross this little river and tie all you fellows hand an' foot an' take you away as prisoners to Washington.'

"That made him mighty mad, but the part 'bout the blizzards on the plains set him to thinkin', too. 'Who in thunderation are you?' sez he. 'You're Bill Brayton, of Tennessee, fightin' in the rebel army, when you ought to know better,' says I. 'Now, who in thunderation am I?' 'Sufferin' Moses!' says he, 'that voice grows more like his every time he speaks. It can't be that empty-headed galoot, Dan Whitley, who never knew nothin' 'bout the rights an' wrongs of the war, an' had to go off with the Yanks!'

"'It's him an' nobody else,' says I, as I rose right up an' stood there on the bank, 'an' mighty glad am I to see you Bill, an' to know that your fool head ain't knocked off by a cannon ball.' He shorely jumped up an' down with pleasure an' he called back: 'The good Lord certainly watches over them that ain't got any sense. Dan, you flat-headed, hump-backed, round-shouldered, thin-chested, knock-kneed, club-footed son of a gun, I was never so glad to see anybody before in my life.'

"His eyes were shinin' with delight an' I know mine was, too. Reunions of old friends who for all each know have been dead a year or two, clean blowed to pieces by shells, or shot through by a hundred rifle bullets are powerful affectin'. He come down to the edge of the river an' he shot questions across to me, an' I shot questions at him, an' I felt as if a brother had riz from the dead. An' as we can't shake hands we reaches out the muzzles of our guns and shakes them towards each other in the most friendly way. Then another picket comes up, fellow by name of Henderson, from Mississippi. Bill introduces him to his good old pal, an' we three have a friendly talk. Guess they're down there yet, if you want to see 'em. I liked that fellow, Henderson, too, though he was a powerful boaster."

"All right," said Dick. "Lead on, but don't get us shot."

They went cautiously through the bushes to the bank of the river, and then the sergeant blew softly between his fingers. Two figures at once appeared on the other side, and Sergeant Whitley and the boys rose up.

"Mr. Brayton and Mr. Henderson," said the sergeant politely, "I want to introduce my friends, Lieutenant Mason, Lieutenant Warner and Lieutenant Pennington."

"Movin' in mighty good comp'ny, though young, Dan," said Brayton, who was about Whitley's age and build.

"They're officers, an' they're young, as you say," said Whitley, "but they're good ones."

"Them's the kind we eat alive, when we ain't got anything else to eat," said the Mississippian, a very tall, sallow and youngish man. "We're never too strong on rations, and when I eat prisoners I like 'em under twenty the best. They ain't had time to get tough. I speak right now for that yellow-haired one in the middle."

"You can't swallow me," said Pennington, good naturedly. "I'll just turn myself crossways and stick in your throat."

"What are you fellows after around here, anyway?" continued the Mississippian. "The weather's hot an' we all want to go in swimmin' to-morrow, bein' as we have two rivers handy. Shore as you live if you get to botherin' us we'll hurt you."

"You won't hurt us," said Dick, "because to-morrow we're going to surround you and drive you into a coop."

"Drive us in a coop. See here, Yank, you're gettin' excited. Do you know how many men we have here waitin' for you? Of course you don't. Why, it's four hundred thousand, ain't it, Bill?"

"No, it's just two hundred thousand. I don't believe in lyin' fur effect, Jim."

"I ain't lyin'. There's two hundred thousand men. Then there's Bobby Lee. That's a hundred thousand more, which makes three hundred thousand. Then there's Stonewall Jackson, who's another hundred thousand, which brings the figures up to exactly what I said, four hundred thousand. Now, ain't I right, Bill?"

"You shorely are, Jim. I was a fool for countin' the way I did. Will you overlook it this time?"

"Wa'al, I will this time, but be shore you don't do it ag'in. Now, see here, you Yanks: we like you well enough. You're friends of Bill, who is a friend of me. Just you take my advice an' go home. Start to-night while the weather is warm, an' the roads are good. If you're afraid of our chasin' you we'll give you a runnin' start of a hunderd miles."

"Wa'al now, that's right kind of you," said Whitley. "I for one might take your advice, but I was froze up so much in them wild mountains an' plains of the northwest that I like to go south when the winter's comin' on. It's hot now, all right, but in two months the chilly blasts will be seekin' my marrow."

"I was speakin' for your own good," said the Mississippian gravely. "Anyway, you won't be troubled by the cold weather 'cause if you don't go back into the no'th where you belong, we'll be takin' you a prisoner way down south, where you don't belong. But you could have a good time there. We won't treat you bad. There's fine huntin' for b'ars in the canebrake an' the rivers an' bayous are full of fish. Your captivity won't be downright painful on you."

"Glad to get your welcome, Mr. Henderson," said Whitley, "'cause we've heard a lot 'bout the hospitality of Mississippi, an' we're shorely goin' to stretch it. I'm comin', an' I'm bringin' a couple of hundred thousand fellers 'bout my size with me. Funny thing, we'll all wear blue coats just alike. Think you'd find room for us?"

"Plenty of it. What was it the feller said -- we welcome you with bloody hands to hospitable graves -- but we ain't feelin' that way to-night. Got a plug of terbacker?"

The sergeant took out a square of tobacco, cut it in exact halves with his pocket knife, and tossed one-half across the Antietam, where it was deftly caught by the Mississippian.

"Thanks mightily," said Henderson. "Mr. Commissary Banks used to supply us with good things, then it was Mr. Commissary Pope, and now I reckon it'll be Mr. Commissary McClellan. Say, how many fellers have you got over thar, anyway?"

"When I counted 'em last night," replied the sergeant calmly, "there was five hundred and twelve thousand two hundred and fifty-three infantry, sixty-four thousand two hundred and nineteen cavalry an' three thousand one hundred and seventy-five cannon, but I reckon we'll receive reinforcements of three hundred thousand before mornin'."

"Then we'll have more prisoners than I thought. Are you shore them three hundred thousand reinforcements will get up in time?"

"Quite shore. I've sent 'em word to hurry."

"Then we'll have to take them, too."

"Time you fellers quit your talkin'," said Brayton, "a major or a colonel may come strollin' 'long here any minute, an' they don't like for us fellers to be too friendly. Dan, I'm powerful glad to see you ag'in, an' I hope you won't get killed. I've a feelin' that you an' me will be ridin' over the plains once more some day, an' we won't be fightin' each other. We'll be fightin' Sioux an' Cheyennes an' all that red lot, just as we did in the old days. Here's a good-bye."

He thrust out the muzzle of his gun, an' Whitley thrust out his. Then they shook them at each other in friendly salute, and the little group moved away from the river bank.

"I'm glad I've seen Bill again," said the sergeant. "Fine feller an' that Mississippian with him was quaint like. Mighty big bragger."

"You did some bragging yourself, sergeant," said Dick.

"So I did, but it was in answer to Henderson. I'm glad we had that little talk across the river. It was a friendly thing to do, before we fall to slaughterin' one another."

They rejoined Colonel Winchester, and Dick worked through a part of the night carrying orders and other messages. A great movement was going on. Fresh troops were continually coming up, but there was little noise beyond the Antietam, although he saw the light of many fires.

He slept after midnight and awoke at dawn, expecting to go at once into battle. Some of the troops were moved about and Colonel Winchester began to rage again.

"Good God! can it be possible!" he exclaimed, "that another day will be lost? Is General McClellan instead of General Lee waiting for Jackson to come? With the enemy safely within the trap, we refuse to shut it down upon him!"

He said these things only within the hearing of Dick, who he knew would never repeat them. But he was not the only one to complain. Men higher in rank than he, generals, spoke their discontent openly. Why would not McClellan attack? He had claimed that the rebels had two hundred thousand men at the Seven Days, when it was well known that half that figure or less was their true number. Why should he persist in seeing the enemy double, and even if Lee did have fifty thousand men on the other side of the Antietam, instead of the twenty thousand the scouts assigned to him, the Army of the Potomac could defeat him before Jackson came up.

But McClellan was overcome by caution. In spite of everything he doubled or tripled the numbers of the enemy. Personally brave beyond dispute, he feared for his army. The position of the enemy on the peninsula seemed to have changed somewhat through the night. He believed that the batteries had been moved about, and he telegraphed to Washington that he must find out exactly the disposition of Lee's forces and where the fords were.

Meanwhile the long, hot hours dragged on. The dust trodden up by so many marching feet was terrible. It hung in clouds and added a sting to the burning heat. Dick was wild with impatience, but he knew that it was not worth while to say anything. He, Warner and Pennington, for the lack of something else to do, lay on the dry grass, whispering and watching as well as they could what was going on in Sharpsburg.

Meanwhile Sharpsburg itself seemed a monument to peace. It was deep in dust and the sun blazed on the roofs. Staff officers rode up, and when they dismounted they lazily led their horses to the best shade that could be found. Within a residence Lee sat in close conference with his lieutenants, Stonewall Jackson and Longstreet. Now and then, they looked at the reports of brigade commanders and sometimes they studied the maps of Maryland and Virginia. Lee was calm and confident. The odds against him -- and he knew what they were -- apparently mattered nothing.

He knew the strength and spirit of his army and to what a pitch it was keyed by victory. Moreover, he knew McClellan, whom he had met at the Seven Days, and he believed, in truth he felt positive that McClellan would delay long enough for the remainder of Jackson's troops to come up. Upon this belief he staked the future of the Confederacy in the battle to be fought there between the Potomac and the Antietam. His troops were worn by battles and tremendous marches. Jackson's men in three days had marched sixty miles, and had fought a battle at Harper's Ferry within that time, also, taking more than thirteen thousand prisoners. Never before had the foot cavalry marched so hard.

The men in gray, ragged and many of them barefooted, slept in the woods about Sharpsburg all through the hot hours of the day. Their officers had told them that the drums and bugles would call them when needed, and they sank quietly into the deepest of slumbers. From where they lay Red Hill, a spur of a mountain, separated them from the Union army. It was only those like Dick and his comrades who mounted elevations and who had powerful field glasses who could see into Sharpsburg. The main Union force saw only the top of a church spire or two in the village. But each felt fully the presence of the other and knew that the battle could not be delayed long.

Dick, in his anxiety and excitement, fell asleep. The heat and the waiting seemed to overpower him. He did not know how long he had slept, but he was awakened by the sharp call of a trumpet, and when he sprang to his feet Warner told him it was about four o'clock.

"What's up?" he cried, as he wiped the haze of heat and dust from his eyes.

"We're about to march," replied Warner, "but as it's so late in the day I don't think it can be a general attack. Still, I know that our division is going to cross the Antietam. Up here the stream is narrower than it is down below, and the banks are not so high. Look, the colonel is beckoning to us! Here we go!"

They sprang upon their horses, and a great corps advanced toward the Antietam, far above the town of Sharpsburg. The sun had declined in the West, and a breeze, bringing a little coolness, had begun to blow. They did not see much preparation for defense beyond the river, but as they advanced some cannon in the woods opened there. The Union cannon replied, and then the brigades in blue moved forward swiftly.

The officers and the cavalry galloped their horses into the little river and Dick felt a fierce joy as the water was dashed into his face. This was action, movement, the attack that had been delayed so long but which was not yet too late. He thought nothing of the shells hissing and shrieking over his head, and he shouted with the others in exultation as they passed the fords of the Antietam and set foot on the peninsula. The cannon dashed after them through the stream and up the bank.

A heavy rifle fire from the woods met them, but the triumphant division pressed on. They were held back at the edge of the woods by cannon aiding the rifles, and for some time a battle swayed back and forth, but the Confederate resistance ceased suddenly. Infantry and batteries disappeared in woods or beyond a ridge, and then Dick noticed that night was coming. The sun was already hidden by the lofty slopes of the western mountains, and there would be no battle that day. In another half hour full darkness would be upon them.

But Dick felt that something had been achieved. A powerful Union force was now beyond the Antietam, with its feet rooted firmly in the soil of the peninsula. It looked directly south at the Confederate army and there was no barrier between. Lee would have to face at once, Hooker on the north and McClellan on the east across the Antietam. The Union army had been numerous enough to outflank him.

Dick was quite sure of success now. They had lost two of the most precious of all days instead of one, but they had closed the gap on the north, through which Lee's army might march in an attempt to escape. It was likely, too, that the last of Jackson's men would come that way and the Union force would cut them off from Lee. Two entire army corps were now beyond the Antietam, and they should be able to do anything.

The Winchester regiment lay in deep woods, and the great division although it had rested nearly all the day was quiet in the night. But some ardent souls could not rest. A group of officers, including Colonel Winchester and the three young members of his staff, walked forward through the woods, taking the chance of stray shots from sentinels or skirmishers. But they knew that this risk was not great.

They passed near a mill, its wheels and saws silent now, and presently as the moon rose they saw the square white walls of a building shining in its light.

"The Dunkard church," said one of the officers. "I think we'd better not go any closer. The Johnnies must be lying thick close at hand."

"The dim light off to the right must be made by their fires," said Colonel Winchester. "I wish I knew what troops they are. Jackson's perhaps. It's a rough country, and all these forests and ridges and hills will help the defense. I understand that the farms in here are surrounded by stone fences and that, too, will help the Johnnies."

"But we'll get 'em," said another confidently. "The battle can't be put off any longer, and we're bound to smash 'em in the morning."

They remained in the darkness for a while, trying to see what was passing toward the Southern lines, but they could see little. There was some rifle firing after a while, and the occasional deep note of a cannon, mostly at random and the little group walked back.

"I'm going to sleep, Dick," said Warner. "I've just remembered that I'm an invalid and that if I overtask myself it will be a bad thing for McClellan to-morrow. The colonel doesn't want us any longer, and so here goes."

"I follow," said Pennington. "The dry earth is good enough for me. May I stay on top of it for the next half century."

Warner and Pennington slept quickly, but Dick lay awake a long time, listening to the stray rifle shots and the distant boom of a cannon at far intervals. After a while, he looked at his watch and saw that it was midnight. It was more than an hour later when slumber overtook him, and while he and his comrades lay there the last of Jackson's men were coming with the help that Lee needed so sorely.

Two divisions which had been left at Harper's Ferry started at midnight just as Dick was looking at his watch and at dawn they were almost to the Potomac. On their flank was a cavalry brigade and A. P. Hill was hurrying with another of infantry. Messenger after messenger from them came to Lee that on the fateful day they with their fourteen thousand bayonets would be in line when they were needed most.

Few of those who fought for the Lost Cause ever cherished anything more vividly than those hours between midnight and the next noon when they marched at the double quick across hill and valley and forest to the relief of their great commander. There was little need for the officers to urge them on, and at sunrise the rolling of the cannon was calling to them to come faster, always faster.



Chapter X. Antietam


Dick arose at the first flash of dawn. All the men of the Winchester regiment were on their feet. The officers had sent their horses to the rear, knowing that they would be worse than useless among the rocks and in the forest in front of them.

A mist arising from the two rivers floated over everything, but Dick knew that the battle was at hand. The Northern trumpets were calling, and in the haze in front of them the Southern trumpets were calling, too.

The fog lifted, and then Dick saw the Confederate lines stretched through forest, rock and ploughed ground. Near the front was a rail fence with lines of skirmishers crouching behind it. As the last bit of mist rolled away the fence became a twisted line of flame. The fire of the Southern skirmishers crashed in the Union ranks, and the Northern skirmishers, pressing in on the right replied with a fire equally swift and deadly. Then came the roar of the Southern cannon, well aimed and tearing gaps in the Union lines.

"Its time to charge!" exclaimed Pennington. "It scares me, standing still under the enemy's fire, but I forget about it when I'm rushing forward."

The Winchester regiment did not move for the present, although the battle thickened and deepened about it. The fire of the Confederate cannon was heavy and terrible, yet the Union masses on either wing had begun to press forward. Hooker hurled in two divisions, one under Meade, and one under Doubleday, and another came up behind to support them. The western men were here and remembering how they had been decimated at Manassas, they fought for revenge as well as patriotism.

At last the Winchester regiment in the center moved forward also. They struck heavy ploughed land, and as they struggled through it they met a devastating fire. It seemed to Dick that the last of the little regiment was about to be blown away, but as he looked through the fire and smoke he saw Warner and Pennington still by his side, and the colonel a little ahead, waving his sword and shouting orders that could not be heard.

Dick saw shining far before him the white walls of the Dunkard church, and he was seized with a frantic desire to reach it. It seemed to him if they could get there that the victory would be won. Yet they made little progress. The cannon facing them fairly spouted fire, and thousands of expert riflemen in front of them lying behind ridges and among rocks and bushes sent shower after shower of leaden balls that swept away the front ranks of the charging Union lines. The shell and the shrapnel and the grape and the round shot made a great noise, but the little bullets coming in swarms like bees were the true messengers of death.

Jackson and four thousand of his veterans formed the thin line between the Dunkard church and the Antietam. They were ragged and worn by war, but they were the children of victory, led by a man of genius, and they felt equal to any task. Near Jackson stood his favorite young aide, Harry Kenton, and on the other side was the thin regiment of the Invincibles, led by Colonel Leonidas Talbot, and Lieutenant-Colonel Hector St. Hilaire.

Around the church itself were the Texans under Hood, stalwart, sunburned men who could ride like Comanches, some of whom when lads had been present at San Jacinto, when the Texans struck with such terrible might and success for liberty.

"Are we winning? Tell me, that we are winning!" shouted Dick in Warner's ear.

"We're not winning, but we will! Confound that fog! It's coming up again!" Warner shouted back.

The heavy fog from the Potomac and the Antietam which the early and burning sunrise had driven away was drifting back, thickened by the smoke from the cannon and rifles. The gray lines in front disappeared and the church was hidden. Yet the Northern artillery continued to pour a terrible fire through the smoke toward the point where the Confederate infantry had been posted.

Dick heard at the same time a tremendous roar on the left, and he knew that the Union batteries beyond the Antietam had opened a flanking fire on the Southern army. He breathed a sigh of triumph. McClellan, who could organize and prepare so well, was aroused at last to such a point that he could concentrate his full strength in battle itself, and push home with all his might until able to snatch the reward, victory. As the lad heard the supporting guns across the Antietam, he suddenly found himself shouting with all his might. His voice could not be heard in the uproar, but he saw that the lips of those about him were moving in like manner.

The two corps on the peninsula had a good leader that morning. Hooker, fiery, impetuous, scorning death, continually led his men to the attack. The gaps in their ranks were closed up, and on they went, infantry, cavalry and artillery. The fog blew away again and they beheld once more the gray lines of the Southerners, and the white wooden walls of the church.

So fierce and overwhelming was the Northern rush that all of Jackson's men and the Texans were borne back, and were driven from the ridges and out of the woods. Exultant, the men in blue followed, their roar of triumph swelling above the thunder of the battle.

"Victory!" cried Dick, but Warner shouted:

"Look out!"

The keen eyes of the young Vermonter had seen masses of infantry and cavalry on their flank. Hooker, fierce and impetuous, had gone too far, and now the Southern trumpets sang the charge. Stuart, fiery and dauntless, his saber flashing, led his charging horsemen, and Hill threw his infantry upon the Northern flank.

It seemed to Dick that he was in a huge volcano of fire and smoke. Men who, in their calm moments, did not hate one another, glared into hostile eyes. There was often actual physical contact, and the flash from the cannon and rifles blazed in Dick's face. The Southerners in front who had been driven back returned, and as Stuart and Hill continued to beat hard upon their flanks, the troops of Hooker were compelled to retreat. Once more the white church faded in the mists and smoke.

But Hooker and his generals rallied their men and advanced anew. The ground around the Dunkard church became one of the most sanguinary places in all America. One side advanced and then the other, and they continually reeled to and fro. Even the young soldiers knew the immensity of the stake. This was the open ground, elsewhere the Antietam separated the fighting armies. But victory here would decide the whole battle, and the war, too. The Northern troops fought for a triumph that would end all, and the Southern troops for salvation.

So close and obstinate was the conflict that colonels and generals themselves were in the thick of it. Starke and Lawton of the South were both killed. Mansfield, who led one of the Northern army corps fell dead in the very front line, and the valiant Hooker, caught in the arms of his soldiers, was borne away so severely wounded that he could no longer give orders.

Scarcely any generals were left on either side, but the colonels and the majors and the captains still led the men into the thick of the conflict. Dick felt a terrible constriction. It was as if some one were choking him with powerful hands, and he strove for breath. He knew that the masses pressed upon their flank by Stuart and Hill, were riddling them through and through.

The Union men were giving ground, slowly, it is true, and leaving heaps of dead and wounded behind them, but nobody could stand the terrible rifle fire that was raking them at short range from side to side, and they were no longer able to advance. Now Dick heard once more that terrible and triumphant rebel yell, and it seemed to him that they were about to be destroyed utterly, when shell and shot began to shriek and whistle over their heads. The woods behind them were alive with the blaze of fire, and the great Union batteries were driving back the triumphant and cheering Confederates.

The Union generals on the other side of the Antietam saw the fate that was about to overtake Hooker's valiant men, and Sumner, with another army corps, had crossed the river to the rescue, coming just in time. They moved up to Hooker's men and the united masses returned to the charge.

The battle grew more desperate with the arrival of fresh troops. Again it was charge and repulse, charge and repulse, and the continuous swaying to and fro by two combatants, each resolved to win. There were the Union men who had forced the passes through the mountains to reach this field, and they were struggling to follow up those successes by a victory far greater, and there were the Confederates resolved upon another glorious success.

The fire became so tremendous that the men could no longer hear orders. Here was a field of ripe corn, the stems and blades higher than a man's head, forty acres or so, nearly a quarter of a mile each way, but the corn soon ceased to hide the combatants from one another. The fire from the cannon and rifles came in such close sheets that scarcely a stalk stood upright in that whole field.

Long this mighty conflict swayed back and forth. Dick had seen nothing like it before, not even at the Second Manassas. It was almost hand to hand. Cannons were lost and retaken by each side. Stuart, finding the ground too rough for his cavalry, dismounted them and put them at the guns. Jackson, with an eye that missed nothing, called up Early's brigade and hurled it into the battle. The North replied with fresh troops, and the combat was as much in doubt as ever. Every brigade commander on the Southern side had been killed or wounded. Nearly all the colonels had fallen, but Jackson's men still fought with a fire and spirit that only such a leader as he could inspire.

It seemed to Dick that the whole world was on fire with the flash of cannon and rifles. The roar and crash came from not only in front and around him, but far down the side, where the main army of McClellan was advancing directly upon the Antietam, and the stone bridges which the Confederates had not found time to tear down.

There stood Lee, supremely confident that if his lieutenant, Jackson, could not hold the Northern opening into the peninsula nobody could. His men, who knew the desperate nature of the crisis, said that they had never seen him more confident than he was that day.

On the ridge just south of the village was a huge limestone bowlder, and Lee, field glasses in hand, stood on it. He listened a while to the growing thunder of the battle in the north -- the Dunkard church, around which Jackson and Hooker were fighting so desperately, was a mile away -- but he soon turned his attention to the blue masses across the Antietam.

The Southern commander faced the Antietam with the hard-hitting Longstreet on his right, his left being composed of the forces of Jackson, already in furious conflict. Nothing escaped him. As he listened to the thunder of the dreadful battle in the north, he never ceased to watch the great army in front of him on the other side of the little river.

While Hooker and his men were fighting with such desperate courage, why did not McClellan and the main body of the Union army move forward to the attack? Doubtless Lee asked himself this question, and doubtless also he had gauged accurately the mind of the Union leader, who always saw two or even three enemies where but one stood. Relying so strongly upon his judgment he dared to strip himself yet further and send more men to Jackson. A messenger brought him news that more of Jackson's men had come to his aid and that he was now holding the whole line against the attacks of Meade and Hooker and all the rest.

Lee nodded and turned his glasses again toward the long blue line across the Antietam. McClellan himself was there, standing on a hill and also watching. Around him was a great division under the command of Burnside, and his time to win victory had come. He sent the order to Burnside to move forward and force the Antietam. It is said that at this moment Lee had only five thousand men with him, all the rest having been sent to Jackson, and, if so, time itself fought against the Union, as it was a full two hours before Burnside carried out his order and moved forward on the Antietam.

But Dick, on the north, did not know that it was as yet only cannon fire, and not the charge of troops to the south and west. In truth, he knew little of his own part of the battle. Once he was knocked down, but it was only the wind from a cannon ball, and when he sprang to his feet and drew a few long breaths he was as well as ever.

From muttered talk around him, talk that he could hear under the thunder of the battle, he learned that Sumner, who had come with the great reinforcement, was now leading the battle, with Hooker wounded and Mansfield dying.

Sumner, as brave and daring as any, had gathered twenty thousand men, and they were advancing in splendid order over the wreck of the dead and the dying, apparently an irresistible force.

Jackson, standing at the edge of a wood, saw the magnificent advance, and while the officers around him despaired, he did not think of awaiting the Northern attack, but prepared instead for an attack of his own. There was word that McLaws and the Harper's Ferry men had come. Jackson galloped to meet them, formed them quickly with his own, and then the Southern drums rolled out the charge. The weary veterans, gathering themselves anew for another burst of strength, fell with all their might on the Northern flank.

Dick felt the force of that charge. Men seemed to be driven in upon him. He was hurled down, how he knew not, but he sprang up again, and then he saw that their advance was stopped. Long lines of bayonets advanced upon them, and a terrible artillery fire crashed through and through their ranks. Two or three thousand men in blue fell in a moment or so. Fortune in an instant had made a terrible change of front.

Dick shouted aloud in despair as the brigades steadily gave back. The great Union batteries were firing over their heads again, but even they could not arrest the Southern advance. Their regiments were coming now across the shorn cornfield. Dick saw the galloping horses drawing their batteries up closer and around the flanks. And the rebel yell of victory which he had heard too often was now swelling from thousands of throats, as the fierce sons of the South rushed upon their foe.

But the North refused to abandon the battle here. These were splendid troops, so tenacious and so much bent upon victory that they scarcely needed leaders. Sedgwick, another of their gallant generals, fell and was carried off the field, wounded severely. Richardson, yet another, was killed a little later, but heavy reinforcements arrived, and the Southerners were driven back in their turn.

These were picked troops who met here, veterans almost all of them, and neither would yield. The superior weight and range of the Northern guns gave them an advantage in artillery, and it was used to the utmost. Dick did not see how men could live under such a horrible fire, but there were the gray lines replying, and wherever they yielded, yielding but little.

Noon came and then one o'clock. They had been fighting since dawn, and a combat so impetuous and terrible could not be maintained forever, particularly when the awful demon of war was eating up men so fast. Many of the regiments on either side had lost more than half their number and would lose more. They were human beings, and even the unwounded began to collapse from mere physical exhaustion. Some dropped to the ground from sheer inability to stand, and as they lay there, they heard to the south and west the rolling thunder that told of Burnside's belated advance upon the Antietam.

Down where Lee stood watching, the battle blazed up with extraordinary rapidity. The men who had been held in leash so long by McClellan were anxious to get at the foe. Burnside's brigades charged directly for one of the stone bridges, and Lee, watching from his bowlder, hurried the Southern troops forward to meet them. Again the Northern artillery proved its worth. The great batteries sent a hurricane of death over the heads of the men in blue and toward the town of Sharpsburg. Despite all the valor of the Southern veterans, the heavy masses of the Union men forced their way across the bridge to the peninsula. Lee's batteries and infantry regiments could not hold them.

It seemed now that Lee's own force was to be destroyed and that victory was won, but fortune had in store yet another of those dazzling recoveries for the South. At the very moment when Lee seemed overwhelmed, A. P. Hill, as valiant and vigorous as the other Hill, arrived with the last of the Harper's Ferry veterans, having marched seventeen miles, almost on a dead run. They crossed the Potomac at a ford below the mouth of the Antietam, then crossed the Antietam on the lowest bridge back into the peninsula, and without waiting for orders rushed upon the Northern flank.

The attack was so sudden and fierce that Burnside's entire division reeled back. Here, as in the north, the face of the battle had been changed in an instant. Not only could Colonel Winchester mourn over those lost two days, but he could mourn over every lost half hour in them. Had Hill come a half hour later Lee's whole center would have been swept away.

Lee and his great lieutenants, Jackson and Longstreet, were still confident. Despite the disparity in numbers they had beaten back every attack.

A. P. Hill was a man who corresponded in fire and impetuosity to Hooker. The number of his veterans was not so great, but their rush was so fierce, and they struck at such a critical time that the Northern brigades were unable to hold the ground they had gained. More troops from the dying battle on the north came to Lee's aid, and every attempt of McClellan to take Sharpsburg failed.

Dick, fighting with his comrades on the north, knew little of what was passing on the peninsula in the south, but he became conscious after a while that the appalling fury of the battle around him was diminishing. He had not seen such a desperate hand-to-hand battle at either Shiloh or the Second Manassas, and they were terrible enough. But he felt as the Confederates themselves had felt, that the Southern army was fighting for existence.

But as the day waned, Dick believed that they would never be able to crush Jackson. The Union troops always returned to the attack, but the men in gray never failed to meet it, and actual physical exhaustion overwhelmed the combatants. Pennington went down, and Dick dragged him to his feet, fearing that he was wounded mortally, but found that his comrade had merely dropped through weakness.

The long day of heat and strife neared its close. Neither Northern tenacity nor Southern fire could win, and the sun began to droop over the field piled so thickly with bodies. As the twilight crept up the battle sank in all parts of the peninsula. McClellan, who had lost those two most precious days, and who had finally failed to make use of all his numbers at the same time, now, great in preparation, as usual, made ready for the emergency of the morrow.

All the powerful and improved artillery which McClellan had in such abundance was brought up. The mathematical minds and the workshops of the North bore full fruit upon this sanguinary field of Antietam. The shattered divisions of Hooker, with which Dick and his comrades lay, were sheltered behind a great line of artillery. No less than thirty rifled guns of the latest and finest make were massed in one battery to command the road by which the South might attack.

To the south the Northern artillery was equally strong, and beyond the Antietam also it was massed in battery after battery to protect its men.

But the coming twilight found both sides too exhausted to move. The sun was setting upon the fiercest single day's fighting ever seen in America. Nearly twenty-five thousand dead or wounded lay upon the field. More than one fourth of the Southern army was killed or wounded, yet it was in Lee's mind to attack on the morrow.

After night had come the weary Southern generals -- those left alive -- reported to Lee as he sat on his horse in the road. The shadows gathered on his face, as they told of their awful losses, and of the long list of high officers killed or wounded. Jackson was among the last, and he was gloomy. The man who had always insisted upon battle did not insist upon it now. Hood reported that his Texans, who had fought so valiantly for the Dunkard church, were almost destroyed.

The scene in the darkness with the awful battlefield around them was one which not even the greatest of painters could have reproduced. When the last general had told his tale of slaughter and destruction, they sat for a while in silence. They realized the smallness of their army, and the immense extent of their losses. The light wind that had sprung up swept over the dead faces of thousands of the bravest men in the Southern army. They had held their ground, but on the morrow McClellan could bring into line three to one and an artillery far superior alike in quality, weight and numbers to theirs.

The strange, intense silence lasted. Every eye was upon Lee. When the generals were making their reports he had shown more emotion than they had ever seen on his face before. Now he was quiet, but he drew his lips close together, his eyes shone with blue fire, and rising in his stirrups he said:

"We will not cross the Potomac to-night, gentlemen."

Then while they still waited in silence, he said:

"Go to your commands! Reform and strengthen your lines. Collect all your stragglers. Bring up every man who is in the rear. If McClellan wants a battle again in the morning, he shall have it. Now go!"

Not a general said a word in objection, in fact, they did not speak at all, but rode slowly away, every one to his command. Yet they were, without exception, against the decision of their great leader.

Even Stonewall Jackson did not want a second battle. He had shown through the doubtful conflict a most extraordinary calmness. While the combat in the north, where he commanded, was at its height, he had sat on Little Sorrel, now happily restored to him, eating from time to time a peach that he took from his pocket. Nothing had escaped his observation; he watched every movement, and noticed every rise and fall in the tide of success. His silence now indicated that he concurred with the others in his belief that the remains of the Confederate army should withdraw across the Potomac, but his manner indicated complete acquiescence in the decision of his leader.

But in the north of the peninsula the remnants of either side had scarce a thought to bestow upon victory or defeat. It was a question that did not concern them for the present, so utter was their exhaustion. As night came and the battle ceased they dropped where they were and sank into sleep or a stupor that was deeper than sleep.

But Dick this time did neither. His nervous system had been strained so severely that it was impossible for him to keep still. He had found that all of his friends had received wounds, although they were too slight to put them out of action. But the Winchester regiment had suffered terribly again. It did not have a hundred men left fit for service, and even at that it had got off better than some others. In one of the Virginia regiments under Longstreet only fourteen men had been left unhurt.

Dick stood beside his colonel -- Warner and Pennington were lying in a stupor -- and he was appalled. The battle had been fought within a narrow area, and the tremendous destruction was visible in the moonlight, heaped up everywhere. Colonel Winchester was as much shaken as he, and the two, the man and the boy, walked toward the picket line, drawn by a sort of hideous fascination, as they looked upon the area of conflict.

The dead lay in windrows between the two armies which were waiting to fight on the dawn. Dick and the colonel walked toward the field where the corn had been waving high that morning, and where it was now mown by cannon and rifles to the last stalk. In the edge of the wood the boy paused and grasping the man suddenly by the arm pulled him back.

"Look! Look!" he exclaimed in a sharp whisper. "The Confederate skirmishers! The woods are full of them! They are making ready for a night attack!" Both he and Colonel Winchester sprang back behind a big tree, sheltering themselves from a possible shot. But no sound came, not even that of men creeping forward through the undergrowth. All they heard was the moaning of the wind through the foliage. They waited, and then the two looked at each other. The true reason for the extraordinary silence had occurred to both at the same instant, and they stepped from the shelter of the tree.

Awed and appalled, the man and the boy gazed at the silent forms which lay row on row in the woods and in the shorn cornfield. It seemed as if they slept, but Dick knew that all were dead. He and Colonel Winchester gazed again at each other and shuddering turned away lest they disturb the sleep of the dead.

When they returned to a position behind the guns they heard others coming in with equally terrible tales. A sunken lane that ran between the hostile lines was filled to the brim with dead. Boys, yet in their teens, with nerves completely shattered for the time, chattered hysterically of what they had seen. The Antietam was still running red. Both Lee and Stonewall Jackson had been killed and the whole Confederate army would be taken in the morning. Some said, on the other hand, that the Southerners still had a hundred thousand men, and that McClellan would certainly be beaten the next day, if he did not retreat in time.

None of the talk, either of victory or defeat, made any impression upon Dick. His senses were too much dulled by all through which he had gone. Words no longer meant anything. Although the night was warm he began to shiver, as if he were seized with a chill.

"Lie down, Dick," said Colonel Winchester, who noticed him. "I don't think you can stand it any longer. Here, under this tree will do."

Dick threw himself down and Colonel Winchester, finding a blanket, spread it over him. Then the boy closed his eyes, and, for a while, phase after phase of the terrible conflict passed before him. He could see the white wall of the Dunkard church, the Bloody Lane, and most ghastly of all, those dead men in rows lying on their arms, like regiments asleep, but his nerves grew quiet at last, and after midnight he slept.

Dawn came and found the two armies ready. Dick and the sad remnant of the Winchester regiment rose to their feet. Although food had been prepared for them very few in all these brigades had touched a bite the night before, sinking into sleep or stupor before it could be brought to them. But now they ate hungrily while they watched for their foes, the skirmishers of either army already being massed in front to be ready for any movement by the other.

As on the morning before, a mist arose from the Potomac and the Antietam. The sun, bright and hot, soon dispersed it. But there was no movement by either army. Dick did not hear the sound of a single shot. Warner and Pennington, recovered from their stupor, stood beside him gazing southward toward the rocks and ridges, where the Confederate army lay.

"I'm thinking," said Warner, "that they're just as much exhausted as we are. We're waiting for an attack, and they're waiting for the same. The odds are at least ninety per cent in favor of my theory. Their losses are something awful, and I don't think they can do anything against us. Look how our batteries are massed for them."

Dick was watching through his glasses, and even with their aid he could see no movement within the Southern lines. Hours passed and still neither army stirred. McClellan counted his tremendous losses, and he, too, preferred to await attack rather than offer it. His old obsession that his enemy was double his real strength seized him, and he was not willing to risk his army in a second rush upon Lee.

While Dick and his comrades were waiting through the long morning hours, Lee and Jackson and his other lieutenants were deciding whether or not they should make an attack of their own. But when they studied with their glasses the Northern lines and the great batteries, they decided that it would be better not to try it.

When noon came and still no shot had been fired, Colonel Winchester shook his head.

"We might yet destroy the Southern army," he said to Dick, "but I'm convinced that General McClellan will not move it."

The hot afternoon passed, and then the night came with the sound of rumbling wheels and marching men. Dick surmised that Lee was leaving the peninsula, and, crossing the Potomac in to Virginia, and that therefore tactical victory would rest with the Northern side. The noises continued all night long, but McClellan made no advance, nor did he do so the next day, while the whole Confederate army was crossing the Potomac, until nearly night.

But the Winchester regiment and several more of the same skeleton character, pushing forward a little on the morning of that day, found that the last Confederate soldier was gone from Sharpsburg. Colonel Winchester and other officers were eager for the Army of the Potomac to attack the Army of Northern Virginia, while it dragged itself across the wide and dangerous ford.

But McClellan delayed again, and it was sunset when Dick saw the first sign of action. A strong division with cannon crossed the river and attacked the batteries which were covering the Southern rearguard. Four guns and prisoners were taken, but when Lee heard of it he sent back Jackson, who beat off all pursuit.

Dick and his comrades did not see this last fight, which was the dying echo of Antietam. They felt that they had defeated the enemy's purpose, but they did not rejoice over any victory. The sword of Antietam had turned back Lee and Jackson for a time and perhaps had saved the Union, but Dick was gloomy and depressed that so little had been won when they seemed to hold so much in the hollow of their hands.

This feeling spread through the whole army, and the privates, even, talked of it openly. Nobody could forget those precious two days lost before the battle. Orders No. 191 had put all the cards in their hands, but the commander had not played them.

"I feel that we've really failed," said Warner, as they sat beside a camp fire. "The Southerners certainly fought like demons, but we ought to have been there long before Jackson came, and we ought to have whipped them, even after Jackson did come."

"But we didn't," said Pennington, "and so we've got the job to do all over again. You know, George, we're bound to win."

"Of course, Frank; but while we're doing it the country is being ripped to pieces. I'll never quit mourning over that lost chance at Antietam."

"At any rate we came off better than at the Second Manassas," said Dick. "What's ahead of us now?"

"I don't know," replied Warner. "I saw Shepard yesterday, and he says that the Southerners are recuperating in Virginia. We need restoratives ourselves, and I don't suppose we'll have any important movements along this line for a while."

"But there'll be big fighting somewhere," said Dick.



Chapter XI. A Family Affair


Two days after the battle of Antietam, Dick went with Colonel Winchester to Washington on official duty. His nerves, shaken so severely by that awful battle, were not yet fully restored and he was glad of the little respite, and change of scene. The sights of the city and the talk of men were a restorative to him.

The capital was undoubtedly gay. The deep depression and fear that had hung over it a few weeks ago were gone. Men had believed after the Second Manassas that Lee might take Washington and this fear was not decreased when he passed into Maryland on what seemed to be an invasion. Many had begun to believe that he was invincible, that every Northern commander whoever he might be, would be beaten by him, but Antietam, although there were bitter complaints that Lee might have been destroyed instead of merely being checked, had changed a sky of steel into a sky of blue.

Washington was not only gay, it was brilliant. Life flowed fast and it was astonishingly vivid. A restless society, always seeking something new flitted from house to house. Dick, young and impressionable, would have been glad to share a little in it, but his time was too short. He went once with Colonel Winchester to the theatre, and the boy who had thrice seen a hundred and fifty thousand men in deadly action hung breathless over the mimic struggles of a few men and women on a painted stage.

The second day after his arrival he received a letter from his mother that had been awaiting him there. It had come by the way of Louisville through the Northern lines, and it was long and full of news. Pendleton, she said, was a sad town in these days. All of the older boys and young men had gone away to the armies, and many of them had been killed already, or had died in hospitals. Here she gave names and Dick's heart grew heavy, because in this fatal list were old friends of his.

It was not alone the boys and young men who had gone, wrote Mrs. Mason, but the middle-aged men, too. Dr. Russell had kept the Pendleton Academy open, but he had no pupil over sixteen years of age. There were no trustees, because they had all gone to the war. Senator Culver had been killed in the fighting in Tennessee, but she heard that Colonel Kenton was alive and well and with Bragg's army.

The affairs of the Union, she continued, were not going well in Tennessee and Kentucky. The terrible Confederate cavalryman Forrest had suddenly raided Murfreesborough in Tennessee, where Union regiments were stationed, and had destroyed or captured them all. Throughout the west the Southerners were raising their heads again. General Bragg, it was said, was advancing with a strong army, and was already farther north than the army of General Buell, which was in Tennessee. It was said that Louisville, one of the largest and richest of the border cities, would surely fall into the hands of the South.

Dick read the letter with changing and strong emotions. Amid the terrible struggles in the east, the west was almost blotted out of his mind. The Second Manassas and Antietam had great power to absorb attention wholly upon themselves. He had wholly forgotten for the time about Pendleton, the people whom he knew, and even his mother. Now they returned with increased strength. His memory was flooded with recollections of the little town, every house and face of which he knew.

And so the Confederates were coming north again with a great army. Shiloh had been far from crushing them in the west. The letter had been written before the Second Manassas, and that and Lee's great fight against odds at Antietam would certainly arouse in them the wish for like achievements. He inferred that since the armies in the east were exhausted, the great field for action would be for a while, in the west, and he was seized with an intense longing for that region which was his own.

It was not coincidence, but the need for men that made Dick's wish come true almost at once. A few hours after he received his letter Colonel Winchester found him sitting in the lobby of the hotel in which Dick had twice talked with the contractor. But the boy was alone this time, and as Colonel Winchester sat down beside him he said:

"Dick, the capital has received alarming news from Kentucky. Buoyed up by their successes in the east the Confederacy is going to make an effort to secure that state. Bragg with a powerful force is already on his way toward Louisville, and we fear that he has slipped away from Buell."

"So I've heard. I found here a letter from my mother, and she told me all the reports from that section."

"And is Mrs. Mason well? She has not been troubled by guerillas, or in any other way?"

"Not at all. Mother's health is always good, and she has not been molested."

"Dick, it's possible that we may see Kentucky again soon."

"Can that be true, and how is it so, sir?"

"The administration is greatly alarmed about Kentucky and the west. This movement of Bragg's army is formidable, and it would be a great blow for us if he took Louisville. Dispatches have been sent east for help. My regiment and several others that really belong in the west have been asked for, and we are to start in three days. Dick, do you know how many men of the Winchester regiment are left? We shall be able to start with only one hundred and five men, and when we attacked at Donelson we were a thousand strong."

"And the end of the war, sir, seems as far off as ever."

"So it does, Dick, but we'll go, and we'll do our best. Starting from Washington we can reach Louisville in two days by train. Bragg, no matter what progress he may make across the state, cannot be there then. If any big battle is to be fought we're likely to be in it."

The scanty remainder of the regiment was brought to Washington and two days later they were in Louisville, which they found full of alarm. The famous Southern partisan leader, John Morgan, had been roaming everywhere over the state, capturing towns, taking prisoners and throwing all the Union communications into confusion by means of false dispatches.

People told with mingled amusement and apprehension of Morgan's telegrapher, Ellsworth, who cut the wires, attached his own instrument, and replied to the Union messages and sent answers as his general pleased. It was said that Bragg was already approaching Munfordville where there was a Northern fort and garrison. And it was said that Buell on another line was endeavoring to march past Bragg and get between him and Louisville.

But Dick found that the western states across the Ohio were responding as usual. Hardy volunteers from the prairies and plains were pouring into Louisville. While Dick waited there the news came that Bragg had captured the entire Northern garrison of four thousand men at Munfordville, the crossing of Green River, and was continuing his steady advance.

But there was yet hope that the rapid march of Buell and the gathering force at Louisville would cause Bragg to turn aside.

At last the welcome news came. Bragg had suddenly turned to the east, and then Buell arrived in Louisville. With his own force, the army already gathered there and a division sent by Grant from his station at Corinth, in Mississippi, he was at the head of a hundred thousand men, and Bragg could not muster more than half as many.

So rapid had been the passage of events that Dick found himself a member of Buell's reorganized army, and ready to march, only thirteen days after the sun set on the bloody field of Antietam, seven hundred miles away. Bragg, they said, was at Lexington, in the heart of the state, and the Union army was in motion to punish him for his temerity in venturing out of the far south.

Dick felt a great elation as he rode once more over the soil of his native state. He beheld again many of the officers whom he had seen at Donelson, and also he spoke to General Buell, who although as taciturn and somber as ever, remembered him.

Warner and Pennington were by his side, the colonel rode before, and the Winchester regiment marched behind. Volunteers from Kentucky and other states had raised it to about three hundred men, and the new lads listened with amazement, while the unbearded veterans told them of Shiloh, the Second Manassas and Antietam.

"Good country, this of yours, Dick," said Warner, as they rode through the rich lands east of Louisville. "Worth saving. I'm glad the doctor ordered me west for my health."

"He didn't order you west for your health," said Pennington. "He ordered you west to get killed for your country."

"Well, at any rate, I'm here, and as I said, this looks like a land worth saving."

"It's still finer when you get eastward into the Bluegrass," said Dick, "but it isn't showing at its best. I never before saw the ground looking so burnt and parched. They say it's the dryest summer known since the country was settled eighty or ninety years ago."

Dick hoped that their line of march would take them near Pendleton, and as it soon dropped southward he saw that his hope had come true. They would pass within twenty miles of his mother's home, and at Dick's urgent and repeated request, Colonel Winchester strained a point and allowed him to go. He was permitted to select a horse of unusual power and speed, and he departed just before sundown.

"Remember that you're to rejoin us to-morrow," said Colonel Winchester. "Beware of guerillas. I hope you'll find your mother well."

"I feel sure of it, and I shall tell her how very kind and helpful you've been to me, sir."

"Thank you, Dick."

Dick, in his haste to be off did not notice that the colonel's voice quivered and that his face flushed as he uttered the emphatic "thank you." A few minutes later he was riding swiftly southward over a road that he knew well. His start was made at six o'clock and he was sure that by ten o'clock he would be in Pendleton.

The road was deserted. This was a well-peopled country, and he saw many houses, but nearly always the doors and shutters of the windows were closed. The men were away, and the women and children were shutting out the bands that robbed in the name of either army.

The night came down, and Dick still sped southward with no one appearing to stop him. He did not know just where the Southern army lay, but he did not believe that he would come in contact with any of its flankers. His horse was so good and true, that earlier than he had hoped, he was approaching Pendleton. The moon was up now, and every foot of the ground was familiar. He crossed brooks in which he and Harry Kenton and other boys of his age had waded -- but he had never seen them so low before -- and he marked the tree in which he had shot his first squirrel.

It had not been so many months since he had been in Pendleton, and yet it seemed years and years. Three great battles in which seventy or eighty thousand men had fallen were enough to make anybody older.

Dick paused on the crest of a little hill and looked toward the place where his mother's house stood. He had come just in this way in the winter, and he looked forward to another meeting as happy. The moonlight was very clear now and he saw no smoke rising from the chimneys, but this was summer, and of course they would not have a fire burning at such an hour.

He rode on a little further and paused again at the crest of another hill. His view of Pendleton here was still better. He could see more roofs, and walls, but he noticed that no smoke rose from any house. Pendleton lay very still in its hollow. On the far side he saw the white walls of Colonel Kenton's house shining in the moonlight. Something leaped in his brain. He seemed to have been looking upon such white walls only yesterday, white walls that stood out in a fiery haze, white walls that he could never forget though he lived to be a hundred.

Then he remembered. The white walls were those of the Dunkard church at Antietam, around which the blue and the gray had piled their bodies in masses. The vast battlefield ranged past him like a moving panorama, and then he was merely looking at Pendleton lying there below, so still.

Dick was sensitive and his affections were strong. He loved his mother with a remarkable devotion, and his friends were for all time. Highly imaginative, he felt a powerful stirring of the heart, at his second return to Pendleton since his departure for the war. Yet he was chilled somewhat by the strange silence hanging over the little town that he loved so well. It was night, it was true, but not even a dog barked at his coming, and there was not the faintest trail of smoke across the sky. A brilliant moon shone, and white stars unnumbered glittered and danced, yet they showed no movement of man in the town below.

He shook off the feeling, believing that it was merely a sensitiveness born of time and place, and rode straight for his mother's house. Then he dismounted, tied his horse to one of the pines, and ran up the walk to the front door, where he knocked softly at first, and then more loudly.

No answer came and Dick's heart sank within him like a plummet in a pool. He went to the edge of the walk, gathered up some gravel and threw it against a window in his mother's room on the second floor. That would arouse her, because he knew that she slept lightly in these times, when her son was off to the wars. But the window was not raised, and he could hear no sound of movement in the room.

Alarmed, he went back to the front door, and he noticed that while the door was locked the keyhole was empty. Then his mother was gone away. The sign was almost infallible. Had any one been at home the key would have been on the inside.

His heart grew lighter. There had been no violence. No roving band had come there to plunder. He whistled and shouted through the keyhole, although he did not want anyone who might possibly be passing in the road to hear him, as this town was almost wholly Southern in its sympathies.

There was still no answer, and leading his horse behind one of the pine trees on the lawn, where it would not be observed, he went to the rear of the house, and taking a stick pried open a kitchen window. He had learned this trick when he was a young boy, and climbing lightly inside he closed the window behind him and fastened the catch.

He knew of course every hall and room of the house, but the moment he entered it he felt that it was deserted. The air was close and heavy, showing that no fresh breeze had blown through it for days. It was impossible that his mother or the faithful colored woman could have lived there so long a time with closed doors and shuttered windows.

When he passed into the main part of his home, and touched a door or chair, a fine dust grated slightly under his fingers. Here was confirmation, if further confirmation was needed. Dust on chairs and tables and sofas in the house in which his mother was present. Impossible! Such a thing could not occur with her there. It was not the white dust of the road or fields, but the black dust that gathers in closed chambers.

He went up to his mother's room, and, opening one of the shutters a few inches, let in a little light. It was in perfect order. Everything was in its place. Upon the dresser was a little vase containing some shrivelled flowers. The water in the vase had dried up days ago, and the flowers had dried up with it.

In this room and in all the others everything was arranged with order and method, as if one were going away for a long time. Dick drew a chair near the window, that he had opened slightly, and sat down. Much of his fear for his mother disappeared. It was obvious that she and her faithful attendant, Juliana, had gone, probably to be out of the track of the armies or to escape plundering bands like Skelly's.

He wondered where she had gone, whether northward or southward. There were many places that would gladly receive her. Nearly all the people in this part of the state were more or less related, and with them the tie of kinship was strong. It was probable that she would go north, or east. She might have gone to Lexington, or Winchester, or Richmond, or even in the hills to Somerset.

Well, he could not solve it. He was deeply disappointed because he had not found her there, but he was relieved from his first fear that the guerillas had come. He closed and fastened the window again, and then walked all through the house once more. His eyes had now grown so used to the darkness that he could see everything dimly. He went into his own room. A picture of himself that used to hang on the wall now stood on the dresser. He knew very well why, and he knew, too, that his mother often passed hours in that room.

Below stairs everything was neatness and in order. He went into the parlor, of which he had stood in so much awe, when he was a little child. The floor was covered with an imported carpet, mingled brown and red. A great Bible lay upon a small marble-topped table in the center of the room. Two larger tables stood against the wall. Upon them lay volumes of the English classics, and a cluster of wax flowers under a glass cover, that had seemed wonderful to Dick in his childhood.

But the room awed him no more, and he turned at once to the great squares of light that faced each other from wall to wall.

A famous portrait painter had arisen at Lexington when the canebrake was scarcely yet cleared away from the heart of Kentucky. His work was astonishing to have come out of a country yet a wilderness, and a century later he is ranked among the great painters. But it is said that the best work he ever did is the pair of portraits that face each other in the Mason home, and the other pair, the exact duplicates that face each other in the same manner in the Kenton house.

Dick opened a shutter entirely, and the light of the white moon, white like marble, streamed in. The sudden inpouring illuminated the room so vividly that Dick's heart missed a beat. It seemed, for a minute, that the two men in the portraits were stepping from the wall. Then his heart beat steadily again and the color returned to his face. They had always been there, those two portraits. Men had never lived more intensely than they, and the artist, at the instant his genius was burning brightest, had caught them in the moment of extraordinary concentration. Their souls had looked through their eyes and his own soul looking through his had met theirs.

Dick gazed at one and then at the other. There was his great grandfather, Paul Cotter, a man of vision and inspiration, the greatest scholar the west had ever produced, and there facing him was his comrade of a long life-time, Henry Ware, the famous borderer, afterward the great governor of the state. They had been painted in hunting suits of deerskin, with the fringed borders and beaded moccasins, and raccoon skin caps.

These were men, Dick's great grandfather and Harry's. An immense pride that he was the great-grandson of one of them suddenly swelled up in his bosom, and he was proud, too, that the descendants of the borderers, and of the earlier borderers in the east, should show the same spirit and stamina. No one could look upon the fields of Shiloh, and Manassas and Antietam and say that any braver men ever lived.

He drew his chair into the middle of the room and sat and looked at them a long time. His steady gazing and his own imaginative brain, keyed to the point of excitement, brought back into the portraits that singular quality of intense life. Had they moved he would not have been surprised, and the eyes certainly looked down at him in full and ample recognition.

What did they say? He gazed straight into the eyes of one and then straight into the eyes of the other, and over and over again. But the expression there was Delphic. He must choose for himself, as they had chosen for themselves, and remembering that he was lingering, when he should not linger, he closed and fastened the window, slipped out at the kitchen window and returned to his horse.

He remounted in the road and rode a few paces nearer to Pendleton, which still lay silent in the white moonlight. He had no doubt now that many of the people had fled like his mother. Most of the houses must be closed and shuttered like hers. That was why the town was so silent. He would have been glad to see Dr. Russell and old Judge Kendrick and others again, but it would have been risky to go into the center of the place, and it would have been a breach, too, of the faith that Colonel Winchester had put in him.

He crushed the wish and turned away. Then he saw the white walls of Colonel Kenton's house shining upon a hill among the pines beyond the town. He was quite sure that it would be deserted, and there was no harm in passing it. He knew it as well as his own home. He and Harry had played in every part of it, and it was, in truth, a second home to him.

He rode slowly along the road which led to the quiet house. Colonel Kenton had all the instincts so strong in the Kentuckians and Virginians of his type. A portion of his wealth had been devoted to decoration and beauty. The white, sanded road led upward through a great park, splendid with oak and beech and maple, and elms of great size. Nearer the house he came to the cedars and clipped pines, like those surrounding his mother's own home.

He opened the iron gate that led to the house, and tied his horse inside. Here was the same desolation and silence that he had beheld at his own home. The grass on the lawn, although withered and dry from the intense drought that had prevailed in Kentucky that summer, was long and showed signs of neglect. The great stone pillars of the portico, from the shelter of which Harry and his father and their friends had fought Skelly and his mountaineers, were stained, and around their bases were dirty from the sand and earth blown against them. The lawn and even the portico were littered with autumn leaves.

Dick felt the chill settling down on him again. War, not war with armies, but war in its results, had swept over his uncle's home as truly as it had swept over his mother's. There was no sign of a human being. Doubtless the colored servants had fled to the Union armies, and to the freedom which they as yet knew so little how to use. He felt a sudden access of anger against them, because they had deserted a master so kind and just, forgetting, for the moment that he was fighting to free them from that very master.

All the windows were dark, but he walked upon the portico and the dry autumn leaves rustled under his feet. He would have turned away, but he noticed that the front door stood ajar six or eight inches. The fact amazed him. If a servant was about, he would not leave it open, and if robbers were in the house, they would close it in order not to attract attention. It was a great door of massive and magnificent oak, highly polished, with heavy bands of glittering bronze running across it. But it was so lightly poised on its hinges, that, despite its great weight, a child could have swung it back and forth with his little finger. Henry Ware, who built the house after his term as governor was over, was always proud of this door.

Dick ran his hand along one of the polished bronze bars as he had often done when he was a boy, enjoying the cool touch of the metal. Then he put his thumb against the edge of the door, and pushed it a little further open. Something was wrong here, and he meant to see what it was. He had no scruples about entering. He did not consider himself in the least an intruder. This was his uncle's house, and his uncle and his cousin were far away.

The door made no sound as it swung back, and soundless, too, was Dick as he stepped within. It was dark in the big hall, but as he stood there, listening, he became conscious of a light. It proceeded from one of the rooms opening into the hall on the right, and a door nearly closed only allowed a narrow band of it to fall upon the hall floor.

Dick, believing now that a robber had indeed come, drew a pistol from his pocket, stepped lightly across the hall and looked in at the door.

He checked a cry, and it was his first thought to go away as quietly as he had come. He had seen a man in the uniform of a Confederate colonel, sitting in a chair, and staring out at one of the little side windows which Dick could not see from the front, and which was now open. It was his own uncle, Colonel George Kenton, C. S. A., his gold braided cap on the window sill, and his sword in its scabbard lying across his knees.

But Dick changed his mind. His uncle was a colonel on one side, and he was a lieutenant on the other, and from one point of view it was almost high treason for them to meet there and talk quietly together, but from another it was the most natural thing in the world, commanded alike by duty and affection.

He pushed open the door a little further and stepped inside.

"Uncle George," he said.

Colonel Kenton sprang to his feet, and his sword clattered upon the floor.

"Good God!" he cried. "You, Dick! Here! To-night!"

"Yes, Uncle George, it's no other."

"And I suppose you have Yankees without to take me."

"Those are hard words, sir, and you don't mean them. I'm all alone, just as you were. I galloped south, sir, to see my mother, whom I found gone, where, I don't know, and then I couldn't resist the temptation to come by here and see your house and Harry's, which, as you know, sir, has been almost a home to me, too."

"Thank God you came, Dick," said the colonel putting his arms around Dick's shoulders, and giving him an affectionate hug. "You were right. I did not mean what I said. There is only one other in the world whom I'd rather see than you. Dick, I didn't know whether you were dead or alive, until I saw your face there in the doorway."

It was obvious to Dick that his uncle's emotions were deeply stirred. He felt the strong hands upon his shoulders trembling, but the veteran soldier soon steadied his nerves, and asked Dick to sit down in a chair which he drew close beside his own at the window.

"I thank God again that the notion took you to come by the house," he said. "It's pleasant and cool here at the window, isn't it, Dick, boy?"

Dick knew that he was thinking nothing about the window and the pleasant coolness of the night. He knew equally well the question that was trembling on his lips but which he could not muster the courage to ask. But he had one of his own to ask first.

"My mother?" he asked. "Do you know where she has gone?"

"Yes, Dick, I came here in secret, but I've seen two men, Judge Kendrick and Dr. Russell. The armies are passing so close to this place, and the guerillas from the mountains have become so troublesome, that she has gone to Danville to stay a while with her relatives. Nearly everybody else has gone, too. That's why the town is so silent. There were not many left anyway, except old people and children. But, Dick, I have ridden as far as you have to-night, and I came to ask a question which I thought Judge Kendrick or Dr. Russell might answer -- news of those who leave a town often comes back to it -- but neither of them could tell me what I wanted to hear. Dick, I have not heard a word of Harry since spring. His army has fought since then two great battles and many smaller ones! It was for this, to get some word of him, that I risked everything in leaving our army to come to Pendleton!"

He turned upon Dick a face distorted with pain and anxiety, and the boy quickly said:

"Uncle George, I have every reason to believe that Harry is alive and well."

"What do you know? What have you heard about him?"

"I have not merely heard. I have seen him and talked with him. It was after the Second Manassas, when we were both with burial parties, and met on the field. I was at Antietam, and he, of course, was there, too, as he is with Stonewall Jackson. I did not see him in that battle, but I learned from a prisoner who knew him that he had escaped unwounded, and had gone with Lee's army into Virginia."

"I thank God once more, Dick, that you were moved to come by my house. To know that both Harry and you are alive and well is joy enough for one man."

"But it is likely, sir, that we'll soon meet in battle," said Dick.

"So it would seem."

And that was all that either said about his army. There was no attempt to obtain information by direct or indirect methods. This was a family meeting.

"You have a horse, of course," said Colonel Kenton.

"Yes, sir. He is on the lawn, tied to your fence. His hoofs may now be in a flower bed."

"It doesn't matter, Dick. People are not thinking much of flower beds nowadays. My own horse is further down the lawn between the pines, and as he is an impatient beast it is probable that he has already dug up a square yard or two of turf with his hoofs. How did you get in, Dick?"

"You forgot about the front door, sir, and left it open six or seven inches. I thought some plunderer was within and entered, to find you."

"I must have been watched over to-night when forgetfulness was rewarded so well. Dick, we've found out what we came for and neither should linger here. Do you need anything?"

"Nothing at all, sir."

"Then we'll go."

Colonel Kenton carefully closed and fastened the window and door again and the two mounted their horses, which they led into the road.

"Dick," said the colonel, "you and I are on opposing sides, but we can never be enemies."

Then, after a strong handclasp, they rode away by different roads, each riding with a lighter heart.



Chapter XII. Through The Bluegrass


Dick's horse had had a good rest, and he was fighting for his head before they were clear of the outskirts of Pendleton. When the road emerged once more into the deep woods the boy gave him the rein. It was well past midnight now, and he wished to reach the army before dawn.

Soon the great horse was galloping, and Dick felt exhilaration as the cool air of early October rushed past. The heat in both east and west had been so long and intense, that year, that the coming of autumn was full of tonic. Yet the uncommon dryness, the least rainy summer and autumn in two generations, still prevailed. The hoofs of Dick's horse left a cloud of dust behind him. The leaves of the trees were falling already, rustling dryly as they fell. Brooks that were old friends of his and that he had never known to go dry before were merely chains of yellow pools in a shallow bed.

He watered his horse at one or two of the creeks that still flowed in good volume, and then went on again, sometimes at a gallop. He passed but one horseman, a farmer who evidently had taken an unusually early start for a mill, as a sack of corn lay across his saddle behind him. Dick nodded but the farmer stared open-mouthed at the youth in the blue uniform who flew past him.

Dick never looked back and by dawn he was with the army. He found Colonel Winchester taking breakfast under the thin shade of an oak, and joined him.

"What did you find, Dick?" asked the colonel, striving to hide the note of anxiety in his voice.

"I found all right at the house, but I did not see mother."

"What had become of her?"

"I learned from a friend that in order to be out of the path of the army or of prowling bands she had gone to relatives of ours in Danville. Then I came away."

"She did well," said Colonel Winchester. "The rebels are concentrating about Lexington, but the battle, I think, will take place far south of that city."

Before the day was old they heard news that changed their opinion for the time at least. A scout brought news that a division of the Confederate army was much nearer than Lexington; in fact, that it was at Frankfort, the capital of the state. And the news was heightened in interest by the statement that the division was there to assist in the inauguration of a Confederate government of the state, so little of which the Confederate army held.

Colonel Winchester at once applied to General Buell for permission for a few officers like himself, natives of Kentucky and familiar with the region, to ride forward and see what the enemy was really doing. Dick was present at the interview and it was characteristic.

"If you leave, what of your regiment, Colonel Winchester?" said General Buell.

"I shall certainly rejoin it in time for battle."

"Suppose the enemy should prevent you?"

"He cannot do so."

"I remember you at Shiloh. You did good work there."

"Thank you, sir."

"And this lad, Lieutenant Mason, he has also done well. But he is young."

"I can vouch for him, sir."

"Then take twenty of your bravest and most intelligent men and ride toward Frankfort. It may be that we shall have to take a part in this inauguration, which I hear is scheduled for to-morrow."

"It may be so, sir," said Colonel Winchester, returning General Buell's grim smile. Then he and Dick saluted and withdrew.

But it did not take the colonel long to make his preparations. Among his twenty men all were natives of Kentucky except Warner, Pennington and Sergeant Whitley. Two were from Frankfort itself, and they were confident that they could approach through the hills with comparative security, the little capital nestling in its little valley.

They rode rapidly and by nightfall drew near to the rough Benson Hills, which suddenly shooting up in a beautiful rolling country, hem in the capital. Although it was now the third day of October the little party marked anew the extreme dryness and the shrunken condition of everything. It was all the more remarkable as no region in the world is better watered than Kentucky, with many great rivers, more small ones, and innumerable creeks and brooks. There are few points in the state where a man can be more than a mile from running water.

The dryness impressed Dick. They had dust here, as they had had it in Virginia, but there it was trampled up by great armies. Here it was raised by their own little party, and as the October winds swept across the dry fields it filled their eyes with particles. Yet it was one of the finest regions of the world, underlaid with vitalizing limestone, a land where the grass grows thick and long and does not die even in winter.

"If one were superstitious," said Dick, "he could think it was a punishment sent upon us all for fighting so much, and for killing so many men about questions that lots of us don't understand, and that at least could have been settled in some other way."

"It's easy enough to imagine it so," said Warner in his precise way, "but after all, despite the reasons against it, here we are fighting and killing one another with a persistence that has never been surpassed. It's a perfectly simple question in mathematics. Let x equal the anger of the South, let y equal the anger of the North, let 10 equal the percentage of reason, 100, of course, being the whole, then you have x + y + 10 equalling 100. The anger of the two sections is consequently x + y, equalling 100 - 10, or 90. When anger constitutes 90 per cent., what chance has reason, which is only 10 per cent., or one-ninth of anger?"

"No chance at all," replied Dick. "That has already been proved without the aid of algebra. Here is a man in a cornfield signaling to us. I wonder what he wants?"

As Dick spoke, Colonel Winchester, who had already noticed the man, gave an order to stop. The stranger, bent and knotted by hard work on the farm, hurried toward them. He leaned against the fence a moment, gasping for breath, and then said:

"You're Union men, ain't you? It's no disguise?"

"Yes," replied Colonel Winchester, "we're Union men, and it's no disguise that we're wearing, Malachi White. I've seen you several times in Frankfort, selling hay."

The farmer, who had climbed upon the fence and who was sitting on the top rail, hands on his knees, stared at him open-mouthed.

"You've got my name right. Malachi White it is," he said, "suah enough, but I don't know yours. 'Pears to me, however, that they's somethin' familiar about you. Mebbe it's the way you throw back your shoulders an' look a fellow squah in the eyes."

Colonel Winchester smiled. No man is insensible to a compliment which is obviously spontaneous.

"I spent a night once at your house, Mr. White," he said. "I was going to Frankfort on horseback. I was overtaken at dusk by a storm and I reached your place just in time. I remember that I slept on a mighty soft feather bed, and ate a splendid breakfast in the morning."

Malachi White was not insensible to compliments either. He smiled, and the smile which merely showed his middle front teeth at first, gradually broadened until it showed all of them. Then it rippled and stretched in little waves, until it stopped somewhere near his ears. Dick regarded him with delight. It was the broadest and finest smile that he had seen in many a long month.

"Now I know you," said Malachi White, looking intently at the colonel. "I ain't as strong on faces as some people, though I reckon I'm right strong on 'em, too, but I'm pow'ful strong on recollectin' hear'in', that is, the voice and the trick of it. It was fo' yea's ago when you stopped at my house. You had a curious trick of pronouncin' r's when they wasn't no r's. You'd say door, an' hour, when ev'body knowed it was doah, an' houah, but I don't hold it ag'in you fo' not knowin' how to pronounce them wo'ds. Yoh name is Ahthuh Winchestuh."

"As right as right can be," said Colonel Winchester, reaching over and giving him a hearty hand. "I'm a colonel in the Union army now, and these are my officers and men. What was it you wanted to tell us?"

"Not to ride on fuhthah. It ain't mo' than fifteen miles to Frankfort. The place is plum full of the Johnnies. I seed 'em thah myself. Ki'by Smith, an' a sma't gen'ral he is, too, is thah, an' so's Bragg, who I don't know much 'bout. They's as thick as black be'ies in a patch, an' they's all gettin ready fo' a gran' ma'ch an' display to-mo'ow when they sweah in the new Southe'n gove'nuh, Mistah Hawes. They've got out scouts, too, colonel, an' if you go on you'll run right squah into 'em an' be took, which I allow you don't want to happen, nohow."

"No, Malachi, I don't, nor do any of us, but we're going on and we don't mean to be taken. Most of the men know this country well. Two of them, in fact, were born in Frankfort."

"Then mebbe you kin look out fo' yo'selves, bein' as you are Kentuckians. I'm mighty strong fo' the Union myself, but a lot of them officers that came down from the no'th 'pear to tu'n into pow'ful fools when they git away from home, knowin' nothin' 'bout the country, an' not willin' to lea'n. Always walkin' into traps. I guess they've nevah missed a single trap the rebels have planted. Sometimes I've been so mad 'bout it that I've felt like quittin' bein' a Yank an' tu'nin' to a Johnny. But somehow I've nevah been able to make up my mind to go ag'in my principles. Is Gen'ral Grant leadin' you?"

"No, General Buell."

"I'm so'y of that. Gen'ral Buell, f'om all I heah, is a good fightah, but slow. Liable to git thar, an' hit like all ta'nation, when it's a little mite too late. He's one of ouah own Kentuckians, an' I won't say anything ag'in him; not a wo'd, colonel, don't think that, but I've been pow'ful took with this fellow Grant. I ain't any sojah, myself, but I like the tales I heah 'bout him. When a fellow hits him he hits back ha'dah, then the fellow comes back with anothah ha'dah still, an' then Grant up an' hits him a wallop that you heah a mile, an' so on an' so on."

"You're right, Malachi. I was with him at Donelson and Shiloh and that's the way he did."

"I reckon it's the right way. Is it true, colonel, that he taps the ba'el?"

"Taps the barrel? What do you mean, Malachi?"

White put his hands hollowed out like a scoop to his mouth and turned up his face.

"I see," said Colonel Winchester, "and I'm glad to say no, Malachi. If he takes anything he takes water just like the rest of us."

"Pow'ful glad to heah it, but it ain't easy to get too much good watah this yeah. Nevah knowed such a dry season befoah, an' I was fifty-two yeahs old, three weeks an' one day ago yestuhday."

"Thank you, Malachi, for your warning. We'll be doubly careful, because of it, and I hope after this war is over to share your fine hospitality once more."

"You'll sho'ly be welcome an' ev'y man an' boy with you will be welcome, too. Fuhthah on, 'bout foah hund'ed yahds, you'll come to a path leadin' into the woods. You take that path, colonel. It'll be sundown soon, an' you follow it th'ough the night."

The two men shook hands again, and then the soldiers rode on at a brisk trot. Malachi White sat on the fence, looking at them from under the brim of his old straw hat, until they came to the path that he had indicated and disappeared in the woods. Then he sighed and walked back slowly to his house in the cornfield. Malachi White had no education, but he had much judgment and he was a philosopher.

But Dick and the others rode on through the forest, penetrating into the high and rough hills which were sparsely inhabited. The nights, as it was now October, were cool, despite the heat and dust of the day, and they rode in a grateful silence. It was more than an hour after dark when Powell, one of the Frankforters, spoke:

"We can hit the old town by midnight easy enough," he said. "Unless they've stretched pretty wide lines of pickets I can lead you, sir, within four hundred yards of Frankfort, where you can stay under cover yourself and look right down into it. I guess by this good moonlight I could point out old Bragg himself, if he should be up and walking around the streets."

"That suits us, Powell," said Colonel Winchester. "You and May lead the way."

May was the other Frankforter and they took the task eagerly. They were about to look down upon home after an absence of more than a year, a year that was more than a normal ten. They were both young, not over twenty, and after a while they turned out of the path and led into the deep woods.

"It's open forest through here, no underbrush, colonel," said Powell, "and it makes easy riding. Besides, about a mile on there's a creek running down to the Kentucky that will have deep water in it, no matter how dry the season has been. Tom May and I have swum in it many a time, and I reckon our horses need water, colonel."

"So they do, and so do we. We'll stop a bit at this creek of yours, Powell."

The creek was all that the two Frankfort lads had claimed for it. It was two feet deep, clear, cold and swift, shadowed by great primeval trees. Men and horses drank eagerly, and at last Colonel Winchester, feeling that there was neither danger nor the need of hurry, permitted them to undress and take a quick bath, which was a heavenly relief and stimulant, allowing them to get clear of the dust and dirt of the day.

"It's a beauty of a creek," said Powell to Dick. "About a half mile further down the stream is a tremendous tree on which is cut with a penknife, 'Dan'l Boone killed a bar here, June 26, 1781.' I found it myself, and I cut away enough of the bark growth with a penknife for it to show clearly. I imagine the great Daniel and Simon Kenton and Harrod and the rest killed lots of bears in these hills."

"I'd go and see that inscription in the morning," said Dick, "if I didn't have a bit of war on my hands."

"Maybe you'll have a chance later on. But I'm feeling bully after this cold bath. Dick, I came into the creek weighing two hundred and twenty-five pounds, one hundred and fifty pounds of human being and seventy-five pounds of dust and dirt. I'm back to one hundred and fifty now. Besides, I was fifty years old when I entered the stream, and I've returned to twenty."

"That just about describes me, too, but the colonel is whistling for us to come. Rush your jacket on and jump for your horse."

They had stayed about a half-hour at the creek, and about two o'clock in the morning Powell and May led them through a dense wood to the edge of a high hill.

"There's Frankfort below you," said May in a voice that trembled.

The night was brilliant, almost like day, and they saw the little city clustered along the banks of the Kentucky which flowed, a dark ribbon of blue. Their powerful glasses brought out everything distinctly. They saw the old state house, its trees, and in the open spaces, tents standing by the dozens and scores. It was the division of Kirby Smith that occupied the town, and Bragg himself had made a triumphant entry. Dick wondered which house sheltered him. It was undoubtedly that of some prominent citizen, proud of the honor.

"Isn't it the snuggest and sweetest little place you ever saw?" said May. "Lend me your glasses a minute, please, Dick."

Dick handed them to him, and May took a long look, Dick noticed that the glasses remained directed toward a house among some trees near the river.

"You're looking at your home, are you not?" he asked.

"I surely am. It's that cottage among the oaks. It's bigger than it looks from here. Front porch and back porch, too. You go from the back porch straight down to the river. I've swum across the Kentucky there at night many and many a time. My father and mother are sure to be there now, staying inside with the doors closed, because they're red hot for the Union. Farther up the street, the low red brick house with the iron fence around the yard is Jim Powell's home. You don't mind letting Jim have a look through the glasses, do you?"

"Of course not."

The glasses were handed in turn to Powell, who, as May had done, took a long, long look. He made no comment, when he gave the glasses back to Dick, merely saying: "Thank you." But Dick knew that Powell was deeply moved.

"It may be, lads," said Colonel Winchester, "that you will be able to enter your homes by the front doors in a day or two. Evidently the Southerners intend to make it a big day to-morrow when they inaugurate Hawes, their governor."

"A governor who's a governor only when he is surrounded by an army, won't be much of a governor," said Pennington. "This state refused to secede, and I guess that stands."

"Beyond a doubt it does," said Colonel Winchester, "but they've made great preparations, nevertheless. There are Confederate flags on the Capitol and the buildings back of it, and I see scaffolding for seats outside. Are there other places from which we can get good looks, lads?"

"Plenty of them," May and Powell responded together, and they led them from hill to hill, all covered with dense forest. Several times they saw Southern sentinels on the slopes near the edge of the woods, but May and Powell knew the ground so thoroughly that they were always able to keep the little troop under cover without interfering with their own scouting operations.

Buell had given final instructions to the colonel to come back with all the information possible, and, led by his capable guides, the colonel used his opportunities to the utmost. He made a half circle about Frankfort, going to the river, and then back again. With the aid of the glasses and the brilliancy of the night he was able to see that the division of Kirby Smith was not strong enough to hold the town under any circumstances, if the main Union army under Buell came up, and the colonel was resolved that it should come.

It was a singular coincidence that the Southerners were making a military occupation of Frankfort with a Union army only a day's march away. The colonel found a certain grim irony in it as he took his last look and turned away to join Buell.

A half mile into the forest and they heard the crashing of hoofs in the brushwood. Colonel Winchester drew up his little troop abruptly as a band of men in gray emerged into an open space.

"Confederate cavalry!" exclaimed Dick.

"Yes," said the colonel.

But the gray troopers were not much more numerous than the blue. Evidently they were a scouting party, too, and for a few minutes they stared at each other across a space of a couple of hundred yards or so. Both parties fired a few random rifle shots, more from a sense of duty than a desire to harm. Then they fell away, as if by mutual consent, the gray riding toward Frankfort and the blue toward the Union army.

"Was it a misfortune to meet them?" asked Dick.

"I don't think so," replied Colonel Winchester. "They had probably found out already that our army was near. Of course they had out scouts. Kirby Smith, I know, is an alert man, and anyway, the march of an army as large as ours could not be hidden."

It was dawn again when the colonel's little party reached the Union camp, and when he made his report the heavy columns advanced at once. But the alarm had already spread about at Frankfort. The morning there looked upon a scene even more lively than the one that had occurred in Buell's camp. The scouts brought in the news that the Union army in great force was at hand. They had met some of their cavalry patrols in the night, on the very edge of the city. Resistance to the great Union force was out of the question, because Bragg had committed the error that the Union generals had been committing so often in the east. He had been dividing and scattering his forces so much that he could not now concentrate them and fight at the point where they were needed most.

The division of the Southern army that occupied Frankfort hastily gathered up its arms and supplies and departed, taking with it the governor who was never inaugurated, and soon afterward the Union men marched in. Both May and Powell had the satisfaction of entering their homes by the front doors, and seeing the parents who did not know until then whether they were dead or alive.

Dick had a few hours' leave and he walked about the town. He had made friends when he was there in the course of that memorable struggle over secession, and he saw again all of them who had not gone to the war.

Harry and his father were much present in his mind then, because he had recently seen Colonel Kenton, and because the year before, all three of them had talked together in these very places.

But he could not dwell too much in the past. He was too young for it, and the bustle of war was too great. It was said that Bragg's forces had turned toward the southeast, but were still divided. It was reported that the Bishop-General, Polk, had been ordered to attack the Northern force in or near Frankfort, but the attack did not come. Colonel Winchester said it was because Polk recognized the superior strength of his enemy, and was waiting until he could co-operate with Bragg and Hardee.

But whatever it was Dick soon found himself leaving Frankfort and marching into the heart of the Bluegrass. He began to have the feeling, or rather instinct warned him, that battle was near. Yet he did not fear for the Northern army as he had feared in Virginia and Maryland. He never felt that such men as Lee and Jackson were before them. He felt instead that the Southern commanders were doubtful and hesitating. They now had there no such leaders as Albert Sidney Johnston, who fell at Shiloh when victory was in Southern hands and before it had time to slip from their grasp.

So the army dropped slowly down eastward and southward through the Bluegrass. May and Powell had obtained but a brief glimpse of their home town, before they were on their way again with a purpose which had little to do with such peaceful things as home.

Dick saw with dismay that the concentric march of the armies was bringing them toward the very region into which his mother had fled for refuge. She was at Danville, which is in the county of Boyle, and he heard now that the Confederate army, or at least a large division of it, was gathering at a group of splendid springs near a village called Perryville in the same county. But second thought told him that she would be safe yet in Danville, as he began to feel sure now that the meeting of the armies would be at Perryville.

Dick's certainty grew out of the fact that the great springs were about Perryville. The extraordinary drouth and the remarkable phenomenon of brooks drying up in Kentucky had continued. Water, cool and fresh for many thousands of men, was wanted or typhoid would come.

This need of vast quantities of water fresh and cool from the earth, was obvious to everybody, and the men marched gladly toward the springs. The march would serve two purposes: it would quench their thirst, and it would bring on the battle they wanted to clear Kentucky of the enemy.

"Fine country, this of yours, Dick," said Warner as they rode side by side. "I don't think I ever saw dust of a higher quality. It sifts through everything, fills your eyes, nose and mouth and then goes down under your collar and gives you a neat and continuous dust bath."

"You mustn't judge us by this phenomenon," said Dick. "It has not happened before since the white man came, and it won't happen again in a hundred years."

"You may speak with certainty of the past, Dickie, my lad, but I don't think we can tell much about the next century. I'll grant the fact, however, that fifty or a hundred thousand men marching through a dry country anywhere are likely to raise a lot of dust. Still, Dickie, my boy, I don't mean to hurt your feelings, but if I live through this, as I mean to do, I intend to call it the Dusty Campaign."

"Call it what you like if in the end you call it victory."

"The dust doesn't hurt me," said Pennington. "I've seen it as dry as a bone on the plains with great clouds of it rolling away behind the buffalo herds. There's nothing the matter with dust. Country dust is one of the cleanest things in the world."

"That's so," said Warner, "but it tickles and makes you hot. I should say that despite its cleanly qualities, of which you speak, Frank, my friend, its power to annoy is unsurpassed. Remember that bath we took in the creek the night we went to Frankfort. Did you ever before see such cool running water, and Dickie, old boy, remember how much there was of it! It was just as deep and cool and fine after we left it."

"George," said Dick, as he wiped his dusty face, "if you say anything more about the creek and its cool water this army will lose a capable lieutenant, and it will lose him mighty soon. It will be necessary, too, to bury him very far from his home in Vermont."

"Keep cool, Dickie boy, and let who will be dusty. Brooks may fail once in a hundred years in Kentucky, but they haven't failed in a thousand in Vermont. You need not remind me that the white man has been there only two or three hundred years. My information comes straight from a very old Indian chief who was the depository of tribal recollections absolutely unassailable. The streams even in midsummer come down as full and cold as ever from the mountains."

"We'll have water and plenty of it in a day or two. The scouts say that the Confederate force at the springs is not strong enough to withstand us."

"But General Buell, not knowing exactly what General Bragg intends with his divided force, has divided his own in order to meet him at all points."

"Has he done that?" exclaimed Dick aghast. Like other young officers he felt perfectly competent to criticize anybody.

"He has, and it seems to me that when the enemy divided was the time for us to unite or remain united. Then we could scoop him up in detail. Why, Dick, with an army of sixty thousand men or so, made of such material as ours has shown itself to be, we could surely beat any Southern force in Kentucky!"

"Especially as we have no Lees and Stonewall Jacksons to fight."

"Maybe General Buell has divided his force in order to obtain plenty of water," said Pennington. "We fellows ought to be fair to him."

"Perhaps you're right," said Warner, "and you're right when you say we ought to be fair to him. I know it will be a great relief to General Buell to find that we three are supporting his management of this army. Shall I go and tell him, Frank?"

"Not now, but you can a little later on. Suppose you wait until a day or two after the battle which we all believe is coming."

The three boys were really in high spirits. Little troubled them but the dryness and the dust. They had tasted so much of defeat and drawn battle in the east that they had an actual physical sense of better things in the west. The horizons were wider, the mountains were lower, and there was not so much enveloping forest. They did not have the strangling sensation, mental only, which came from the fear that hostile armies would suddenly rush from the woods and fall upon their flank.

Besides, there was Shiloh. After all, they had won Shiloh, and the coming of this very Buell who led them now had enabled them to win it. And Shiloh was the only great battle that they had yet really won.

They camped that night in the dry fields. The Winchester regiment was a part of the division under McCook, while Buell with the rest of the army was some miles away. It was still warm, although October was now seven days old, and Dick had never before heard the grass and leaves rustle so dryly under the wind. Off in the direction of Perryville they saw the dim gleam of red, and they knew it came from the camp-fires of the Southern army. Buell had in his detached divisions sixty thousand men, most of them veterans and Dick believed that if they were brought together victory was absolutely sure on the morrow.

The troops around the Winchester regiment were lads from Ohio, and they affiliated readily. Most of the new men were in these Ohio regiments, and Dick, Warner and Frank felt themselves ancient veterans who could talk to the recruits and give them good advice. And the recruits took it in the proper spirit. They looked up with admiration to those who had been at Shiloh, and the Second Manassas and Antietam.

Dick thought their spirit remarkable. They were not daunted at all by the great failures in the east. They did not discount the valor of the Southern troops, but they asked to be led against them.

"Come over here," said one of the Ohio boys to Dick. "Ahead of us and on the side there's rough ground with thick woods and deep ravines. I'll show you something just at the edge of the woods. Bring your friends with you."

The twilight had already turned to night and Dick, calling Warner and Pennington, went with his new friend. There, flowing from under a great stone, shaded by a huge oak, was a tiny stream of pure cold water a couple of inches deep but seven or eight inches broad. Under the stone a beautiful basin a foot and a half across and about as deep had been chiselled out.

"A lot of us found it here," said the Ohio boy, "and we found, too, a tin cup chained to a staple driven into the stone. See, it's here still. We haven't broken the chain. I suppose it belongs to some farmer close by. The boys brought other tin cups and we drank so fast that the brook itself became dry. The water never got any further than the pool. I suppose it's just started again. Drink."

The boys drank deeply and gratefully. No such refreshing stream had ever flowed down their throats before.

"Ohio," said Dick, "you're a lovely, dirty angel."

"I guess I am," said Ohio, "'cause I found the spring. It turned me from an old man back to a boy again. Cold as ice, ain't it? I can tell you why. This spring starts right at the North Pole, right under the pole itself, dives away down into the earth, comes under Bering Sea and then under British America, and then under the lakes, and then under Ohio, and then under a part of Kentucky, and then comes out here especially to oblige us, this being a dry season."

"I believe every word you say, Ohio," said Warner, "since your statements are proved by the quality of the water. I could easily demonstrate it as a mathematical proposition."

"Don't you pay any attention to him, Ohio," said Dick. "He's from Vermont, and he's so full of big words that he's bound to get rid of some of them."

"I'm not doubting you, Vermont," said Ohio. "As you believe every word I said, I believe every word you said."

"There's nothing extraordinary about them things," said another Ohio boy belonging to a different brigade, who was sitting near. "Do you know that we swallowed a whole river coming down here? We began swallowing it when we crossed the Ohio, just like a big snake swallowing a snake not quite so big, taking down his head first, then keeping on swallowing him until the last tip of his tail disappeared inside. It was a good big stream when we started, water up to our knees, but we formed across it in a line five hundred men deep and then began to drink as we marched forward. Of course, a lot of water got past the first four hundred lines or so, but the five hundredth always swallowed up the last drop."

"We marched against that stream for something like a hundred and fifty miles. No water ever got past us. We left a perfectly dry bed behind. Up in the northern part of the state not a drop of water came down the river in a month. We followed it, or at least a lot of us did, clean to its source in some hills a piece back of us. We drank it dry up to a place like this, only bigger, and do you know, a fellow of our company named Jim Lambert was following it up under the rocks, and we had to pull him out by the feet to keep him from being suffocated. That was four days ago, and we had a field telegram yesterday from a place near the Ohio, saying that a full head of water had come down the river again, three feet deep from bank to bank and running as if there had been a cloudburst in the hills. Mighty glad they were to see it, too."

There was a silence, but at length a solemn youth sitting near said in very serious tones:

"I've thought over that story very thoroughly, and I believe it's a lie."

"Vermont," said the first Ohio lad, "don't you have faith in my friend's narrative?"

"I believe every word of it," said Warner warmly. "Our friend here, who I see can see, despite the dim light, has a countenance which one could justly say indicates a doubtful and disputatious nature, wishes to discredit it because he has not heard of such a thing before. Now, I ask you, gentlemen, intelligent and fair-minded as I know you are, where would we be, where would civilization be if we assumed the attitude of our friend here. If a thing is ever seen at all somebody sees it first, else it would never be seen. Quod erat demonstrandum. You remember your schooldays, of course. I thank you for your applause, gentlemen, but I'm not through yet. We have passed the question of things seen, and we now come to the question of things done, which is perhaps more important. It is obvious even to the doubtful or carping mind that if a new thing is done it is done by somebody first. Others will do it afterward, but there must and always will be a first.

"Nobody ever swallowed a river before, beginning at its mouth and swallowing it clean down to its source, but a division of gallant young troops from Ohio have done so. They are the first, and they must and always will be the first. Doubtless, other rivers will be swallowed later on. As the population increases, larger rivers will be swallowed, but the credit for initiating the first and greatest pure-water drinking movement in the history of the world will always belong to a brave army division from the state of Ohio."

A roar of applause burst forth, and Warner, standing up, bowed gracefully with his hand upon his heart. Then came a dead silence, as a hand fell upon the Vermonter's shoulder. Warner looked around and his jaw fell. General McCook, who commanded this part of the army, was standing beside him.

"Excuse me, sir, I -- " began Warner.

"Never mind," said the general. "I had come for a drink of water, and hearing your debate I stopped for a few moments behind a tree to listen. I don't know your name, young gentleman."

"Warner, sir, George Warner, first lieutenant in the regiment of Colonel Winchester."

"I merely wished to say, Lieutenant Warner, that I listened to your speech from the first word to the last, and I found it very cogent and powerful. As you say, things must have beginnings. If there is no first, there can be no second or third. I am entirely convinced by your argument that our army swallowed a river as it marched southward. In fact, I have often felt so thirsty that I felt as if I could have swallowed it myself all alone."

There was another roar of applause, and as a dozen cups filled with water were pushed at the general, he drank deeply and often, and then retired amid further applause.

"They'll fight well for him, to-morrow," said Dick.

"No doubt of it," said Warner.

They went into the edge of the wood and sought sleep and rest. But there was much merry chatter first among these lads, for many of whom death had already spread its somber wings.



Chapter XIII. Perryville


Dick slept very well that night. The water from the little spring, gushing out from under the rock, had refreshed him greatly. He would have rejoiced in another bath, such as one as they had luxuriated in that night before Frankfort, but it was a thing not be dreamed of now, and making the best of things as they were, he had gone to sleep among his comrades.

The dryness of the ground had at least one advantage. They had not colds and rheumatism to fear, and, with warm earth beneath them and fresh air above, they slept more soundly than if they had been in their own beds. But while they were sleeping the wary Sergeant Whitley was slipping forward among the woods and ravines. He had received permission from Colonel Winchester, confirmed by a higher officer, to go on a scout, and he meant to use his opportunity. He had made many a scouting trip on the plains, where there was less cover than here, and there torture and death were certain if captured, but here it would only be imprisonment among men who were in no sense his personal enemies, and who would not ill-treat him. So the sergeant took plenty of chances.

He passed the Union pickets, entered a ravine which led up between two hills and followed it for some distance. In a cross ravine he found a little stream of water, flowing down from some high, rocky ground above, and, at one point, he came to a pool several yards across and three or four feet deep. It was cool and fresh, and the sergeant could not resist the temptation to slip off his clothes and dive into it once or twice. He slipped his clothes on again, the whole not consuming more than five minutes, and then went on much better equipped for war than he had been five minutes before.

Then he descended the hills and came down into a valley crossed by a creek, which in ordinary times had plenty of water, but which was now reduced to a few muddy pools. The Southern pickets did not reach so far, and save for the two tiny streams in the hills this was all the water that the Northern army could reach. Farther down, its muddy and detached stream lay within the Confederate lines.

Crossing the creek's bed the sergeant ascended a wooded ridge, and now he proceeded with extreme caution. He had learned that beyond this ridge was another creek containing much more water than the first. Upon its banks at the crossing of the road stood the village of Perryville, and there, according to his best information and belief, lay the Southern army. But he meant to see with his own eyes and hear with his own ears, and thus return to McCook's force with absolute certainty.

The sergeant, as he had expected, found cover more plentiful than it was on the plains, but he never stalked an Indian camp with more caution. He knew that the most of the Southern scouts and skirmishers were as wary as the Indians that once hunted in these woods, and that, unless he used extreme care, he was not likely to get past them.

He came at last to a point where he lay down flat on his stomach and wormed himself along, keeping in the thickest shadow of woods and bushes. The night was bright, and although his own body was blended with the ground, he could see well about him. The sergeant was a very patient man. Life as a lumberman and then as a soldier on the plains had taught him to look where he was crawling. He spent a full hour worming himself up to the crest of that ridge and a little way down on the other side. In the course of the last fifteen minutes he passed directly between two alert and vigilant Southern pickets. They looked his way several times, but the sergeant was so much in harmony with the color scheme of the earth on which he crept, that no blame lay upon them for not seeing him.

The sergeant was already hearing with his own ears. He heard these pickets and others talking in low voices of the Northern army and of their own. They knew that Buell's great force was approaching from different points and that a battle was expected on the morrow. He knew this already, but he wanted to know how much of the Confederate army lay in Perryville, and he intended to see with his own eyes.

Having passed the first line of pickets the sergeant advanced more rapidly, although he still kept well under cover. Advancing thus he reached the bed of the creek and hid himself against the bank, allowing his body to drop down in the water, in order that he might feel the glorious cool thrill again, and also that he might be hidden to the neck. His rifle and ammunition he laid at the edge of the bank within reach. Situated thus comfortably, he used his excellent eyes with excellent results. He could see Perryville on his left, and also a great camp on some heights that ran along the creek. There were plenty of lights in this camp, and, despite the lateness of the hour, officers were passing about.

It was obvious to the sergeant that many thousands of soldiers were on those heights, and now he wanted to hear again with his own ears. He did not dare go any nearer, and the water in the creek was growing cold to his body. But his patience was great, and still he waited, only his head showing above the water, and it hidden in the black gloom of the bank's shadows.

His reward came by-and-by. A number of cavalrymen led their horses down to the creek to drink, and while the horses drank and then blew the water away from their noses, the men talked at some length, enabling the sergeant to pick up important scraps of information.

He learned that the heights were occupied by Hardee with two divisions. It was the same Hardee, the famous tactician who had been one of the Southern generals at Shiloh. Polk was expected, but he had not yet come up. Bragg, too, would be there.

The brave sergeant's heart thumped as he listened. He gathered that Polk, perhaps, could not arrive before noon, and here was a brilliant chance to destroy a large part of the Southern army early in the morning.

He waited until all the cavalrymen had gone away with their horses, and then he crawled cautiously out of the stream. His limbs were cold and stiff, but his enforced exercise in crawling soon brought back their flexibility. He passed between the pickets again, and, when he was safely beyond their hearing, he rose and stretched himself again and again.

The sergeant greatly preferred walking to crawling. Primitive men might have crawled, but to do so made the modern man's knees uncommonly sore. So he continued to stretch, to inhale great draughts of air, and to feel proudly that he was a man who walked upright and not a bear or a pig creeping on four legs through the bushes.

He reached his own army not long afterward, and, walking among the thousands of sleeping forms, reached the tree under which Colonel Winchester slept.

"Colonel," he said gently.

The colonel awoke instantly and sat up. Despite the dusk he recognized Whitley at once.

"Well, sergeant?" he said.

"I've been clean over the ridge to the rebel camp. I reached the next creek and lay on the heights just beyond it. I've seen with my own eyes and I've heard with my own ears. They've only two divisions there, though they're expectin' Polk to come up in the mornin' an' Bragg, too. Colonel, I'm a good reckoner, as I've seen lots of war, and they ain't got more 'n fifteen thousand men there on the creek, while if we get all our divisions together we can hit 'em with nigh on to sixty thousand. For God's sake, Colonel, can't we do it?"

"We ought to, and if I can do anything, we will. Sergeant, you've done a great service at a great risk, and all of us owe you thanks. I shall see General McCook at once."

The sergeant, forgetting that he was wet to the skin, stretched himself in the dry grass near Dick and his comrades, and soon fell fast asleep, while his clothes dried upon him. But Colonel Winchester went to General McCook's tent and insisted upon awakening him. The general received him eagerly and listened with close attention.

"This man Whitley is trustworthy?" he said.

"Absolutely. He has had years of experience on the plains, fighting Sioux, Cheyennes and other Indians, and he has been with me through most of the war so far. There is probably no more skillful scout, and none with a clearer head and better judgment in either army."

"Then, Colonel, we owe him thanks, and you thanks for letting him go. We'll certainly bring on a battle to-morrow, and we ought to have all our army present. I shall send a messenger at once to General Buell with your news. Messengers shall also go to Crittenden, Rousseau, and the other generals. But you recognize, of course, that General Buell is the commander-in-chief, and that it is for him to make the final arrangements."

"I do, sir," said the colonel, as he saluted and retired. He went back to the point where his own little regiment lay. He knew every man and boy in it, and he had known them all in the beginning, when they were many times more. But few of the splendid regiment with which he had started south a year and a half before remained. He looked at Dick and Warner and Pennington and the sergeant and wondered if they would be present to answer to the roll the next night, or if he himself would be there?

The colonel cherished no illusions. He was not sanguine that the whole Union army would come up, and even if it came, and if victory should be won it would be dark and bloody. He knew how the Southerners fought, and here more so than anywhere else, it would be brother against brother. This state was divided more than any other, and, however the battle went, kindred would meet kindred. Colonel Kenton, Dick's uncle, a man whom he liked and admired, was undoubtedly across those ridges, and they might meet face to face in the coming battle.

It was far into the morning now and the colonel did not sleep again. He saw the messengers leaving the tent of General McCook, and he knew that the commander of the division was active. Just what success he would have would remain for the morrow to say. The colonel saw the dawn come. The dry fields and forests reddened with the rising sun, and then the army rose up from its sleep. The cooks had already prepared coffee and food.

"Show me the enemy," said Pennington fiercely, "and as soon as I finish this cup of coffee, I'll go over and give him the thrashing he needs."

"He's just across those ridges, sir, and on the banks of the far creek," said Sergeant Whitley.

"How do you know?"

"I made a call on him last night."

"You did? And what did he say?"

"I didn't send in my card. I just took a look at his front door and came away. He's at home, waiting and willing to give us a fight."

"Well, it's a fine day for a battle anyway. Look what a splendid sun is rising! And you can see the soft haze of fall over the hills and woods."

"It's not as fine a fall as usual in Kentucky," said Dick, in an apologetic tone to Warner and Pennington. "It's been so dry that the leaves are falling too early, and the reds, the yellows and the browns are not so bright."

"Never mind, Dickie, boy," said Warner consolingly. "We'll see it in a better year, because Pennington and I are both coming back to spend six months with you when this war is over. I've already accepted the invitation. So get ready for us, Dick."

"It's an understood thing now," said Dick sincerely. "There go the trumpets, and they mean for us to get in line."

A large portion of the division was already on the way, having started at five o'clock, and the little Winchester regiment was soon marching, too. The day was again hot. October, even, did not seem able to break that singular heat, and the dust was soon billowing about them in columns, stinging and burning them. The sergeant the night before had taken a short cut through the hills, but the brigades, needing wide spaces, marched along the roads and through the fields. A portion of their own army was hidden from them by ridges and forest, and Dick did not know whether Buell with the other half of the army had come up.

After a long and exhausting march they stopped, and the Winchester regiment and the Ohio lads concluded that they had been wrong after all. No battle would be fought that day. They were willing now, too, to postpone it, as they were almost exhausted by heat and thirst, and that stinging, burning dust was maddening. A portion of their line rested on the first creek, and they drank eagerly of the muddy water. Dick saw before him fields in which the corn stood thick and heavy. The fields were divided by hedges which cut off the view somewhat and which the sergeant said would furnish great ambush for sharpshooters.

The men were now allowed to lie down, but most of them were still panting with the heat. The three boys on horseback rode with Colonel Winchester to the crest of a low hill, just beyond the first creek. From that point they clearly saw the enemy gathered in battle array along the second stream. Dick, with his glasses, saw the batteries, and could even mark the sun-browned faces of the men.

"Has General Buell come?" he asked Colonel Winchester.

"He has not. Not half of our army is here."

The answer was made with emphasis and chagrin. There was a report that Buell did not intend to attack until the following day, when he would have his numbers well in hand.

"Under the circumstances," said the colonel, "we have to wait. Better get off your horses, boys, and hunt the shade."

They rode back and obeyed. It was now getting well along into the afternoon. Thousands of soldiers lay on the grass in the shadiest places they could find. Many were asleep. Overhead the sun burned and burned in a sky of absolute blazing white.

A cannon boomed suddenly and then another. The artillery of the two armies watching one another had opened at long range, but the fire was so distant that it did no harm. Dick and his comrades watched the shells in their flight, noting the trails of white smoke they left behind, and then the showers of earth that flew up when they burst. It was rather a pleasant occupation to watch them. In a way it broke the monotony of a long summer day.

They did not know that Polk, the bishop-general, was arriving at that moment in the Southern camp with five thousand men. Bragg had come, too, but he left the command to Polk, who outranked Hardee, and the three together listened to the long-range cannonade, while they also examined with powerful glasses the Union army which was now mostly lying on the ground.

Dick himself felt a strong temptation to sleep. The march through the heat that morning had been dusty and tiresome, and the warm wind that blew over him made his eyelids very heavy. The cannonade itself was conducive to slumber. The guns were fired at regular intervals, which created a sort of rhythm. The shells with their trailing white smoke ceased to interest him, and his eyelids grew heavier. It was now about 2:30 o'clock and as his eyes were about to close a sudden shout made him open them wide and then spring to his feet.

"Look out! Look out!" cried Sergeant Whitley, "The Johnnies are coming!"

The Union forces in an instant were in line, rifles ready and eager. The gray masses were already charging across the fields and hills, while their cannon made a sudden and rapid increase in the volume of fire. Their batteries were coming nearer, too, and the shells hitherto harmless were now shrieking and hissing among their ranks, killing and wounding.

Dick looked around him. The members of the slim Winchester regiment were all veterans; but thousands of the Ohio lads were recruits who had never seen battle before. Now shell and shot were teaching them the terrible realities. He saw many a face grow pale, as his own had often grown pale, in the first minutes of battle, but he did not see any one flinch.

The Northern cannon posted in the intervals and along the edges of the woods opened with a mighty crash, and as the enemy came nearer the riflemen began to send a hail of bullets. But the charge did not break. It was led by Buckner, taken at Donelson, but now exchanged, and some of the best troops of the South followed him.

"Steady! Steady!" shouted Colonel Winchester. The ranks were so close that he and all of his staff, having no room for their horses, had dismounted, and they stood now in the front rank, encouraging the men to meet the charge. But the rush of the Southern veterans was so sudden and fierce that despite every effort of valor the division gave way, suffering frightful losses.

Two of the Union generals seeking to hold their men were killed. Each side rushed forward reinforcements. A stream of Confederates issued from a wood and flung themselves upon the Union flank. Dick was dazed with the suddenness and ferocity with which the two armies had closed in mortal combat. He could see but little. He was half blinded by the smoke, the flash of rifles and cannon and the dust. Officers and men were falling all around him. The numbers were not so great as at Antietam, but it seemed to him that within the contracted area of Perryville the fight was even more fierce and deadly than it had been on that famous Maryland field.

But he was conscious of one thing. They were being borne back. Tears of rage ran down his face. Was it always to be this way? Were their numbers never to be of any avail? He heard some one shout for Buell, and he heard some one else shout in reply that he was far away, as he had been at Shiloh.

It was true. The wind blowing away from him, Buell had not yet heard a sound from the raging battle, which for its numbers and the time it lasted, was probably the fiercest ever fought on the American continent. The larger Union force, divided by ridges and thick woods from the field, had not heard the fire of a single cannon, and did not know that two armies were engaged in deadly combat so near.

Dick kept close to Colonel Winchester and Warner and Pennington were by his side. The sergeant was also near. There was no chance to give or send orders, and the officers, snatching up the rifles of the fallen soldiers, fought almost as privates. The Winchester regiment performed prodigies of valor on that day, and the Ohio lads strove desperately for every inch of ground.

It seemed to Dick once that they would hold fast, when he heard in front a tremendous cry of: "On, my boys!" As the smoke lifted a little he saw that it was Colonel Kenton leading his own trained and veteran regiment. Colonel Winchester and Colonel Kenton, in fact, had met face to face, but the Southern regiment was the more numerous and the stronger. Winchester's men were gradually borne back and the colonel gasped to Dick:

"Didn't I see your uncle leading on his regiment?"

"Yes, it was he. It was his regiment that struck us, but he's hidden now by the smoke."

The Southern rush did not cease. McCook's whole division, between the shallow creeks was driven back, sustaining frightful losses, and it would have been destroyed, but the artillery of Sheridan on the flank suddenly opened upon the Southern victors. The Southerners whirled and charged Sheridan, but his defense was so strong, and so powerful was his artillery that they were compelled to recoil every time with shattered ranks.

The decimated Ohio regiments beyond the creek were gathering themselves anew for the battle, and so were the men of Colonel Winchester, now reduced to half their numbers again. Then a great shout arose. A fresh brigade had come up to their relief, and aided by these new men they made good the ground upon which they stood.

Another shout arose, telling that Buell was coming, and, two hours after the combat had opened, he arrived with more troops. But night was now at hand, and the sun set over a draw like that at Antietam. Forty thousand men had fought a battle only about three hours long, and eight thousand of them lay dead or wounded upon the sanguinary field. One half the Union army never reached the field in time to fight.

As both sides drew off in the darkness, Dick shouted in triumph, thinking they had won a victory. A bullet fired by some retiring Southern skirmisher glanced along his head. There was a sudden flash of fire before him and then darkness. His body fell on a little slope and rolled among some bushes.


The close hot night came down upon the field, and the battle, the most sanguinary ever fought on Kentucky soil, had closed. Like so many other terrible struggles of the Civil War, it had been doubtful, or almost, so far as the fighting was concerned. The Northern left wing had been driven back, but the Northern right wing had held firm against every attack of the enemy.

Pennington, when he lay panting on the ground with the remnant of the Winchesters, knew little about the result of the combat. He knew that their own division had suffered terribly. The Ohio recruits had been cut almost to pieces, and the Winchester regiment had been reduced by half again. He was so tired that he did not believe he could stir for a long time. He felt no wound, but every bone ached from weariness, and his throat and mouth seemed to burn with smoke and dust.

Pennington did not see either Dick or Warner, but as soon as he got a little strength into his limbs he would look for them. No doubt they were safe. A special providence always watched over those fellows. It was true that Warner had been wounded at the Second Manassas, but a hidden power had guided Dick to him, and he got well so fast that he was able to fight soon afterward at Antietam.

Pennington lay still, and he heard all around him the deep breathing of men who, like himself, were so worn that they could scarcely move. The field in front of him darkened greatly, but he saw lights moving there, and he knew that they belonged to little parties from either army looking for the wounded. He began to wonder which side had won the battle.

"Ohio," he said to one of the Ohio lads who lay near, "did we lick the Johnnies, or did the Johnnies lick us?"

"Blessed if I know, and I don't care much, either. Four fellows that I used to play with at school were killed right beside me. It was my first battle, and, Oh, I tell you, it was awful!"

He gulped suddenly and began to cry. Pennington, who was no older than he, patted him soothingly on the shoulder.

"I know that you were the bravest of the brave, because I saw you," he said.

"I don't know about that, but I do know that I can never get used to killing men and seeing them killed."

Pennington was surprised that Dick and Warner had not appeared. They would certainly rejoin their own regiment, and he began to feel uneasy. The last shot had been fired, the night was darkening fast and a mournful wind blew over the battlefield. But up and down the lines they were lighting the cooking fires.

Pennington rose to his feet. He saw Colonel Winchester, standing a little distance away, and he was about to ask him for leave to look for his comrades, when he was startled by the appearance of a woman, a woman of thirty-eight or nine, tall, slender, dressed well, and as Pennington plainly saw, very beautiful. But now she was dusty, her face was pale, and her eyes shone with a terrible anxiety. Women were often seen in the camps at the very verge or close of battle, saying good-bye or looking for the lost, but she was unusual.

The soldiers stood aside for her respectfully, and she looked about, until her gaze fell upon the colonel. Then she ran to him, seized him by the arm, and exclaimed:

"Colonel Winchester! Colonel Winchester!"

"Good heavens, Mrs. Mason! You! How did you come?"

"I was at Danville, not so far from here. Of course I knew that the armies were about to meet for battle! And it was only two days ago that I heard the Winchester regiment had come west to join General Buell's army."

A stalwart and powerful colored woman emerged from the darkness and put her arm around Mrs. Mason's waist.

"Don't you get too much excited, chile," she said soothingly.

Juliana stood beside her mistress, a very tower of defense, glaring at the soldiers about them as if she would resent their curiosity.

"I thought I would come and try to see Dick," continued Mrs. Mason. "My relatives sought to persuade me not to do it. They were right, I know, but I wanted to come so badly that I had to do it. We slipped away yesterday, Juliana and I. We stayed at a farmhouse last night, and this morning we rode through the woods. We expected to be in the camp this afternoon, but as we were coming to the edge of the forest we heard the cannon and then the rifles. Through three or four dreadful hours, while we shook there in the woods, we listened to a roar and thunder that I would have thought impossible."

"The battle was very fierce and terrible," said Colonel Winchester.

"I don't think it could have been more so. We saw a part of it, but only a confused and awful sweep of smoke and flame. And now, Colonel Winchester, where is my boy, Dick?"

Colonel Winchester's face turned deadly pale, and she noticed it at once. Her own turned to the same pallor, but she did not shriek or faint.

"You do not know that he is killed?" she said in a low, distinct tone that was appalling to the other.

"I missed him only a little while ago," said Colonel Winchester, "and I've been looking for him. But I'm sure he is not dead. He can't be!"

"No, he can't be! I can't think it!" she said, and she looked at the colonel appealingly.

"If you please, sir," said Pennington, "Lieutenant Warner is missing also. I think we'll find them together. You remember what happened at the Second Manassas."

"Yes, Frank, I do remember it, and your supposition may be right."

He asked a lantern from one of the men, and whispered to Pennington to come. But Mrs. Mason and Juliana had been standing at strained attention, and Mrs. Mason inferred at once what was about to be done.

"You mean to look for him on the field," she said. "We will go with you."

Colonel Winchester opened his lips to protest, but shut them again in silence.

"It is right that you should come," he said a moment later, "but you will see terrible things."

"I am ready."

She seemed all the more admirable and wonderful to Colonel Winchester, because she did not weep or faint. The deathly pallor on her face remained, but she held herself firmly erect beside the gigantic colored woman.

"Come with me, Pennington," said Colonel Winchester, "and you, too, Sergeant Whitley."

The two men and the boy led the way upon the field, and the two women came close behind. They soon entered upon the area of conflict. The colonel had said that it would be terrible, but Mrs. Mason scarcely dreamed of the reality. It was one vast scene of frightful destruction, of torn and trampled earth and of dead men lying in all directions. The black of her faithful servant's face turned to an ashen gray, and she trembled more than her mistress.

Colonel Winchester had a very clear idea of the line along which his regiment had advanced and retreated, and he followed it. But the lantern did not enable them to see far. As happened so often after the great battles of the Civil War, the signs began to portend rain. The long drouth would be broken, but whether by natural change or so much firing Colonel Winchester did not know. Despite the lateness of the season dim lightning was seen on the horizon. The great heat was broken by a cool wind that began to blow from the northwest.

The five advanced in silence, the two men and the boy still leading and the two women following close behind. Colonel Winchester's heart began to sink yet farther. He had not felt much hope at first, and now he felt scarcely any at all. A few moments later, however, the sergeant suddenly held up his hand.

"What is it?" asked the colonel.

"I think I hear somebody calling."

"Like as not. Plenty of wounded men may be calling in delirium."

"But, colonel, I've been on battlefields before, and this sounds like the voice of some one calling for help."

"Which way do you think it is?"

"To the left and not far off. It's a weak voice."

"We'll turn and follow it. Don't say anything to the others yet."

They curved and walked on, the colonel swinging his lantern from side to side, and now all of them heard the voice distinctly.

"What is that?" exclaimed Mrs. Mason, speaking for the first time since they had come upon the field of conflict.

"Some one shouting for help," replied Colonel Winchester. "One could not neglect him at such a time."

"No, that is so."

"It's the voice of Lieutenant Warner, colonel," whispered the sergeant.

Colonel Winchester nodded. "Say nothing as yet," he whispered.

They walked a dozen steps farther and the colonel, swinging high the lantern, disclosed Warner sitting on the trunk of a tree that had been cut through by cannon balls. Warner, as well as they could see, was not wounded, but he seemed to be suffering from an overpowering weakness. The colonel, the sergeant and the boy alike dreaded to see what lay beyond the log, but the two women did not know Warner or that his presence portended anything.

The Vermonter saw them coming, and raised his hand in a proper salute to his superior officer. Then as they came nearer, and he saw the white woman who came with them, he lifted his head, tried to straighten his uniform a little with his left hand, and said as he bowed:

"I think this must be Mrs. Mason, Dick's mother."

"It is," said Colonel Winchester, and then they waited a moment or two in an awful silence.

"I don't rise because there is something heavy lying in my lap which keeps me from it," said Warner very quietly, but with deep feeling. "After the Second Manassas, where I was badly wounded and left on the ground for dead, a boy named Dick Mason hunted over the field, found me and brought me in. I felt grateful about it and told him that if he happened to get hit in the same way I'd find him and bring him in as he had brought me.

"I didn't think the chance would come so soon. Curious how things happen as you don't think they're going to happen, and don't happen as you think they're going to happen, and here the whole thing comes out in only a few weeks. We were driven back and I missed Dick as the battle closed. Of course I came to hunt for him, and I found him. Easy, Mrs. Mason, don't get excited now. Yes, you can have his head in your own lap, but it must be moved gently. That's where he's hurt. Don't tremble, ma'am. He isn't going to die, not by a long shot. The bullet meant to kill him, but finding his head too hard, it turned away, and went out through his hair. He won't have any scar, either, because it's all under the thickest part of his hair.

"Of course his eyes are closed, ma'am. He hasn't come around yet, but he's coming fast. Don't cry on his face, ma'am. Boys never like to have their faces cried on. I'd have brought him in myself, but I found I was too weak to carry him. It's been too short a time since the Second Manassas for me to have got back all my strength. So I just bound up his head, held it in my lap, and yelled for help. Along came a rebel party, bearing two wounded, and they looked at me. 'You're about pumped out,' said one of them, 'but we'll take your friend in for you.' 'No, you won't,' I said. 'Why not?' said they. 'Because you're no account Johnnies,' I said, 'while my wounded friend and I are high-toned Yanks.' 'I beg your pardon,' said the Johnny, who was one of the most polite fellows I ever saw, 'I didn't see your uniform clearly by this dim light, but the parties looking for the wounded are mostly going in, and you're likely to be left here with your friend, who needs attention. Better come along with us and be prisoners and give him a chance to get well.'

"Now, that was white, real white, but I thanked him and said that as soon as General Buell heard that the best two soldiers in his whole army were here resting, he'd come with his finest ambulance for us, driving his horses himself. They said then they didn't suppose they were needed and went on. But do you know, ma'am, every one of those Johnnies, as he passed poor old unconscious Dick with his head in my lap, took off his hat."

"It was a fine thing for them to do," said Colonel Winchester, and then he whispered: "I'm glad you talked that way, Warner. It helps. You see, she's feeling more cheerful already."

"Yes, and you see old Dick's opening his eyes. Isn't it strange that the first thing he should see when he opens them here on the battlefield should be his mother?"

"A strange and happy circumstance," said Colonel Winchester.

Dick opened his eyes.

"Mother!" he exclaimed.

Her arms were already around him.



Chapter XIV. Seeking Bragg


They took Dick to the house of his relatives, the Careys, in Danville, and in a few days he learned the sequel of that sudden and terrible storm of death at Perryville. Buell had gathered all his forces in the night, and in the morning had intended to attack again, but the Confederate army was gone, carrying with it vast stores of supplies that it had gathered on the way.

The rains, too, had come. They had begun the morning after the battle, and they poured for days. In the southeast, among the mountains toward which Bragg had turned the head of his army, the roads were quagmires. Nevertheless he had toiled on and was passing through Cumberland Gap. Buell had gone in the other direction toward the southwest, and then came the news that he was relieved of his command, and that Rosecrans would take his place.

Dick felt the call of the trumpet. He knew that his comrades were now down there in Tennessee with the army under Rosecrans, and he felt that he must join them. His mother begged him to stay. He had done enough for his country. He had fought in great battles, and he had narrowly escaped a mortal wound. He should come home, and stay safely at Pendleton until the war was over.

But Dick, though grieving with her, felt that he must go. He would stay with the army until the end, and he departed for Lexington, where he took the train for Louisville. Thence he went southward directly by rail to Bowling Green, where the Northern army was encamped, with lines stretching as far south as Nashville, and where he received the heartiest of greetings from his comrades.

"I knew you'd come," said Warner. "Perhaps a man with a mother like yours ought to stay at home, and again he ought to come. So there you are, and here you are!"

Dick was familiar with the country about Bowling Green. It was a part of the state in which he had relatives, and he had visited it more than once. He also saw the camps left by Buckner's men nearly a year ago, when they were marching southward to be taken by Grant at Donelson. Since he had come back to this region it seemed to him that they were always fighting their battles over again. Grant and Rosecrans had fought a terrible but victorious battle at Corinth in Mississippi, and now Rosecrans had come north while Grant remained in the further south. He was sorry it was not Grant who commanded on that line. He would have been glad to be under his command again, to feel that strong and sure hand on the reins once more.

Dick stayed a while in Bowling Green, and he saw all his relatives in the little city. They were mostly on the other side, but they could not resist an ingenuous youth like Dick, and he passed some pleasant hours with them. For his sake they also made Warner and Pennington welcome, but they freely predicted a great disaster for the North. Bragg would come out of East Tennessee with his veterans, and they would give Rosecrans the defeat that he deserved. The boys held good natured arguments with them on this point, but all finally agreed to leave it to the decision of the war itself.

The great dryness had now passed so completely that it seemed impossible such a thing ever could have been. The rains had been heavy and almost continuous, and the earth soaked in water. But despite chill winds and chill rains rumors of Southern activity came to them, and in the last month of the year Rosecrans gathered his forces at Nashville in Tennessee.

Dick and his comrades enjoyed a few bright days here. The city was crowded with an army and those who supply it and live by it, and it was a center of vivid activity. Dick had letters from his mother and he also heard in a roundabout way that Colonel Kenton had gone through the battle of Perryville uninjured and was now with Bragg at Chattanooga.

But the boys soon heard that despite the winter there was great activity in the Southern camp. Undismayed by their loss of Kentucky, the Southern generals meant to fight Rosecrans in Tennessee. The Confederacy had not been cheered by Lee's withdrawal at Antietam and Bragg's retreat at Perryville, and meant to strike a heavy blow for new prestige. The whole Confederate army, they soon heard, had moved forward to Murfreesborough, where it was waiting, while Forrest and Morgan, the famous cavalry leaders, were off on great raids.

It was this absence of Forrest and Morgan with the best of the cavalry that put it into the mind of Rosecrans to attack at once. The thousands of lads in the army who were celebrating Christmas received that night the news that they were to march in the morning.

"I've fought three great battles this year," said Warner, "and I don't think they ought to ask any more of me."

"Be comforted," said Dick. "We start to-morrow, the 26th, which leaves five days of the year, and I don't think we can arrange a battle in that time. You'll not have to whip Bragg before the New Year, George."

"Well, I'm glad of it. You can have too many battles in one year. I didn't get rest enough after my wound at the Second Manassas before I had to go in and save our army at Antietam, and then it was but a little time before we fought at Perryville. That wasn't as big a battle as some of the others, but Dick, for those mad three hours it seemed that all the demons of death were turned loose."

"It certainly looked like it, George, you stiff old Vermonter, and I don't forget that you came to save me."

"Shut up about that, or I'll hit you over the head with the butt of my pistol. I merely paid back, though I only paid about half of what I was owing to you. The chance luckily came sooner than I had hoped. But, Dick, what a morning to follow Christmas."

A chilly rain was pouring down. A cold fog was rising from the Cumberland, wrapping the town in mists. It was certainly a dreary time in which to march to battle, and the young soldiers rising in the gloom of the dawn and starting amid such weather were depressed.

"Pennington," said Warner, "will you help me in a request to our Kentucky friend to join us in three cheers for the Sunny South, the edge of which he has the good fortune to inhabit? I haven't seen the real sun for about a month, and I suppose that's why they call it sunny, and I'm informed that this big river, the Cumberland, often freezes over, which I suppose is the reason why they call it Southern. I hear, too, that people often freeze to death in North Georgia, which is further south than this. After this bit of business is over I'm going to forbid winter campaigns in the south."

"It does get mighty cold," said Dick. "You see we're not really a southern people. We just lie south of the northern states and in Kentucky, at least, we have a lot of cold weather. Why, I've seen it twenty-three degrees below zero in the southern part of the state, and it certainly can get cold in Tennessee, too."

"I believe I'd rather have it than this awful rain," said Pennington. "I don't seem to get used to these cold soakings."

"Good-bye, Nashville," said Dick, turning about. "I don't know when we will have to come back, and if we do I don't know what will have happened before then. Good-bye, Nashville. I regret your roofs and your solid walls, and your dry tents and floors."

"But we're going forth to fight. Don't forget that, Dick. Remember how in Virginia we pined for battle, and the use of our superior numbers. Anyhow Rosecrans is going out to look for the enemy, but all the same, and between you and me, Dick, I wish it was Grant who was leading us. I saw a copy of the New York Times a while back, and some lines in it are haunting me. Here they are:

"Back from the trebly crimsoned field Terrible woods are thunder-tost: Full of the wrath that will not yield, Full of revenge for battles lost: Hark to their echo as it crost The capital making faces wan: End this murderous holocaust; Abraham Lincoln give us a man."

"Sounds good," said Dick, "and, George, you and Frank and I know that what we want is a man. We've lost big battles, because we didn't have a big man, who could see at once and think like lightning, to lead us. But we'll get him sooner or later! We'll get him. Did any other troops ever bear up like ours under defeats and drawn battles? Listen to 'em now!"

Slow and deep and sung by many thousand men rose the rolling chorus:

"The army is gathering from near and from far; The trumpet is sounding the call for the war; Old Rosey's our leader, he's gallant and strong; We'll gird on our armor and be marching along."

"Now," cried Warner, "all together." And the thundering chorus rose:

"Marching, we are marching along, Gird on the armor and be marching along; Old Rosey's our leader, he's gallant and strong; For God and our country we are marching along."

As the mighty chorus, sung by fifty thousand men, rose and throbbed through the cold and rain, Dick felt his own heart throbbing in unison. Rosecrans might or might not be a great general, but he certainly was not permitting the enemy to rest easy in winter quarters at Murfreesborough. Dick had no doubt that they were about to meet the foe of Perryville face to face again.

The enemies were largely the same as those of other battles in the west. The Northern army advanced in three divisions toward Murfreesborough. McCook, whose division contained the Winchester regiment, was in the center, General Thomas led the right wing on the Franklin road, and General Crittenden led the left wing. Bragg who was before them had nearly the same generals as at Shiloh, Hardee, Breckinridge, and the others.

Dick knew that the advance of the Northern army would be seen at once. This was the country of the enemy. The forces of the Union held only the ground on which they were camped. Thousands of hostile eyes were watching Rosecrans, and, even if Bragg himself were lax, any movement by the army from Nashville would be reported at once to the army in Murfreesborough. But they had a vigilant foe, they knew, and they expected to encounter his pickets soon.

"They're probably watching us now through the fog and rain," said Colonel Winchester to Dick as they left the last house of Nashville behind. "They know every inch of these hills and valleys."

It was not a great distance to Murfreesborough, but they found the marching slow. The feet of the horses sank deep in the mud and the cannon and wagons were almost mired. But despite mud and rain and cold, the army pressed bravely on. They were the same lads and their like who had marched forward so hopefully to Donelson and Shiloh. Through the rain and the soughing of wheels in the mud rolled their battle songs, sung with all the spirit and fire of youth.

Colonel Winchester and all the officers helped with the cannon and wagons and soon they were covered with mud. The Winchester regiment was in the lead, and Sergeant Whitley suddenly pointing with a thick forefinger, said:

"There are the Johnnies! Their pickets are waiting for us!"

Dick saw through the mist and rain a considerable body of men down the road, most of them on horseback. He knew at once that they were Southern pickets, and the eager lads around him, seeing them, knew it, too. Not waiting for command they set up a shout and charged down the road. Rifles instantly flashed through the rain and a sharp fire met them. Men fell, but others pressed on with all the more zeal, seeing just beyond the Southern pickets the roofs of a little town. Cannon shot also whizzed among them, indicating that the Southern pickets were in strong force.

But the Northern troops, full of vigor and zeal, swept back the pickets and charged directly upon a larger force in the town beyond. A short and fierce battle for the possession of the village ensued, but this was only a Southern outpost, and it was not strong enough to withstand the rush of the Ohio men and Winchester's regiment. Fighting at every step they retreated through the village and into the forest beyond, leaving one of their cannon in the hands of the Union troops.

"An omen of victory," exclaimed Dick, when he saw the captured cannon.

"Careful, Dick! Careful!" said Warner. "Remember that you're not strong on omens. You're always seeing sure signs of success just before we go into a big battle."

"If Dick sees visions, and they're visions of the right kind, then he's right," said Pennington. "I'd a good deal rather go into battle with Dick by my side singing a song of victory, than croaking of defeat."

"That's good as a general proposition," said Warner, "but I was merely cautioning him not to be too enthusiastic. What kind of a country, Dick, is this into which we are going?"

"Hilly, lots of forests, particularly of cedar, and brooks, creeks and rivers. Murfreesborough itself is right on Lytle's Creek. Bragg will meet us at the line of Stone River."

"Maybe they'll retreat and go eastward to Chattanooga," said Pennington.

"I think we'd better dismiss that 'maybe,'" said Dick. "You haven't heard of the rebels running away from battles, have you?"

"What I've generally seen, in the beginning at least," said Warner, "is the rebels running toward us, jumping out of the woods and yelling like Indians. I have seldom found it a pleasant sight. I'm glad, too, Dick, that Stonewall Jackson isn't here. Do you see that big cedar forest over there on the hillside? Suppose he should come rushing out of it with twenty or twenty-five thousand men."

"Stop," said Pennington. "You give me the shivers, talking about Stonewall Jackson swooping down on us with an army corps, when happily he's four or five hundred miles away. I'm seeing enough unfriendly faces as it is. Look how the people in this village are glaring at us. Fellows, I've decided after due consideration that they don't love us here in Tennessee. If you were to ask me I'd say that blue was not their favorite color."

"At any rate we don't stay long. Good-bye, friends, good-bye," said Warner, waving his hand toward two or three men who stood in the door of an old blacksmith shop.

"You laugh, young feller," said a gnarled and knotted old man past eighty, "an' mebbe it's as well for you to laugh while you have the time to do it in. Mebbe you'll never come back from Stone River, an' if you do, an' if you win everywhere, remember that we, too, will yet win everywhere."

"What do you mean by that?"

"All the Yankees, whether they win or not, will have to go back north, except them that are dead, an' we'll be here right on top of the lan', livin' on it, an' runnin' it, same as we've always done."

"I hadn't thought of that," said Warner soberly.

"There's a power of things the young don't think of," said the ancient man. "Mebbe the South can be whipped, but she can't be moved. She'll always be here. People hev made a war. I don't know who started it. I reckon there's been some powerful mean an' hot talk on both sides. I knowed great men that seed this very thing comin' long ago an' tried to stop it. I went over in Kentucky more than once an' heard Henry Clay speak. I don't believe there was ever another such a talker as he was. He had sense an' knowledge as well as voice. He done his best to smooth over this quarrel between North and South that others was eggin' on all the time, but he couldn't, and I reckon when Henry Clay, the greatest man God ever made, failed, it wasn't worth while for anybody else to try. Ride on, young fellers, an' get yourselves killed. You ain't twenty, an' I'm over eighty, but I guess I'll be lookin' at the green trees when you're under the ground. Ride on in the rain an' the cold, an' I'll go inside the shop an' warm myself by the forge fire."

The three boys rode on in sober silence. The words of the ancient philosopher were soaking in with the rain.

"Suppose we don't come back from Stone River," said Pennington.

"We take our chances, of course," said Dick.

"And suppose what he said about the South should prove true," said Warner, thoughtfully. "One part of it, at least, is bound to come true. That phrase of his sticks in my mind: 'Mebbe the South can be whipped, but she can't be moved.' The Southern states, as he says, will be here just the same after the war is over, no matter who wins."

But such thoughts as these could not endure long in minds so young. They passed through the village and soon were in the forests of red cedar. The rain ceased, but in its place came a thick and heavy fog. The mud grew deeper than ever. Progress became very slow. It was difficult in the great foggy veil for the regiments to keep in touch with one another, and occasional shots in front warned them that the enemy was active and watchful. The division barely crept along.

Dick and his comrades were mounted again, and they kept close to Colonel Winchester, who, however, had few orders to send. The command of the corps rested with General McCook, and it behooved him as any private could see, to exercise the utmost caution. They were strangers in the land and the Confederates were not.

Dick had thought that morning that they would get into touch with heavy forces of the enemy before night, but the fog and the mud rendered their advance so slow that at sunset they went into camp in a vast forest of red cedar, still a good distance from Stone River. The fog had lifted somewhat, but the night was heavy, damp and dark. There was an abundance of fallen wood, and the veterans soon built long rows of fires which contributed wonderfully to their cheerfulness.

"There's nothing like a fine fire on a cold, dark night," said Sergeant Whitley, holding his hands over the flames. "Out on the plains when there was only a hundred or so of us, an' nothin' on any side five hundred miles away 'xcept hostile Indians, an' a blizzard whistlin' an' roarin', with the mercury thirty degrees below zero, it was glorious to have a big fire lighted in a hollow or a dip an' bend over the coals, until the warmth went right through you."

"It was the power of contrast," said Warner sagely. "The real comfort from the fire was fifty per cent and the howling of the icy gale, in which you might have frozen to death, but didn't, was fifty per cent more. That's why I'm feeling so good now, although I'd say that those red cedars and their dark background are none too cheerful."

"I've got two good blankets," said Pennington, who was returning from a trip further down the line, "and I'm going to sleep. Haven't you fellows learned that all your foolish talking before a battle never changes the result? I can tell you this. Our three divisions that are marching toward Murfreesborough are in touch. We've put out swarms of scouts and they all tell us so. They know exactly where the enemy is, too, and he's too far away to surprise us to-night. So it's sleep, my boys, sleep. Sleep will recover for you so much strength that it will be much harder for you to get killed on the morrow."

Dick had dried himself very thoroughly before one of the fires, and wrapping himself in his two blankets he slept soundly and heavily. There was fog again the next morning, but they reached a little village called Triune and all through the day they heard the sounds of scattered firing. One of the scouts told Colonel Winchester that the whole Southern army would be concentrated the next day on the line of Stone River, but that it would be inferior to the Union army in numbers by ten thousand men. Bragg's force, however, had the advantage of experience, being composed almost wholly of veterans.

It was on the afternoon of this day that Dick came into personal contact with General Thomas again. He had been sent through the cedar forest with dispatches to him from General McCook, and after the general had read them he glanced at the messenger.

"You reached General Buell safely with my letter, Lieutenant Mason," he said, "and I'm very glad to see you here with us again."

"Thank you, sir," said Dick, feeling an immense pride because this man, whom he admired so much, remembered him.

"It was a difficult duty and you did it well. I found that you got through safely. I made inquiries about you and I traced you as far as Shiloh, but I could get no further."

"I was at Shiloh," said Dick proudly. "I was captured just before it began, but I escaped while it was at its height and fought until the close."

"And after that?"

"My regiment was sent east, sir. I went with it through the Second Manassas and Antietam. Then we came back west to help General Buell. I was at Perryville and was wounded there, but I soon got well."

"Perryville was a terrible battle. It was short, but it is incredible with what fury the troops fought. We should do better here."

Dick saw that the last sentence which was spoken in a low tone was not addressed to him. It was merely a murmured expression of the general's own thoughts, and he remained silent.

"You can go now, Lieutenant Mason," said General Thomas, after a few moments, "and let us together wish for the best."

"Thank you, sir," said Dick, highly flattered again. Then he saluted and retired.

He rode back somewhat slowly through the cedars, but he kept a wary eye. The enemy's cavalry was daring, and he might be rushed by them at any time or be ambushed by sharpshooters on foot. His watch for the enemy also enabled him to examine the country closely. He saw many hills and hollows covered mostly with forests, with the red cedar and its dark green boughs predominating. He also saw the flash of many waters, and, where the roads cut through the soil, a deep red clay was exposed to view. He knew that it would be difficult for the armies to get into line for battle, because of the heavy, sticky nature of the ground, upon which so much rain had fallen.

He made his way safely back to the camp of his corps, although he saw hostile cavalry galloping in the valleys in the direction of Stone River, and all through the afternoon he heard the crackle of rifle shots in the same direction. The skirmishers were continually in touch and they were busy.

The corps moved up a little, but Dick thought it likely that there would be no battle the next day either. Rosecrans could not afford to attack until his full force, with all its artillery, was up, and marching was slow and exhausting in the sea of sticky mud.

Dick was right. The Northern army was practically united the next day, but so great was the exhaustion of the troops that Rosecrans did not deem it wise yet to attack his foe. He was fully aware of the quality of the Southern soldiers. He remembered how they had turned suddenly at Perryville and with inferior numbers had fought a draw. Now on the defensive, and in such a deep and sticky soil, they would have a great advantage and his generals agreed with him in waiting.

Dick spent much of this day in riding with Colonel Winchester along their lines. There was some talk about Bragg retreating, but the boy, a veteran in everything but years, knew the ominous signs. Bragg had no notion of retreating.

In the night that followed Colonel Winchester himself and some of his young officers, accompanied by the brave and skillful Sergeant Whitley, scouted toward Stone River. In the darkness and with great care, in order to avoid any sound of splashing, they waded a deep creek and came out upon a plateau, rolling slightly in character, and with a deep clay soil, very muddy from the heavy rains. A part of the plateau was cleared of forest, but here and there were groves, chiefly of the red cedar, and thickets, some of them so dense that a man would have difficulty in forcing his way through.

Colonel Winchester and his little group paused at the edge of the creek, and then dived promptly into a thicket. They saw further up the plateau many fires and the figures of men walking before them and they saw nearer by sentinels marching back and forth. They were even able to make out cannon in batteries, and they knew that it was not worth while to go any further. The Confederate army was there, and they would merely walk directly into its arms.

They returned with even greater caution than they had come, but the next day the whole division crossed the creek at another point, and as it cautiously felt its way forward it encountered another formidable body of Southern pickets hidden in the woods. There was sharp firing for a quarter of an hour, and many of the Ohio men fell, but the pickets were finally swept back, and at sunset the half circle that Rosecrans had intended to form for the attack upon the Southern army was complete.

All the movements and delays brought them up to the night before the last day in the year. The Winchester regiment with the Ohio division lay in a region of little hills and rocks, covered with forest, with which its officers and men were not familiar. On the other hand the Southern army would know every inch of it, and the inhabitants were ready and eager to give it information.

Dick could not keep from regarding the dark forests with apprehension. He had seen the Northern generals lose so much through ignorance of the ground and uncertain movements that he feared for them again. He soon learned that Rosecrans himself shared this fear. He had come to the division and recommended its closer concentration.

But the young Ohio troops were not afraid. They said that if they were attacked they would hold their ground long enough for the rest of the Northern army to beat the Southern, and McCook himself was confident.

Meanwhile, Bragg, after delaying, had suddenly decided to make the attack himself, and throughout the day he had been gathering his whole army for the spring. All his generals, Hardee, Breckinridge, Polk, Cleburne and the rest were in position and the cavalry was led by Wheeler, a youthful rough rider, destined to become famous as Fighting Joe Wheeler.

Each general was ready to attack in the morning, but neither knew the willingness of the other. Yet everybody was aware that a great battle was soon to come. They had felt it in both armies, and for two or three days the firing of the skirmishers had been almost continuous. Scouts kept each side well informed.

Dick, Warner and Pennington, before they lay down in their blankets, listened to the faint reports of rifles. They could see little owing to the deep woods in which they lay, but the sound of the shots came clearly.

"A part of our army is to cross the fords of Stone River in the morning by daylight or before," said Warner, "and we're to surprise the enemy and rush him. I wonder if we'll do it."

"We will not," said Pennington with emphasis. "We may beat the enemy, but we will not surprise him. We never do. Why should we surprise him? He is here in his own country. If the whole Southern army were sound asleep, a thousand of the natives would wake up their generals and tell them that the Yankee army was advancing."

"Their sentinels are watching, anyhow," said Dick, "but I imagine that we'd gain something if the first rush was ours and not theirs."

"We'll hope for the best," said Warner, "I wonder whose time this will be to get wounded. It was mine at Antietam, yours, Dick, at Perryville, and only you are left Pennington, so it's bound to be you."

"No, it won't be me," said Pennington stoutly. "I've been wounded in two or three battles already, not bad wounds, just scratches and bruises, but as there were so many of 'em you can lump 'em together, and make one big wound. That lets me out."

The Winchester regiment lay in the very thickest of the forest and in order not to indicate to the enemy their precise position no fires were lighted. The earth was still soaked deep with the heavy rains and their feet sank at every step. But they did not make many steps. They had learned enough to lie quiet, seek what rest and sleep they could find, and await the dawn.



Chapter XV. Stone River


Dick awoke at sunrise of the last day of the year, and Warner and Pennington were up a moment later. There was no fog. The sun hung a low, red ball in the steel blue sky of winter. No fires had been lighted, cold food being served.

He heard far off to right a steady tattoo like the rapid beat of many small drums. A quiver ran through the lads who were now gathering in the wood and at its edge. But Dick knew that the fire was distant. The other wing had opened the battle, and it might be a long time before their own division was drawn into the conflict.

He stood there as the sound grew louder, a continuous crash of rifles, accompanied by the heavy boom of cannon, and far off he saw a great cloud of smoke gathering over the forest. But no shouting reached his ears, nor could he see the men in combat. Colonel Winchester, who was standing beside him, shrugged his shoulders.

"They're engaged heavily, or they will be very soon," he said.

"And it looks as if we'd have to wait," said Dick.

"Things point that way. The general thinks so, too. It seems that Bragg has moved his forces in the night, and that the portion of the enemy in front of us is some distance off."

Dick soon confided this news to Warner and Pennington, who looked discontented.

"If we've got to fight, I'd rather do it now and get it over," said Pennington. "If I'm going to be killed the difference between morning and afternoon won't matter, but if I'm not going to be killed it'll be worth a lot to get this weight off my mind."

"And if we're far away from the enemy it's easy enough for us to go up close to him," said Warner. "I take it that we're not here to keep out of his way, and, if our brethren are pounding now, oughtn't we to go in and help them pound? Remember how we divided our strength at Antietam."

Dick shrugged his shoulders. His feelings were too bitter for him to make a reply save to say: "I don't know anything about it."

Meanwhile the distant combat roared and deepened. It was obvious that a great battle was going on, but the division lay quiet obeying its orders. The sun rose higher in the cold, steely blue heavens and then Dick, who was watching a forest opposite them, uttered a loud cry. He had seen many bayonets flashing among the leafless trees.

The cry was taken up by others who saw also, and suddenly a long Southern line, less than half a mile away, emerged into the open and advanced upon them in silence, but with resolution, a bristling and terrific front of steel. After all their watching and waiting the Northern division had been surprised. Many of the officers and soldiers, too, were in tents that had been set against the cold and damp. The horses that drew the artillery were being taken to water.

It was an awful moment and Dick's heart missed more than one beat, but in that crisis the American, often impatient of discipline, showed his power of initiative and his resolute courage. While that bristling front of steel came on the soldiers formed themselves into line without waiting for the commands of the officers. The artillerymen rushed to their guns.

"Kneel, men! Kneel!" shouted Colonel Winchester to his own regiment. He and all his officers were on foot, their horses having been left in the rear the night before.

His men threw themselves down at his command, and, all along the Northern line formed so hastily, the rifles began to crackle, sending forth a sheet of fire and bullets.

The Northern cannon, handled as always with skill and courage, were at work now, too, and their shells and shot lashed the Southern ranks through and through. But Dick saw no pause in the advance of the men in gray. They did not even falter. Without a particle of shelter they came on through the rain of death, their ranks closing up over the slain, their front line always presenting that bristling line of steel.

It seemed to Dick now that the points of the bayonets shone almost in his face, gleaming through the smoke that hung between them and the foe, a gap that continually grew narrower as the Southern line never ceased to come.

"Stand firm, lads; steady for God's sake, steady!" shouted Colonel Winchester, and then Dick heard no single voice, because the roar of the battle broke over them like the sudden rush of a storm. He was conscious only that the tips of the bayonets had reached them, and behind them he saw the eyes in the brown faces gleaming.

Then he did not even see the brown faces, because there was such a storm of fire and smoke pouring forth bullets like hail, and the tumult of shouts and of the crash of cannon and rifles was so awful that it blended into one general sound like the roaring of the infernal regions.

Dick felt himself borne back. It seemed to him that their line had cracked like a bow bent too much. It was not anything that he saw but a sense of the general result, and he was right. The Northern line which had not found time to form properly, was hurled back. Neither cannon nor rifles could stop the three Southern brigades which were charging them.

The South struck like a tornado, and despite a resistance made with all the fury and rage of despair, the Northern division was driven from its position, and its line broken in many places. A Northern general was taken prisoner. The guns which could not be carried, because the horses were gone, were taken by the triumphant Southerners, and over all the roar and tumult of the frightful battle Dick heard that piercing and triumphant rebel yell, poured forth by thousands of throats and swelling over everything, in a fierce, dominant note.

Dick bumped against Warner as they were borne back in the smoke. He saw the Vermonter's blackened lips move, and his own moved in the same way, but neither heard what the other said. Nevertheless Dick read the words in his comrade's eyes, and they said:

"Surprised again, Dick! Good God, surprised!"

Yet the young troops fought with a courage worthy of the toughest veterans. They gave ground, because the rush against them was overpowering, but they maintained a terrible fire which strewed the earth in front of them with dead and wounded.

"Behind those trees! Behind those trees!" suddenly called Colonel Winchester as they continued their sullen and fighting retreat, and he and the remnants of his regiment darted into a little wood just in time. There was a sudden rush of hoofbeats on their flank, and a cloud of Southern cavalry swept down, shearing away the entire side of the Northern division as if it had been cleft with the slash of a mighty sword. Besides the fallen a thousand prisoners and seven cannon fell into the hands of the cavalrymen, who rushed on in search of fresh triumphs.

Dick shuddered with horror, but he saw that all his own immediate friends were safe in the wood. A swarm of fugitives poured in after them, and then came colonels and generals making desperate efforts to reform their line of battle. But the Southern brigades gave them no chance. Their leaders continually urged on the pursuit. The broken regiments fell back still loading and firing, and they would soon be on the banks of the creek again.

After a time that seemed almost infinite, Dick heard the roar of shells over their heads. In their retreat the regiments had come upon another Northern division which opposed a strong resistance to the Southern advance. Winchester's men welcomed their friends joyfully. But the fresh troops could not stop the advance. The fire of the Southern cannon and rifles was so deadly that nearly all the Northern artillerymen were killed around their guns.

The North again gave ground, seeking point after point for fresh resistance. They rallied strongly around a building used as a hospital, and filled it with riflemen. But they were driven from that, too, although they inflicted terrible losses on their enemy.

"We've got to stop this backward slide somewhere," gasped Pennington.

"Yes, but where?" cried Dick.

Whether Warner made any reply he did not know, because he lost him then in the flame and the smoke. An instant or two later the charging swarms of infantry and cavalry drove them into one of the woods of red cedars, where they lay shattered and gasping. The smoke lifted a little, and Dick saw the field which he already regarded as lost. Then there was a renewed burst of firing and cheering, as a regiment of veteran regulars galloped into the open space and drove off the Southern cavalry which was just about to seize the ammunition wagons and more cannon.

Encouraged by the charge of the regulars, the men in the cedar wood rose and began to reform for battle. Now chance, or rather watchfulness, interposed to save Dick and his comrades from destruction. Rosecrans, at another point, confident that McCook could hold out against all attacks, listened with amazement to the roar of battle coming nearer and nearer. His officers called his attention to the fact that save at the opening there was no cannon fire. All that approaching crash was made by rifles. They judged from it that their cannon had been taken, but they did not know that the rush of the Southern troops had been so fast that their own batteries were not able to keep up.

Rosecrans read the signs with them and his alarm was great and justified. Then a dispatch came from McCook telling him that his right wing was routed and he took an instant resolve.

Many regiments were marching to another point in the line, and the commander at once changed their course. He meant to save his right wing, but at the same moment a tremendous attack was begun upon the center of his army. He struck his horse smartly and galloped straight toward the rolling flame.

Dick and his friends, driven from the defense around the hospital, lost touch with the rest of the troops. Colonel Winchester held together what was left of his regiment, and presently they found themselves in the woods with the troops of the young officer, Sheridan, who had saved the battle of Perryville. Here they took their stand, and when Dick saw the quick and warlike glance of Sheridan that embraced everything he believed they were not going to retreat.

He heard cheers all around him, men shouting to one another to stand firm. They refused to take alarm from the fugitives pouring back upon them, and sent volley after volley into the advancing gray lines. The artillery, too, handled with splendid skill and daring, poured a storm along the whole gray front. The combat deepened to an almost incredible degree. The cannon were compelled to cease firing because the men were now face to face. Regiments lost half their numbers and more, but Sheridan still held his ground and the South still attacked.

Dick began to shout with joy. He saw that the indomitable stand of Sheridan was saving the whole Northern army from rout. The South must continually turn aside troops to attack Sheridan, and they dared not advance too far leaving him unbeaten in their rear. Rosecrans in the center was urging his troops to a great resistance and the battle flamed high there. It now thundered along the whole front. Nearly every man and cannon were in action.

Dick was glad that chance had thrown his regiment with Sheridan, when he saw the splendid resistance made by the young general. Sheridan massed all his guns at the vital point and backed them up with riflemen. Nothing broke through his line. Nothing was able to move him.

"He'll have to retreat later on," Colonel Winchester shouted in Dick's ear, "because our lines are giving way elsewhere, but his courage and that of his men has saved us from an awful defeat."

The battle in front of Sheridan increased in violence. The Confederates were continually pouring fresh troops upon him, and it became apparent that even he, with all his courage and quickness of eye at the vital moment, could not withstand all day long the fierce attacks that were being made upon him. The Southern fire from cannon and rifles grew more terrible. Sheridan had three brigades and the commanders of all three of them were killed. The Confederate attack had been repulsed three times, but it was coming again, stronger and fiercer than ever.

Dick, aghast, gazed at Colonel Winchester and somehow through the thunder of the battle he heard the colonel's reply:

"Yes, we'll have to give up this position, but we have saved so much time that the army itself is saved. Rosecrans is forming a new line behind us."

Rosecrans, no genius, but a brave and resolute fighter, had indeed brought up fresh troops and made a new line. Sheridan, having that greatest of all gifts of the general, the eye to see amid the terrible tumult of battle the time to do a thing, and the courage to do it then, sounded the trumpet. Nearly all his wagons had been captured by the Southern cavalry, and his ammunition was beginning to fail. Around him lay two thousand of his best men, dead or wounded. Rosecrans and the fresh troops were appearing just in time.

Yet the retreat of Sheridan was made with the greatest difficulty. A part of his troops were cut off and captured. Others drove back the Confederate flankers with a bayonet charge, and then the remnant retreated, the new lines opening to let them through. Dick, as he passed through the gap, saw that he was among countrymen. That is, a Kentucky regiment, fighting for the Union was standing as a shield to let his comrades and himself through, and the people of the state were related so closely that in the flare of the battle he saw among these new men at least a half dozen faces that he knew.

It was this Kentucky regiment, led by its colonel, Shepherd, that now formed itself in the very apex of the battle. The remains of the Winchester regiment, forming behind it, saw a terrible sight. Some of the regiments crushed earlier in the action had entirely disbanded. The woods and the bushes were filled with fugitives, soldiers seeking the rear. Vast clouds of smoke drifted everywhere, the air was filled with the odors of exploded gunpowder, cannon were piled in inextricable heaps in the road, and horses, killed by shells or bullets, lay on the guns or between the wheels.

Dick had never beheld a more terrible sight. Their army was defeated so far, the dead and the wounded were heaped everywhere, terrified fugitives were pouring to the rear, and the enemy, wild with triumph, and shouting his terrible battle yell, was coming on with an onset that seemed invincible.

Colonel Winchester darted among the fugitives and with stinging words and the flat of his sword beat many of them back into line. Dick, Warner, Pennington and other young officers did likewise. More Kentucky troops bringing artillery came up and joined those who were standing so sternly. It became obvious to all that they must hold the ground here or the battle indeed was lost once and for all.

Thomas, the silent and resolute Virginian, had arrived also, and had joined Rosecrans. Dick observed them both. Rosecrans, tremendously excited, and reckless of death from the flying shells and bullets, galloped from point to point, urging on his soldiers, telling them to die rather than yield. Thomas, cool, and showing no trace of excitement also directed the troops. Both by their courage and resolution inspired the men. The beaten became the unbeaten. Dick felt rather than saw the stiffening of the lines, and the return of a great courage.

The new line of battle was formed directly under the fire of a victorious and charging enemy. Three batteries were gathered on a height overlooking a railroad cut, where they could sweep the front of the foe.

Just as they were in battle order Dick saw the faces of the Southerners coming through the woods, led by Hardee in person. Then he saw, too, the value of presence of mind and of a courage that would not yield. The three batteries planted by the Kentuckian, Rousseau, on the railway embankment suddenly opened a terrible enfilading fire upon the Southern advance. The Kentucky regiment standing so firmly in the breach also opened with every rifle firing directly into the ranks of their brother Kentuckians, who were advancing in the vanguard of the South. Here again people of the same state and even of the same county fought one another.

The Confederates pursuing a defeated and apparently disorganized enemy were astounded by such a sudden and fierce fire. One of their generals was killed almost instantly, and a part of their line was hurled back with great violence. Thomas pushed forward with a portion of the troops, and after a desperate assault the Southern line reeled and then stopped in the wood. Courage and presence of mind had saved a battle for the time being, at least.

At that point the combat sank for a while, and Dick, unwounded but exhausted, dropped upon the ground. Around him lay his friends, and they, too, were unwounded. It was with a sort of grim humor that he remembered a conversation they had held before the battle.

"Well, Frank," he said, "you've escaped."

"So far only," said Warner. "The hurricane has softened down a lot here, but not everywhere else. Listen!"

He pointed through the woods toward the left where another battle was swelling with a mighty uproar. Bragg having driven in the Union right was now seeking to shatter the Union left, but at this point there was a Northern commander, Hazen, who was no less indomitable than Sheridan. Sheltering themselves along the railway embankment his men, always encouraged by their commander, and his officers, resisted every effort to drive them back. Noon came and found them still holding tenaciously to their positions. For a while now the whole battle sank through sheer exhaustion on both sides. Each commander reformed his line, disentangled his guns, brought forward fresh ammunition and prepared for the great combat which he knew was coming. Bragg, as he noticed the advance of the short winter day, resolved upon the utmost effort to crush his enemy. Victory had seemed wholly in his grasp in the morning, but he had been checked at the last moment. He would make good the defeat in the afternoon.

The armies had disentangled themselves from the woods and bushes. They were now in the open and face to face on a long line. The Winchester regiment had risen to its feet again, and stood directly behind and almost mingled with the Kentucky regiment that had saved it.

"They're coming!" exclaimed Warner in quick, excited tones. "Look, there on the flank!"

It was the division of Cleburne, in the hottest of the battle all through the morning advancing to a fresh attack upon the Union lines, but it was received with such a powerful fire that it was driven back in disorder into some woods.

Dick, however, did not have a chance to see this as the Southerners, reinforced by fresh troops from Breckinridge's division, were charging in the center with great violence. So terrible was the fire that received them that some of the regiments lost half their numbers in five minutes. Yet the remainder, upheld by their cannon, returned a fire almost as deadly. Rosecrans, absolutely fearless, stood in the very front where the danger was greatest. A cannon ball blew off the head of his chief of staff who stood by his side. "Many a brave fellow must fall!" cried Rosecrans, a devoted Catholic. "Cross yourselves, and fire low and fast!"

Many a brave fellow did fall, but his men fired low and fast, and, while the Southern troops charged again and again to the very mouths of the cannon they were unable to break down the last desperate stand of the Northern army. They had driven it back, but they had not driven it back far enough. Then the sun set as it had set so often before on an undecisive battle, terrible in its long list of the slain, but leaving everything to be fought over again.

"They didn't beat us," said Dick as the firing ceased.

"No," said Colonel Winchester, "nor have we won a victory, but we're saved. Thank God for the night!"

"They'll attack again to-morrow, sir," said Sergeant Whitley.

"Undoubtedly so," said Colonel Winchester, who felt at this moment not as if he were speaking as colonel to sergeant, but as man to man, "and I hope that our artillery will be ready again. It is what has saved us. We have always been superior in that arm."

The colonel had spoken the truth, and the fact was also recognized by Rosecrans, Thomas and the other generals. While they rectified their lines in the darkness, the great batteries were posted in good positions, and fresh gunners took the place of those who had been killed. Both Rosecrans and Thomas were made of stern stuff. Afraid of no enemy, and, despite their great losses of the day and the fact that they had been driven back, they would be ready to fight on the morrow. Sheridan, Crittenden, McCook, Van Cleve and the others were equally ready.

Food was brought from the rear and the exhausted combatants sank down to rest. Dick was in such an apathy from sheer overtasking of the body and spirit that he did not think of anything. He lay like an animal that has escaped from a long chase. Silence had settled down with the darkness and the Confederate army had become invisible.

Dick revived later. He talked more freely with those about him, and he gathered from the gossip which travels fast, much of what had happened. The Union army, so confident in the morning, was in a dangerous position at night. Nearly thirty of its guns were taken. Three thousand unwounded and many wounded men were prisoners in the hands of the South. Arms and ammunition by the wholesale had been captured. The Southern cavalry under Fighting Joe Wheeler had gone behind Rosecrans' whole army and had cut his communications with his base at Nashville, at the same time raiding his wagon trains. Another body of cavalry under Wharton had taken all the wagons of McCook's corps, and still a third under Pegram had captured many prisoners on the Nashville road in the rear of the Northern army.

Dick became aware of a great, an intense anxiety among the leaders. The army was isolated. The raiding Southern cavalry kept it from receiving fresh supplies of either food or ammunition, unless it retreated.

"We're stripped of everything but our arms," said Warner.

"Then we've really lost nothing," said the valiant Pennington, "because with our arms we'll recover everything."

They had a commander of like spirit. At that moment Rosecrans, gathering his generals in a tent pitched hastily for him, was saying to them, "Gentlemen, we will conquer or die here." Short and strong, but every word meant. There was no need to say more. The generals animated by the same spirit went forth to their commands, and first among them was the grim and silent Thomas, who had the bulldog grip of Grant. Perhaps it was this indomitable tenacity and resolution that made the Northern generals so much more successful in the west than they were in the east during the early years of the war.

But there was exultation in the Confederate camp. Bragg and Polk and Hardee and Breckinridge and the others felt now that Rosecrans would retreat in the night after losing so many men and one-third of his artillery. Great then was their astonishment when the rising sun of New Year's day showed him sitting there, grimly waiting, with his back to Stone River, a formidable foe despite his losses. Above all the Southern generals saw the heavily massed artillery, which they had such good reason to fear.

Dick, who had slept soundly through the night, was up like all the others at dawn and he beheld the Southern army before them, yet not moving, as if uncertain what to do. He felt again that thrill of courage and resolution, and, born of it, was the belief that despite the first day's defeat the chances were yet even. These western youths were of a tough and enduring stock, as he had seen at Shiloh and Perryville, and the battle was not always to him who won the first day. A long time passed and there was no firing.

"Not so eager to rush us as they were," said Warner. "It's a mathematical certainty that an army that's not running away is not whipped, and that certainty is patent to our Southern friends also. But to descend from mathematics to poetry, a great poet says that he who runs away will live to fight another day. I will transpose and otherwise change that, making it to read: He who does not run away may make the other fellow unable to fight another day."

"You talk too much like a schoolmaster, George," said Pennington.

"The most important business of a school teacher is to teach the young idea how to shoot, and lately I've had ample chances to give such instruction."

It was not that they were frivolous, but like most other lads in the army, they had grown into the habit of teasing one another, which was often a relief to teaser as well as teased.

"I think, sir," said Dick to Colonel Winchester, "that some of our troops are moving."

He was looking through his glasses toward the left, where he saw a strong Union force, with banners waving, advancing toward Bragg's right.

"Ah, that is well done!" exclaimed Colonel Winchester. "If our men break through there we'll cut Bragg off from Murfreesborough and his ammunition and supplies."

They did not break through, but they maintained a long and vigorous battle, while the centers and other wings of the two armies did not stir. But it became evident to Dick later in the afternoon that a mighty movement was about to begin. His glasses told him so, and the thrill of expectation confirmed it.

Bragg was preparing to hurl his full strength upon Rosecrans. Breckinridge, who would have been the President of the United States, had not the Democrats divided, was to lead it. This division of five brigades had formed under cover of a wood. On its flank was a battery of ten guns and two thousand of the fierce riders of the South under Wharton and Pegram. Dick felt instinctively that Colonel Kenton with his regiment was there in the very thick of it.

Dick's regiment with Negley's strong Kentucky brigade, which had stopped the panic and rout the day before, had now recrossed Stone River and were posted strongly behind it. Ahead of them were two small brigades with some cannon, and Rosecrans himself was with this force just as Breckinridge's powerful division emerged into the open and began its advance upon the Union lines.

"Now, lads, stand firm!" exclaimed Colonel Winchester. "This is the crisis."

The colonel had measured the situation with a cool eye and brain. He knew that the regiments on the other side of the river were worn down by the day's fighting and would not stand long. But he believed that the Kentuckians around him, and the men from beyond the Ohio would not yield an inch. They were largely Kentuckians also coming against them.

The rolling fire burst from the Southern front, and the cannon on their flanks crashed heavily. Then their infantry came forward fast, and with a wild shout and rush the two thousand cavalry on their flanks charged. As Colonel Winchester had expected, the two weak brigades, although Rosecrans in person was among them, gave way, retreated rapidly to the little river and crossed it.

The Confederates came on in swift pursuit, but Negley's Kentuckians and the other Union men, standing fast, received them with a tremendous volley. It was at short range, and their bullets crashed through the crowded Southern ranks. The Winchesters were on the flank of the defenders, where they could get a better view, and although they also were firing as fast as they could reload and pull the trigger, they saw the great column pause and then reel.

Rosecrans, who had fallen back with the retreating brigades, instantly noted the opportunity. Here, a general who received too little reward from the nation, and to whom popular esteem did not pay enough tribute, rushed two brigades across Stone River and hurled them with all their weight upon the Southern flank. Sixty cannon posted on the hillocks just behind the river poured an awful fire upon the Southern column. The fire from front and flank was so tremendous that the Southerners, veterans as they were, gave way. The men who had held victory in their hands felt it slipping from their grasp.

"They waver! They retreat!" shouted Colonel Winchester. "Up, boys, and at 'em!"

The whole Union force, led by its heroic generals, rushed forward, crossed the river and joined in the charge. The two thousand Southern cavalry were driven off by a fire that no horsemen could withstand. The division of Breckinridge, although fighting with furious courage, was gradually driven back, and the day closed with the Union army in possession of most of the territory it had lost the day before.

As they lay that night in the damp woods, Dick and his comrades, all of whom had been fortunate enough to escape this time without injury, discussed the battle. For a while they claimed that it was a victory, but they finally agreed that it was a draw. The losses were enormous. Each side had lost about one third of its force.

Rosecrans, raging like a wounded lion, talked of attacking again, but the rains had been so heavy, the roads were so soft and deep in mud that the cannon and the wagons could not be pushed forward.

Bragg retreated four days later from Murfreesborough, and Dick and his comrades therefore claimed a victory, but as the winter was now shutting down cold and hard, Rosecrans remained on the line of Murfreesborough and Nashville.

The Winchester regiment was sent back to Nashville to recuperate and seek recruits for its ranks. Dick and Warner and Pennington felt that their army had done well in the west, but their hopes for the Union were clouded by the news from the east. Lee and Jackson had triumphed again. Burnside, in midwinter, had hurled the gallant Army of the Potomac in vain against the heights of Fredericksburg, and twelve thousand men had fallen for nothing.

"We need a man, a man in the east, even more than in the west," said Warner.

"He'll come. I'm sure he'll come," said Dick.

<eob>

Man Overboard!

By

F. Marion Crawford



Man Overboard


Yes -- I have heard "Man overboard!" a good many times since I was a boy, and once or twice I have seen the man go. There are more men lost in that way than passengers on ocean steamers ever learn of. I have stood looking over the rail on a dark night, when there was a step beside me, and something flew past my head like a big black bat -- and then there was a splash! Stokers often go like that. They go mad with the heat, and they slip up on deck and are gone before anybody can stop them, often without being seen or heard. Now and then a passenger will do it, but he generally has what he thinks a pretty good reason. I have seen a man empty his revolver into a crowd of emigrants forward, and then go over like a rocket. Of course, any officer who respects himself will do what he can to pick a man up, if the weather is not so heavy that he would have to risk his ship; but I don't think I remember seeing a man come back when he was once fairly gone more than two or three times in all my life, though we have often picked up the life-buoy, and sometimes the fellow's cap. Stokers and passengers jump over; I never knew a sailor to do that, drunk or sober. Yes, they say it has happened on hard ships, but I never knew a case myself. Once in a long time a man is fished out when it is just too late, and dies in the boat before you can get him aboard, and -- well, I don't know that I ever told that story since it happened -- I knew a fellow who went over, and came back dead. I didn't see him after he came back; only one of us did, but we all knew he was there.

No, I am not giving you "sharks." There isn't a shark in this story, and I don't know that I would tell it at all if we weren't alone, just you and I. But you and I have seen things in various parts, and maybe you will understand. Anyhow, you know that I am telling what I know about, and nothing else; and it has been on my mind to tell you ever since it happened, only there hasn't been a chance.

It's a long story, and it took some time to happen; and it began a good many years ago, in October, as well as I can remember. I was mate then; I passed the local Marine Board for master about three years later. She was the Helen B. Jackson, of New York, with lumber for the West Indies, four-masted schooner, Captain Hackstaff. She was an old-fashioned one, even then -- no steam donkey, and all to do by hand. There were still sailors in the coasting trade in those days, you remember. She wasn't a hard ship, for the old man was better than most of them, though he kept to himself and had a face like a monkey-wrench. We were thirteen, all told, in the ship's company; and some of them afterwards thought that might have had something to do with it, but I had all that nonsense knocked out of me when I was a boy. I don't mean to say that I like to go to sea on a Friday, but I have gone to sea on a Friday, and nothing has happened; and twice before that we have been thirteen, because one of the hands didn't turn up at the last minute, and nothing ever happened either -- nothing worse than the loss of a light spar or two, or a little canvas. Whenever I have been wrecked, we had sailed as cheerily as you please -- no thirteens, no Fridays, no dead men in the hold. I believe it generally happens that way.

I dare say you remember those two Benton boys that were so much alike? It is no wonder, for they were twin brothers. They shipped with us as boys on the old Boston Belle, when you were mate and I was before the mast. I never was quite sure which was which of those two, even then; and when they both had beards it was harder than ever to tell them apart. One was Jim, and the other was Jack; James Benton and John Benton. The only difference I ever could see was, that one seemed to be rather more cheerful and inclined to talk than the other; but one couldn't even be sure of that. Perhaps they had moods. Anyhow, there was one of them that used to whistle when he was alone. He only knew one tune, and that was "Nancy Lee," and the other didn't know any tune at all; but I may be mistaken about that, too. Perhaps they both knew it.

Well, those two Benton boys turned up on board the Helen B. Jackson. They had been on half a dozen ships since the Boston Belle, and they had grown up and were good seamen. They had reddish beards and bright blue eyes and freckled faces; and they were quiet fellows, good workmen on rigging, pretty willing, and both good men at the wheel. They managed to be in the same watch -- it was the port watch on the Helen B., and that was mine, and I had great confidence in them both. If there was any job aloft that needed two hands, they were always the first to jump into the rigging; but that doesn't often happen on a fore-and-aft schooner. If it breezed up, and the jibtopsail was to be taken in, they never minded a wetting, and they would be out at the bowsprit end before there was a hand at the downhaul. The men liked them for that, and because they didn't blow about what they could do. I remember one day in a reefing job, the downhaul parted and came down on deck from the peak of the spanker. When the weather moderated, and we shook the reefs out, the downhaul was forgotten until we happened to think we might soon need it again. There was some sea on, and the boom was off and the gaff was slamming. One of those Benton boys was at the wheel, and before I knew what he was doing, the other was out on the gaff with the end of the new downhaul, trying to reeve it through its block. The one who was steering watched him, and got as white as cheese. The other one was swinging about on the gaff end, and every time she rolled to leeward he brought up with a jerk that would have sent anything but a monkey flying into space. But he didn't leave it until he had rove the new rope, and he got back all right. I think it was Jack at the wheel; the one that seemed more cheerful, the one that whistled "Nancy Lee." He had rather have been doing the job himself than watch his brother do it, and he had a scared look; but he kept her as steady as he could in the swell, and he drew a long breath when Jim had worked his way back to the peak-halliard block, and had something to hold on to. I think it was Jim.

They had good togs, too, and they were neat and clean men in the forecastle. I knew they had nobody belonging to them ashore, -- no mother, no sisters, and no wives; but somehow they both looked as if a woman overhauled them now and then. I remember that they had one ditty bag between them, and they had a woman's thimble in it. One of the men said something about it to them, and they looked at each other; and one smiled, but the other didn't. Most of their clothes were alike, but they had one red guernsey between them. For some time I used to think it was always the same one that wore it, and I thought that might be a way to tell them apart. But then I heard one asking the other for it, and saying that the other had worn it last. So that was no sign either. The cook was a West Indiaman, called James Lawley; his father had been hanged for putting lights in cocoanut trees where they didn't belong. But he was a good cook, and knew his business; and it wasn't soup-and-bully and dog's-body every Sunday. That's what I meant to say. On Sunday the cook called both those boys Jim, and on week-days he called them Jack. He used to say he must be right sometimes if he did that, because even the hands on a painted clock point right twice a day.

What started me to trying for some way of telling the Bentons apart was this. I heard them talking about a girl. It was at night, in our watch, and the wind had headed us off a little rather suddenly, and when we had flattened in the jibs, we clewed down the topsails, while the two Benton boys got the spanker sheet aft. One of them was at the helm. I coiled down the mizzen-topsail downhaul myself, and was going aft to see how she headed up, when I stopped to look at a light, and leaned against the deck-house. While I was standing there I heard the two boys talking. It sounded as if they had talked of the same thing before, and as far as I could tell, the voice I heard first belonged to the one who wasn't quite so cheerful as the other, -- the one who was Jim when one knew which he was.

"Does Mamie know?" Jim asked.

"Not yet," Jack answered quietly. He was at the wheel. "I mean to tell her next time we get home."

"All right."

That was all I heard, because I didn't care to stand there listening while they were talking about their own affairs; so I went aft to look into the binnacle, and I told the one at the wheel to keep her so as long as she had way on her, for I thought the wind would back up again before long, and there was land to leeward. When he answered, his voice, somehow, didn't sound like the cheerful one. Perhaps his brother had relieved the wheel while they had been speaking, but what I had heard set me wondering which of them it was that had a girl at home. There's lots of time for wondering on a schooner in fair weather.

After that I thought I noticed that the two brothers were more silent when they were together. Perhaps they guessed that I had overheard something that night, and kept quiet when I was about. Some men would have amused themselves by trying to chaff them separately about the girl at home, and I suppose whichever one it was would have let the cat out of the bag if I had done that. But, somehow, I didn't like to. Yes, I was thinking of getting married myself at that time, so I had a sort of fellow-feeling for whichever one it was, that made me not want to chaff him.

They didn't talk much, it seemed to me; but in fair weather, when there was nothing to do at night, and one was steering, the other was everlastingly hanging round as if he were waiting to relieve the wheel, though he might have been enjoying a quiet nap for all I cared in such weather. Or else, when one was taking his turn at the lookout, the other would be sitting on an anchor beside him. One kept near the other, at night more than in the daytime. I noticed that. They were fond of sitting on that anchor, and they generally tucked away their pipes under it, for the Helen B. was a dry boat in most weather, and like most fore-and-afters was better on a wind than going free. With a beam sea we sometimes shipped a little water aft. We were by the stern, anyhow, on that voyage, and that is one reason why we lost the man.

We fell in with a southerly gale, south-east at first; and then the barometer began to fall while you could watch it, and a long swell began to come up from the south'ard. A couple of months earlier we might have been in for a cyclone, but it's "October all over" in those waters, as you know better than I. It was just going to blow, and then it was going to rain, that was all; and we had plenty of time to make everything snug before it breezed up much. It blew harder after sunset, and by the time it was quite dark it was a full gale. We had shortened sail for it, but as we were by the stern we were carrying the spanker close reefed instead of the storm trysail. She steered better so, as long as we didn't have to heave to. I had the first watch with the Benton boys, and we had not been on deck an hour when a child might have seen that the weather meant business.

The old man came up on deck and looked round, and in less than a minute he told us to give her the trysail. That meant heaving to, and I was glad of it; for though the Helen B. was a good vessel enough, she wasn't a new ship by a long way, and it did her no good to drive her in that weather. I asked whether I should call all hands, but just then the cook came aft, and the old man said he thought we could manage the job without waking the sleepers, and the trysail was handy on deck already, for we hadn't been expecting anything better. We were all in oilskins, of course, and the night was as black as a coal mine, with only a ray of light from the slit in the binnacle shield, and you couldn't tell one man from another except by his voice. The old man took the wheel; we got the boom amidships, and he jammed her into the wind until she had hardly any way. It was blowing now, and it was all that I and two others could do to get in the slack of the downhaul, while the others lowered away at the peak and throat, and we had our hands full to get a couple of turns round the wet sail. It's all child's play on a fore-and-after compared with reefing topsails in anything like weather, but the gear of a schooner sometimes does unhandy things that you don't expect, and those everlasting long halliards get foul of everything if they get adrift. I remember thinking how unhandy that particular job was. Somebody unhooked the throat-halliard block, and thought he had hooked it into the head-cringle of the trysail, and sang out to hoist away, but he had missed it in the dark, and the heavy block went flying into the lee rigging, and nearly killed him when it swung back with the weather roll. Then the old man got her up in the wind until the jib was shaking like thunder; then he held her off, and she went off as soon as the head-sails filled, and he couldn't get her back again without the spanker. Then the Helen B. did her favourite trick, and before we had time to say much we had a sea over the quarter and were up to our waists, with the parrels of the trysail only half becketed round the mast, and the deck so full of gear that you couldn't put your foot on a plank, and the spanker beginning to get adrift again, being badly stopped, and the general confusion and hell's delight that you can only have on a fore-and-after when there's nothing really serious the matter. Of course, I don't mean to say that the old man couldn't have steered his trick as well as you or I or any other seaman; but I don't believe he had ever been on board the Helen B. before, or had his hand on her wheel till then; and he didn't know her ways. I don't mean to say that what happened was his fault. I don't know whose fault it was. Perhaps nobody was to blame. But I knew something happened somewhere on board when we shipped that sea, and you'll never get it out of my head. I hadn't any spare time myself, for I was becketing the rest of the trysail to the mast. We were on the starboard tack, and the throat-halliard came down to port as usual, and I suppose there were at least three men at it, hoisting away, while I was at the beckets.

Now I am going to tell you something. You have known me, man and boy, several voyages; and you are older than I am; and you have always been a good friend to me. Now, do you think I am the sort of man to think I hear things where there isn't anything to hear, or to think I see things when there is nothing to see? No, you don't. Thank you. Well now, I had passed the last becket, and I sang out to the men to sway away, and I was standing on the jaws of the spanker-gaff, with my left hand on the bolt-rope of the trysail, so that I could feel when it was board-taut, and I wasn't thinking of anything except being glad the job was over, and that we were going to heave her to. It was as black as a coal-pocket, except that you could see the streaks on the seas as they went by, and abaft the deck-house I could see the ray of light from the binnacle on the captain's yellow oilskin as he stood at the wheel -- or rather I might have seen it if I had looked round at that minute. But I didn't look round. I heard a man whistling. It was "Nancy Lee," and I could have sworn that the man was right over my head in the crosstrees. Only somehow I knew very well that if anybody could have been up there, and could have whistled a tune, there were no living ears sharp enough to hear it on deck then. I heard it distinctly, and at the same time I heard the real whistling of the wind in the weather rigging, sharp and clear as the steam-whistle on a Dago's peanut-cart in New York. That was all right, that was as it should be; but the other wasn't right; and I felt queer and stiff, as if I couldn't move, and my hair was curling against the flannel lining of my sou'wester, and I thought somebody had dropped a lump of ice down my back.

I said that the noise of the wind in the rigging was real, as if the other wasn't, for I felt that it wasn't, though I heard it. But it was, all the same; for the captain heard it, too. When I came to relieve the wheel, while the men were clearing up decks, he was swearing. He was a quiet man, and I hadn't heard him swear before, and I don't think I did again, though several queer things happened after that. Perhaps he said all he had to say then; I don't see how he could have said anything more. I used to think nobody could swear like a Dane, except a Neapolitan or a South American; but when I had heard the old man I changed my mind. There's nothing afloat or ashore that can beat one of your quiet American skippers, if he gets off on that tack. I didn't need to ask him what was the matter, for I knew he had heard "Nancy Lee," as I had, only it affected us differently.

He did not give me the wheel, but told me to go forward and get the second bonnet off the staysail, so as to keep her up better. As we tailed on to the sheet when it was done, the man next me knocked his sou'wester off against my shoulder, and his face came so close to me that I could see it in the dark. It must have been very white for me to see it, but I only thought of that afterwards. I don't see how any light could have fallen upon it, but I knew it was one of the Benton boys. I don't know what made me speak to him. "Hullo, Jim! Is that you?" I asked. I don't know why I said Jim, rather than Jack.

"I am Jack," he answered. We made all fast, and things were much quieter.

"The old man heard you whistling 'Nancy Lee,' just now," I said, "and he didn't like it."

It was as if there were a white light inside his face, and it was ghastly. I know his teeth chattered. But he didn't say anything, and the next minute he was somewhere in the dark trying to find his sou'wester at the foot of the mast.

When all was quiet, and she was hove to, coming to and falling off her four points as regularly as a pendulum, and the helm lashed a little to the lee, the old man turned in again, and I managed to light a pipe in the lee of the deck-house, for there was nothing more to be done till the gale chose to moderate, and the ship was as easy as a baby in its cradle. Of course the cook had gone below, as he might have done an hour earlier; so there were supposed to be four of us in the watch. There was a man at the lookout, and there was a hand by the wheel, though there was no steering to be done, and I was having my pipe in the lee of the deck-house, and the fourth man was somewhere about decks, probably having a smoke too. I thought some skippers I had sailed with would have called the watch aft, and given them a drink after that job, but it wasn't cold, and I guessed that our old man wouldn't be particularly generous in that way. My hands and feet were red-hot, and it would be time enough to get into dry clothes when it was my watch below; so I stayed where I was, and smoked. But by and by, things being so quiet, I began to wonder why nobody moved on deck; just that sort of restless wanting to know where every man is that one sometimes feels in a gale of wind on a dark night. So when I had finished my pipe I began to move about. I went aft, and there was a man leaning over the wheel, with his legs apart and both hands hanging down in the light from the binnacle, and his sou'wester over his eyes. Then I went forward, and there was a man at the lookout, with his back against the foremast, getting what shelter he could from the staysail. I knew by his small height that he was not one of the Benton boys. Then I went round by the weather side, and poked about in the dark, for I began to wonder where the other man was. But I couldn't find him, though I searched the decks until I got right aft again. It was certainly one of the Benton boys that was missing, but it wasn't like either of them to go below to change his clothes in such warm weather. The man at the wheel was the other, of course. I spoke to him.

"Jim, what's become of your brother?"

"I am Jack, sir."

"Well, then, Jack, where's Jim? He's not on deck."

"I don't know, sir."

When I had come up to him he had stood up from force of instinct, and had laid his hands on the spokes as if he were steering, though the wheel was lashed; but he still bent his face down, and it was half hidden by the edge of his sou'wester, while he seemed to be staring at the compass. He spoke in a very low voice, but that was natural, for the captain had left his door open when he turned in, as it was a warm night in spite of the storm, and there was no fear of shipping any more water now.

"What put it into your head to whistle like that, Jack? You've been at sea long enough to know better."

He said something, but I couldn't hear the words; it sounded as if he were denying the charge.

"Somebody whistled," I said.

He didn't answer, and then, I don't know why, perhaps because the old man hadn't given us a drink, I cut half an inch off the plug of tobacco I had in my oilskin pocket, and gave it to him. He knew my tobacco was good, and he shoved it into his mouth with a word of thanks. I was on the weather side of the wheel.

"Go forward and see if you can find Jim," I said.

He started a little, and then stepped back and passed behind me, and was going along the weather side. Maybe his silence about the whistling had irritated me, and his taking it for granted that because we were hove to and it was a dark night, he might go forward any way he pleased. Anyhow, I stopped him, though I spoke good-naturedly enough.

"Pass to leeward, Jack," I said.

He didn't answer, but crossed the deck between the binnacle and the deck-house to the lee side. She was only falling off and coming to, and riding the big seas as easily as possible, but the man was not steady on his feet and reeled against the corner of the deck-house and then against the lee rail. I was quite sure he couldn't have had anything to drink, for neither of the brothers were the kind to hide rum from their shipmates, if they had any, and the only spirits that were aboard were locked up in the captain's cabin. I wondered whether he had been hit by the throat-halliard block and was hurt.

I left the wheel and went after him, but when I got to the corner of the deck-house I saw that he was on a full run forward, so I went back. I watched the compass for a while, to see how far she went off, and she must have come to again half a dozen times before I heard voices, more than three or four, forward; and then I heard the little West Indies cook's voice, high and shrill above the rest: -- 

"Man overboard!"

There wasn't anything to be done, with the ship hove-to and the wheel lashed. If there was a man overboard, he must be in the water right alongside. I couldn't imagine how it could have happened, but I ran forward instinctively. I came upon the cook first, half-dressed in his shirt and trousers, just as he had tumbled out of his bunk. He was jumping into the main rigging, evidently hoping to see the man, as if any one could have seen anything on such a night, except the foam-streaks on the black water, and now and then the curl of a breaking sea as it went away to leeward. Several of the men were peering over the rail into the dark. I caught the cook by the foot, and asked who was gone.

"It's Jim Benton," he shouted down to me. "He's not aboard this ship!"

There was no doubt about that. Jim Benton was gone; and I knew in a flash that he had been taken off by that sea when we were setting the storm trysail. It was nearly half an hour since then; she had run like wild for a few minutes until we got her hove-to, and no swimmer that ever swam could have lived as long as that in such a sea. The men knew it as well as I, but still they stared into the foam as if they had any chance of seeing the lost man. I let the cook get into the rigging and joined the men, and asked if they had made a thorough search on board, though I knew they had and that it could not take long, for he wasn't on deck, and there was only the forecastle below.

"That sea took him over, sir, as sure as you're born," said one of the men close beside me.

We had no boat that could have lived in that sea, of course, and we all knew it. I offered to put one over, and let her drift astern two or three cable's-lengths by a line, if the men thought they could haul me aboard again; but none of them would listen to that, and I should probably have been drowned if I had tried it, even with a life-belt; for it was a breaking sea. Besides, they all knew as well as I did that the man could not be right in our wake. I don't know why I spoke again. "Jack Benton, are you there? Will you go if I will?"

"No, sir," answered a voice; and that was all.

By that time the old man was on deck, and I felt his hand on my shoulder rather roughly, as if he meant to shake me.

"I'd reckoned you had more sense, Mr. Torkeldsen," he said. "God knows I would risk my ship to look for him, if it were any use; but he must have gone half an hour ago."

He was a quiet man, and the men knew he was right, and that they had seen the last of Jim Benton when they were bending the trysail -- if anybody had seen him then. The captain went below again, and for some time the men stood around Jack, quite near him, without saying anything, as sailors do when they are sorry for a man and can't help him; and then the watch below turned in again, and we were three on deck.

Nobody can understand that there can be much consolation in a funeral, unless he has felt that blank feeling there is when a man's gone overboard whom everybody likes. I suppose landsmen think it would be easier if they didn't have to bury their fathers and mothers and friends; but it wouldn't be. Somehow the funeral keeps up the idea of something beyond. You may believe in that something just the same; but a man who has gone in the dark, between two seas, without a cry, seems much more beyond reach than if he were still lying on his bed, and had only just stopped breathing. Perhaps Jim Benton knew that, and wanted to come back to us. I don't know, and I am only telling you what happened, and you may think what you like.

Jack stuck by the wheel that night until the watch was over. I don't know whether he slept afterwards, but when I came on deck four hours later, there he was again, in his oilskins, with his sou'wester over his eyes, staring into the binnacle. We saw that he would rather stand there, and we left him alone. Perhaps it was some consolation to him to get that ray of light when everything was so dark. It began to rain, too, as it can when a southerly gale is going to break up, and we got every bucket and tub on board, and set them under the booms to catch the fresh water for washing our clothes. The rain made it very thick, and I went and stood under the lee of the staysail, looking out. I could tell that day was breaking, because the foam was whiter in the dark where the seas crested, and little by little the black rain grew grey and steamy, and I couldn't see the red glare of the port light on the water when she went off and rolled to leeward. The gale had moderated considerably, and in another hour we should be under way again. I was still standing there when Jack Benton came forward. He stood still a few minutes near me. The rain came down in a solid sheet, and I could see his wet beard and a corner of his cheek, too, grey in the dawn. Then he stooped down and began feeling under the anchor for his pipe. We had hardly shipped any water forward, and I suppose he had some way of tucking the pipe in, so that the rain hadn't floated it off. Presently he got on his legs again, and I saw that he had two pipes in his hand. One of them had belonged to his brother, and after looking at them a moment I suppose he recognised his own, for he put it in his mouth, dripping with water. Then he looked at the other fully a minute without moving. When he had made up his mind, I suppose, he quietly chucked it over the lee rail, without even looking round to see whether I was watching him. I thought it was a pity, for it was a good wooden pipe, with a nickel ferrule, and somebody would have been glad to have it. But I didn't like to make any remark, for he had a right to do what he pleased with what had belonged to his dead brother. He blew the water out of his own pipe, and dried it against his jacket, putting his hand inside his oilskin; he filled it, standing under the lee of the foremast, got a light after wasting two or three matches, and turned the pipe upside down in his teeth, to keep the rain out of the bowl. I don't know why I noticed everything he did, and remember it now; but somehow I felt sorry for him, and I kept wondering whether there was anything I could say that would make him feel better. But I didn't think of anything, and as it was broad daylight I went aft again, for I guessed that the old man would turn out before long and order the spanker set and the helm up. But he didn't turn out before seven bells, just as the clouds broke and showed blue sky to leeward -- "the Frenchman's barometer," you used to call it.

Some people don't seem to be so dead, when they are dead, as others are. Jim Benton was like that. He had been on my watch, and I couldn't get used to the idea that he wasn't about decks with me. I was always expecting to see him, and his brother was so exactly like him that I often felt as if I did see him and forgot he was dead, and made the mistake of calling Jack by his name; though I tried not to, because I knew it must hurt. If ever Jack had been the cheerful one of the two, as I had always supposed he had been, he had changed very much, for he grew to be more silent than Jim had ever been.

One fine afternoon I was sitting on the main-hatch, overhauling the clock-work of the taffrail-log, which hadn't been registering very well of late, and I had got the cook to bring me a coffee-cup to hold the small screws as I took them out, and a saucer for the sperm-oil I was going to use. I noticed that he didn't go away, but hung round without exactly watching what I was doing, as if he wanted to say something to me. I thought if it were worth much he would say it anyhow, so I didn't ask him questions; and sure enough he began of his own accord before long. There was nobody on deck but the man at the wheel, and the other man away forward.

"Mr. Torkeldsen," the cook began, and then stopped.

I supposed he was going to ask me to let the watch break out a barrel of flour, or some salt horse.

"Well, doctor?" I asked, as he didn't go on.

"Well, Mr. Torkeldsen," he answered, "I somehow want to ask you whether you think I am giving satisfaction on this ship, or not?"

"So far as I know, you are, doctor. I haven't heard any complaints from the forecastle, and the captain has said nothing, and I think you know your business, and the cabin-boy is bursting out of his clothes. That looks as if you are giving satisfaction. What makes you think you are not?"

I am not good at giving you that West Indies talk, and sha'n't try; but the doctor beat about the bush awhile, and then he told me he thought the men were beginning to play tricks on him, and he didn't like it, and thought he hadn't deserved it, and would like his discharge at our next port. I told him he was a d --  -- d fool, of course, to begin with; and that men were more apt to try a joke with a chap they liked than with anybody they wanted to get rid of; unless it was a bad joke, like flooding his bunk, or filling his boots with tar. But it wasn't that kind of practical joke. The doctor said that the men were trying to frighten him, and he didn't like it, and that they put things in his way that frightened him. So I told him he was a d --  -- d fool to be frightened, anyway, and I wanted to know what things they put in his way. He gave me a queer answer. He said they were spoons and forks, and odd plates, and a cup now and then, and such things.

I set down the taffrail-log on the bit of canvas I had put under it, and looked at the doctor. He was uneasy, and his eyes had a sort of hunted look, and his yellow face looked grey. He wasn't trying to make trouble. He was in trouble. So I asked him questions.

He said he could count as well as anybody, and do sums without using his fingers, but that when he couldn't count any other way he did use his fingers, and it always came out the same. He said that when he and the cabin-boy cleared up after the men's meals there were more things to wash than he had given out. There'd be a fork more, or there'd be a spoon more, and sometimes there'd be a spoon and a fork, and there was always a plate more. It wasn't that he complained of that. Before poor Jim Benton was lost they had a man more to feed, and his gear to wash up after meals, and that was in the contract, the doctor said. It would have been if there were twenty in the ship's company; but he didn't think it was right for the men to play tricks like that. He kept his things in good order, and he counted them, and he was responsible for them, and it wasn't right that the men should take more things than they needed when his back was turned, and just soil them and mix them up with their own, so as to make him think -- 

He stopped there, and looked at me, and I looked at him. I didn't know what he thought, but I began to guess. I wasn't going to humour any such nonsense as that, so I told him to speak to the men himself, and not come bothering me about such things.

"Count the plates and forks and spoons before them when they sit down to table, and tell them that's all they'll get; and when they have finished, count the things again, and if the count isn't right, find out who did it. You know it must be one of them. You're not a green hand; you've been going to sea ten or eleven years, and don't want any lesson about how to behave if the boys play a trick on you."

"If I could catch him," said the cook, "I'd have a knife into him before he could say his prayers."

Those West India men are always talking about knives, especially when they are badly frightened. I knew what he meant, and didn't ask him, but went on cleaning the brass cogwheels of the patent log and oiling the bearings with a feather. "Wouldn't it be better to wash it out with boiling water, sir?" asked the cook, in an insinuating tone. He knew that he had made a fool of himself, and was anxious to make it right again.

I heard no more about the odd platter and gear for two or three days, though I thought about his story a good deal. The doctor evidently believed that Jim Benton had come back, though he didn't quite like to say so. His story had sounded silly enough on a bright afternoon, in fair weather, when the sun was on the water, and every rag was drawing in the breeze, and the sea looked as pleasant and harmless as a cat that has just eaten a canary. But when it was toward the end of the first watch, and the waning moon had not risen yet, and the water was like still oil, and the jibs hung down flat and helpless like the wings of a dead bird -- it wasn't the same then. More than once I have started then, and looked round when a fish jumped, expecting to see a face sticking up out of the water with its eyes shut. I think we all felt something like that at the time.

One afternoon we were putting a fresh service on the jib-sheet-pennant. It wasn't my watch, but I was standing by looking on. Just then Jack Benton came up from below, and went to look for his pipe under the anchor. His face was hard and drawn, and his eyes were cold like steel balls. He hardly ever spoke now, but he did his duty as usual, and nobody had to complain of him, though we were all beginning to wonder how long his grief for his dead brother was going to last like that. I watched him as he crouched down, and ran his hand into the hiding-place for the pipe. When he stood up, he had two pipes in his hand.

Now, I remembered very well seeing him throw one of those pipes away, early in the morning after the gale; and it came to me now, and I didn't suppose he kept a stock of them under the anchor. I caught sight of his face, and it was greenish white, like the foam on shallow water, and he stood a long time looking at the two pipes. He wasn't looking to see which was his, for I wasn't five yards from him as he stood, and one of those pipes had been smoked that day, and was shiny where his hand had rubbed it, and the bone mouthpiece was chafed white where his teeth had bitten it. The other was water-logged. It was swelled and cracking with wet, and it looked to me as if there were a little green weed on it.

Jack Benton turned his head rather stealthily as I looked away, and then he hid the thing in his trousers pocket, and went aft on the lee side, out of sight. The men had got the sheet pennant on a stretch to serve it, but I ducked under it and stood where I could see what Jack did, just under the fore-staysail. He couldn't see me, and he was looking about for something. His hand shook as he picked up a bit of half-bent iron rod, about a foot long, that had been used for turning an eye-bolt, and had been left on the main-hatch. His hand shook as he got a piece of marline out of his pocket, and made the water-logged pipe fast to the iron. He didn't mean it to get adrift, either, for he took his turns carefully, and hove them taut and then rode them, so that they couldn't slip, and made the end fast with two half-hitches round the iron, and hitched it back on itself. Then he tried it with his hands, and looked up and down the deck furtively, and then quietly dropped the pipe and iron over the rail, so that I didn't even hear the splash. If anybody was playing tricks on board, they weren't meant for the cook.

I asked some questions about Jack Benton, and one of the men told me that he was off his feed, and hardly ate anything, and swallowed all the coffee he could lay his hands on, and had used up all his own tobacco and had begun on what his brother had left.

"The doctor says it ain't so, sir," said the man, looking at me shyly, as if he didn't expect to be believed; "the doctor says there's as much eaten from breakfast to breakfast as there was before Jim fell overboard, though there's a mouth less and another that eats nothing. I says it's the cabin-boy that gets it. He's bu'sting."

I told him that if the cabin-boy ate more than his share, he must work more than his share, so as to balance things. But the man laughed queerly, and looked at me again.

"I only said that, sir, just like that. We all know it ain't so."

"Well, how is it?"

"How is it?" asked the man, half-angry all at once. "I don't know how it is, but there's a hand on board that's getting his whack along with us as regular as the bells."

"Does he use tobacco?" I asked, meaning to laugh it out of him, but as I spoke I remembered the water-logged pipe.

"I guess he's using his own still," the man answered, in a queer, low voice. "Perhaps he'll take some one else's when his is all gone."

It was about nine o'clock in the morning, I remember, for just then the captain called to me to stand by the chronometer while he took his fore observation. Captain Hackstaff wasn't one of those old skippers who do everything themselves with a pocket watch, and keep the key of the chronometer in their waistcoat pocket, and won't tell the mate how far the dead reckoning is out. He was rather the other way, and I was glad of it, for he generally let me work the sights he took, and just ran his eye over my figures afterwards. I am bound to say his eye was pretty good, for he would pick out a mistake in a logarithm, or tell me that I had worked the "Equation of Time" with the wrong sign, before it seemed to me that he could have got as far as "half the sum, minus the altitude." He was always right, too, and besides he knew a lot about iron ships and local deviation, and adjusting the compass, and all that sort of thing. I don't know how he came to be in command of a fore-and-aft schooner. He never talked about himself, and maybe he had just been mate on one of those big steel square-riggers, and something had put him back. Perhaps he had been captain, and had got his ship aground, through no particular fault of his, and had to begin over again. Sometimes he talked just like you and me, and sometimes he would speak more like books do, or some of those Boston people I have heard. I don't know. We have all been shipmates now and then with men who have seen better days. Perhaps he had been in the Navy, but what makes me think he couldn't have been, was that he was a thorough good seaman, a regular old wind-jammer, and understood sail, which those Navy chaps rarely do. Why, you and I have sailed with men before the mast who had their master's certificates in their pockets, -- English Board of Trade certificates, too, -- who could work a double altitude if you would lend them a sextant and give them a look at the chronometer, as well as many a man who commands a big square-rigger. Navigation ain't everything, nor seamanship, either. You've got to have it in you, if you mean to get there.

I don't know how our captain heard that there was trouble forward. The cabin-boy may have told him, or the men may have talked outside his door when they relieved the wheel at night. Anyhow, he got wind of it, and when he had got his sight that morning he had all hands aft, and gave them a lecture. It was just the kind of talk you might have expected from him. He said he hadn't any complaint to make, and that so far as he knew everybody on board was doing his duty, and that he was given to understand that the men got their whack, and were satisfied. He said his ship was never a hard ship, and that he liked quiet, and that was the reason he didn't mean to have any nonsense, and the men might just as well understand that, too. We'd had a great misfortune, he said, and it was nobody's fault. We had lost a man we all liked and respected, and he felt that everybody in the ship ought to be sorry for the man's brother, who was left behind, and that it was rotten lubberly childishness, and unjust and unmanly and cowardly, to be playing schoolboy tricks with forks and spoons and pipes, and that sort of gear. He said it had got to stop right now, and that was all, and the men might go forward. And so they did.

It got worse after that, and the men watched the cook, and the cook watched the men, as if they were trying to catch each other; but I think everybody felt that there was something else. One evening, at supper-time, I was on deck, and Jack came aft to relieve the wheel while the man who was steering got his supper. He hadn't got past the main-hatch on the lee side, when I heard a man running in slippers that slapped on the deck, and there was a sort of a yell and I saw the coloured cook going for Jack, with a carving-knife in his hand. I jumped to get between them, and Jack turned round short, and put out his hand. I was too far to reach them, and the cook jabbed out with his knife. But the blade didn't get anywhere near Benton. The cook seemed to be jabbing it into the air again and again, at least four feet short of the mark. Then he dropped his right hand, and I saw the whites of his eyes in the dusk, and he reeled up against the pin-rail, and caught hold of a belaying-pin with his left. I had reached him by that time, and grabbed hold of his knife-hand and the other too, for I thought he was going to use the pin; but Jack Benton was standing staring stupidly at him, as if he didn't understand. But instead, the cook was holding on because he couldn't stand, and his teeth were chattering, and he let go of the knife, and the point stuck into the deck.

"He's crazy!" said Jack Benton, and that was all he said; and he went aft.

When he was gone, the cook began to come to, and he spoke quite low, near my ear.

"There were two of them! So help me God, there were two of them!"

I don't know why I didn't take him by the collar, and give him a good shaking; but I didn't. I just picked up the knife and gave it to him, and told him to go back to his galley, and not to make a fool of himself. You see, he hadn't struck at Jack, but at something he thought he saw, and I knew what it was, and I felt that same thing, like a lump of ice sliding down my back, that I felt that night when we were bending the trysail.

When the men had seen him running aft, they jumped up after him, but they held off when they saw that I had caught him. By and by, the man who had spoken to me before told me what had happened. He was a stocky little chap, with a red head.

"Well," he said, "there isn't much to tell. Jack Benton had been eating his supper with the rest of us. He always sits at the after corner of the table, on the port side. His brother used to sit at the end, next him. The doctor gave him a thundering big piece of pie to finish up with, and when he had finished he didn't stop for a smoke, but went off quick to relieve the wheel. Just as he had gone, the doctor came in from the galley, and when he saw Jack's empty plate he stood stock still staring at it; and we all wondered what was the matter, till we looked at the plate. There were two forks in it, sir, lying side by side. Then the doctor grabbed his knife, and flew up through the hatch like a rocket. The other fork was there all right, Mr. Torkeldsen, for we all saw it and handled it; and we all had our own. That's all I know."

I didn't feel that I wanted to laugh when he told me that story; but I hoped the old man wouldn't hear it, for I knew he wouldn't believe it, and no captain that ever sailed likes to have stories like that going round about his ship. It gives her a bad name. But that was all anybody ever saw except the cook, and he isn't the first man who has thought he saw things without having any drink in him. I think, if the doctor had been weak in the head as he was afterwards, he might have done something foolish again, and there might have been serious trouble. But he didn't. Only, two or three times I saw him looking at Jack Benton in a queer, scared way, and once I heard him talking to himself.

"There's two of them! So help me God, there's two of them!"

He didn't say anything more about asking for his discharge, but I knew well enough that if he got ashore at the next port we should never see him again, if he had to leave his kit behind him, and his money, too. He was scared all through, for good and all; and he wouldn't be right again till he got another ship. It's no use to talk to a man when he gets like that, any more than it is to send a boy to the main truck when he has lost his nerve.

Jack Benton never spoke of what happened that evening. I don't know whether he knew about the two forks, or not; or whether he understood what the trouble was. Whatever he knew from the other men, he was evidently living under a hard strain. He was quiet enough, and too quiet; but his face was set, and sometimes it twitched oddly when he was at the wheel, and he would turn his head round sharp to look behind him. A man doesn't do that naturally, unless there's a vessel that he thinks is creeping up on the quarter. When that happens, if the man at the wheel takes a pride in his ship, he will almost always keep glancing over his shoulder to see whether the other fellow is gaining. But Jack Benton used to look round when there was nothing there; and what is curious, the other men seemed to catch the trick when they were steering. One day the old man turned out just as the man at the wheel looked behind him.

"What are you looking at?" asked the captain.

"Nothing, sir," answered the man.

"Then keep your eye on the mizzen-royal," said the old man, as if he were forgetting that we weren't a square-rigger.

"Ay, ay, sir," said the man.

The captain told me to go below and work up the latitude from the dead-reckoning, and he went forward of the deck-house and sat down to read, as he often did. When I came up, the man at the wheel was looking round again, and I stood beside him and just asked him quietly what everybody was looking at, for it was getting to be a general habit. He wouldn't say anything at first, but just answered that it was nothing. But when he saw that I didn't seem to care, and just stood there as if there were nothing more to be said, he naturally began to talk.

He said that it wasn't that he saw anything, because there wasn't anything to see except the spanker sheet just straining a little, and working in the sheaves of the blocks as the schooner rose to the short seas. There wasn't anything to be seen, but it seemed to him that the sheet made a queer noise in the blocks. It was a new manilla sheet; and in dry weather it did make a little noise, something between a creak and a wheeze. I looked at it and looked at the man, and said nothing; and presently he went on. He asked me if I didn't notice anything peculiar about the noise. I listened awhile, and said I didn't notice anything. Then he looked rather sheepish, but said he didn't think it could be his own ears, because every man who steered his trick heard the same thing now and then, -- sometimes once in a day, sometimes once in a night, sometimes it would go on a whole hour.

"It sounds like sawing wood," I said, just like that.

"To us it sounds a good deal more like a man whistling 'Nancy Lee.'" He started nervously as he spoke the last words. "There, sir, don't you hear it?" he asked suddenly.

I heard nothing but the creaking of the manilla sheet. It was getting near noon, and fine, clear weather in southern waters, -- just the sort of day and the time when you would least expect to feel creepy. But I remembered how I had heard that same tune overhead at night in a gale of wind a fortnight earlier, and I am not ashamed to say that the same sensation came over me now, and I wished myself well out of the Helen B., and aboard of any old cargo-dragger, with a windmill on deck, and an eighty-nine-forty-eighter for captain, and a fresh leak whenever it breezed up.

Little by little during the next few days life on board that vessel came to be about as unbearable as you can imagine. It wasn't that there was much talk, for I think the men were shy even of speaking to each other freely about what they thought. The whole ship's company grew silent, until one hardly ever heard a voice, except giving an order and the answer. The men didn't sit over their meals when their watch was below, but either turned in at once or sat about on the forecastle smoking their pipes without saying a word. We were all thinking of the same thing. We all felt as if there were a hand on board, sometimes below, sometimes about decks, sometimes aloft, sometimes on the boom end; taking his full share of what the others got, but doing no work for it. We didn't only feel it, we knew it. He took up no room, he cast no shadow, and we never heard his footfall on deck; but he took his whack with the rest as regular as the bells, and -- he whistled "Nancy Lee." It was like the worst sort of dream you can imagine; and I dare say a good many of us tried to believe it was nothing else sometimes, when we stood looking over the weather rail in fine weather with the breeze in our faces; but if we happened to turn round and look into each other's eyes, we knew it was something worse than any dream could be; and we would turn away from each other with a queer, sick feeling, wishing that we could just for once see somebody who didn't know what we knew.

There's not much more to tell about the Helen B. Jackson so far as I am concerned. We were more like a shipload of lunatics than anything else when we ran in under Morro Castle, and anchored in Havana. The cook had brain fever, and was raving mad in his delirium; and the rest of the men weren't far from the same state. The last three or four days had been awful, and we had been as near to having a mutiny on board as I ever want to be. The men didn't want to hurt anybody; but they wanted to get away out of that ship, if they had to swim for it; to get away from that whistling, from that dead shipmate who had come back, and who filled the ship with his unseen self. I know that if the old man and I hadn't kept a sharp lookout the men would have put a boat over quietly on one of those calm nights, and pulled away, leaving the captain and me and the mad cook to work the schooner into harbour. We should have done it somehow, of course, for we hadn't far to run if we could get a breeze; and once or twice I found myself wishing that the crew were really gone, for the awful state of fright in which they lived was beginning to work on me too. You see I partly believed and partly didn't; but anyhow I didn't mean to let the thing get the better of me, whatever it was. I turned crusty, too, and kept the men at work on all sorts of jobs, and drove them to it until they wished I was overboard, too. It wasn't that the old man and I were trying to drive them to desert without their pay, as I am sorry to say a good many skippers and mates do, even now. Captain Hackstaff was as straight as a string, and I didn't mean those poor fellows should be cheated out of a single cent; and I didn't blame them for wanting to leave the ship, but it seemed to me that the only chance to keep everybody sane through those last days was to work the men till they dropped. When they were dead tired they slept a little, and forgot the thing until they had to tumble up on deck and face it again. That was a good many years ago. Do you believe that I can't hear "Nancy Lee" now, without feeling cold down my back? For I heard it too, now and then, after the man had explained why he was always looking over his shoulder. Perhaps it was imagination. I don't know. When I look back it seems to me that I only remember a long fight against something I couldn't see, against an appalling presence, against something worse than cholera or Yellow Jack or the plague -- and goodness knows the mildest of them is bad enough when it breaks out at sea. The men got as white as chalk, and wouldn't go about decks alone at night, no matter what I said to them. With the cook raving in his bunk the forecastle would have been a perfect hell, and there wasn't a spare cabin on board. There never is on a fore-and-after. So I put him into mine, and he was more quiet there, and at last fell into a sort of stupor as if he were going to die. I don't know what became of him, for we put him ashore alive and left him in the hospital.

The men came aft in a body, quiet enough, and asked the captain if he wouldn't pay them off, and let them go ashore. Some men wouldn't have done it, for they had shipped for the voyage, and had signed articles. But the captain knew that when sailors get an idea into their heads they're no better than children; and if he forced them to stay aboard he wouldn't get much work out of them, and couldn't rely on them in a difficulty. So he paid them off, and let them go. When they had gone forward to get their kits, he asked me whether I wanted to go too, and for a minute I had a sort of weak feeling that I might just as well. But I didn't, and he was a good friend to me afterwards. Perhaps he was grateful to me for sticking to him.

When the men went off he didn't come on deck; but it was my duty to stand by while they left the ship. They owed me a grudge for making them work during the last few days, and most of them dropped into the boat without so much as a word or a look, as sailors will. Jack Benton was the last to go over the side, and he stood still a minute and looked at me, and his white face twitched. I thought he wanted to say something.

"Take care of yourself, Jack," said I. "So long!"

It seemed as if he couldn't speak for two or three seconds; then his words came thick.

"It wasn't my fault, Mr. Torkeldsen. I swear it wasn't my fault!"

That was all; and he dropped over the side, leaving me to wonder what he meant.

The captain and I stayed on board, and the ship-chandler got a West India boy to cook for us.

That evening, before turning in, we were standing by the rail having a quiet smoke, watching the lights of the city, a quarter of a mile off, reflected in the still water. There was music of some sort ashore, in a sailors' dance-house, I dare say; and I had no doubt that most of the men who had left the ship were there, and already full of jiggy-jiggy. The music played a lot of sailors' tunes that ran into each other, and we could hear the men's voices in the chorus now and then. One followed another, and then it was "Nancy Lee," loud and clear, and the men singing "Yo-ho, heave-ho!"

"I have no ear for music," said Captain Hackstaff, "but it appears to me that's the tune that man was whistling the night we lost the man overboard. I don't know why it has stuck in my head, and of course it's all nonsense; but it seems to me that I have heard it all the rest of the trip."

I didn't say anything to that, but I wondered just how much the old man had understood. Then we turned in, and I slept ten hours without opening my eyes.

I stuck to the Helen B. Jackson after that as long as I could stand a fore-and-after; but that night when we lay in Havana was the last time I ever heard "Nancy Lee" on board of her. The spare hand had gone ashore with the rest, and he never came back, and he took his tune with him; but all those things are just as clear in my memory as if they had happened yesterday.

After that I was in deep water for a year or more, and after I came home I got my certificate, and what with having friends and having saved a little money, and having had a small legacy from an uncle in Norway, I got the command of a coastwise vessel, with a small share in her. I was at home three weeks before going to sea, and Jack Benton saw my name in the local papers, and wrote to me.

He said that he had left the sea, and was trying farming, and he was going to be married, and he asked if I wouldn't come over for that, for it wasn't more than forty minutes by train; and he and Mamie would be proud to have me at the wedding. I remembered how I had heard one brother ask the other whether Mamie knew. That meant, whether she knew he wanted to marry her, I suppose. She had taken her time about it, for it was pretty nearly three years then since we had lost Jim Benton overboard.

I had nothing particular to do while we were getting ready for sea; nothing to prevent me from going over for a day, I mean; and I thought I'd like to see Jack Benton, and have a look at the girl he was going to marry. I wondered whether he had grown cheerful again, and had got rid of that drawn look he had when he told me it wasn't his fault. How could it have been his fault, anyhow? So I wrote to Jack that I would come down and see him married; and when the day came I took the train, and got there about ten o'clock in the morning. I wish I hadn't. Jack met me at the station, and he told me that the wedding was to be late in the afternoon, and that they weren't going off on any silly wedding trip, he and Mamie, but were just going to walk home from her mother's house to his cottage. That was good enough for him, he said. I looked at him hard for a minute after we met. When we had parted I had a sort of idea that he might take to drink, but he hadn't. He looked very respectable and well-to-do in his black coat and high city collar; but he was thinner and bonier than when I had known him, and there were lines in his face, and I thought his eyes had a queer look in them, half shifty, half scared. He needn't have been afraid of me, for I didn't mean to talk to his bride about the Helen B. Jackson.

He took me to his cottage first, and I could see that he was proud of it. It wasn't above a cable's-length from high-water mark, but the tide was running out, and there was already a broad stretch of hard wet sand on the other side of the beach road. Jack's bit of land ran back behind the cottage about a quarter of a mile, and he said that some of the trees we saw were his. The fences were neat and well kept, and there was a fair-sized barn a little way from the cottage, and I saw some nice-looking cattle in the meadows; but it didn't look to me to be much of a farm, and I thought that before long Jack would have to leave his wife to take care of it, and go to sea again. But I said it was a nice farm, so as to seem pleasant, and as I don't know much about these things I dare say it was, all the same. I never saw it but that once. Jack told me that he and his brother had been born in the cottage, and that when their father and mother died they leased the land to Mamie's father, but had kept the cottage to live in when they came home from sea for a spell. It was as neat a little place as you would care to see: the floors as clean as the decks of a yacht, and the paint as fresh as a man-o'-war. Jack always was a good painter. There was a nice parlour on the ground floor, and Jack had papered it and had hung the walls with photographs of ships and foreign ports, and with things he had brought home from his voyages: a boomerang, a South Sea club, Japanese straw hats and a Gibraltar fan with a bull-fight on it, and all that sort of gear. It looked to me as if Miss Mamie had taken a hand in arranging it. There was a bran-new polished iron Franklin stove set into the old fireplace, and a red table-cloth from Alexandria, embroidered with those outlandish Egyptian letters. It was all as bright and homelike as possible, and he showed me everything, and was proud of everything, and I liked him the better for it. But I wished that his voice would sound more cheerful, as it did when we first sailed in the Helen B., and that the drawn look would go out of his face for a minute. Jack showed me everything, and took me upstairs, and it was all the same: bright and fresh and ready for the bride. But on the upper landing there was a door that Jack didn't open. When we came out of the bedroom I noticed that it was ajar, and Jack shut it quickly and turned the key.

"That lock's no good," he said, half to himself. "The door is always open."

I didn't pay much attention to what he said, but as we went down the short stairs, freshly painted and varnished so that I was almost afraid to step on them, he spoke again.

"That was his room, sir. I have made a sort of store-room of it."

"You may be wanting it in a year or so," I said, wishing to be pleasant.

"I guess we won't use his room for that," Jack answered in a low voice.

Then he offered me a cigar from a fresh box in the parlour, and he took one, and we lit them, and went out; and as we opened the front door there was Mamie Brewster standing in the path as if she were waiting for us. She was a fine-looking girl, and I didn't wonder that Jack had been willing to wait three years for her. I could see that she hadn't been brought up on steam-heat and cold storage, but had grown into a woman by the sea-shore. She had brown eyes, and fine brown hair, and a good figure.

"This is Captain Torkeldsen," said Jack. "This is Miss Brewster, captain; and she is glad to see you."

"Well, I am," said Miss Mamie, "for Jack has often talked to us about you, captain."

She put out her hand, and took mine and shook it heartily, and I suppose I said something, but I know I didn't say much.

The front door of the cottage looked toward the sea, and there was a straight path leading to the gate on the beach road. There was another path from the steps of the cottage that turned to the right, broad enough for two people to walk easily, and it led straight across the fields through gates to a larger house about a quarter of a mile away. That was where Mamie's mother lived, and the wedding was to be there. Jack asked me whether I would like to look round the farm before dinner, but I told him I didn't know much about farms. Then he said he just wanted to look round himself a bit, as he mightn't have much more chance that day; and he smiled, and Mamie laughed.

"Show the captain the way to the house, Mamie," he said. "I'll be along in a minute."

So Mamie and I began to walk along the path, and Jack went up toward the barn.

"It was sweet of you to come, captain," Miss Mamie began, "for I have always wanted to see you."

"Yes," I said, expecting something more.

"You see, I always knew them both," she went on. "They used to take me out in a dory to catch codfish when I was a little girl, and I liked them both," she added thoughtfully. "Jack doesn't care to talk about his brother now. That's natural. But you won't mind telling me how it happened, will you? I should so much like to know."

Well, I told her about the voyage and what happened that night when we fell in with a gale of wind, and that it hadn't been anybody's fault, for I wasn't going to admit that it was my old captain's, if it was. But I didn't tell her anything about what happened afterwards. As she didn't speak, I just went on talking about the two brothers, and how like they had been, and how when poor Jim was drowned and Jack was left, I took Jack for him. I told her that none of us had ever been sure which was which.

"I wasn't always sure myself," she said, "unless they were together. Leastways, not for a day or two after they came home from sea. And now it seems to me that Jack is more like poor Jim, as I remember him, than he ever was, for Jim was always more quiet, as if he were thinking."

I told her I thought so, too. We passed the gate and went into the next field, walking side by side. Then she turned her head to look for Jack, but he wasn't in sight. I sha'n't forget what she said next.

"Are you sure now?" she asked.

I stood stock-still, and she went on a step, and then turned and looked at me. We must have looked at each other while you could count five or six.

"I know it's silly," she went on, "it's silly, and it's awful, too, and I have got no right to think it, but sometimes I can't help it. You see it was always Jack I meant to marry."

"Yes," I said stupidly, "I suppose so."

She waited a minute, and began walking on slowly before she went on again.

"I am talking to you as if you were an old friend, captain, and I have only known you five minutes. It was Jack I meant to marry, but now he is so like the other one."

When a woman gets a wrong idea into her head, there is only one way to make her tired of it, and that is to agree with her. That's what I did, and she went on talking the same way for a little while, and I kept on agreeing and agreeing until she turned round on me.

"You know you don't believe what you say," she said, and laughed. "You know that Jack is Jack, right enough; and it's Jack I am going to marry."

Of course I said so, for I didn't care whether she thought me a weak creature or not. I wasn't going to say a word that could interfere with her happiness, and I didn't intend to go back on Jack Benton; but I remembered what he had said when he left the ship in Havana: that it wasn't his fault.

"All the same," Miss Mamie went on, as a woman will, without realising what she was saying, "all the same, I wish I had seen it happen. Then I should know."

Next minute she knew that she didn't mean that, and was afraid that I would think her heartless, and began to explain that she would really rather have died herself than have seen poor Jim go overboard. Women haven't got much sense, anyhow. All the same, I wondered how she could marry Jack if she had a doubt that he might be Jim after all. I suppose she had really got used to him since he had given up the sea and had stayed ashore, and she cared for him.

Before long we heard Jack coming up behind us, for we had walked very slowly to wait for him.

"Promise not to tell anybody what I said, captain," said Mamie, as girls do as soon as they have told their secrets.

Anyhow, I know I never did tell any one but you. This is the first time I have talked of all that, the first time since I took the train from that place. I am not going to tell you all about the day. Miss Mamie introduced me to her mother, who was a quiet, hard-faced old New England farmer's widow, and to her cousins and relations; and there were plenty of them too at dinner, and there was the parson besides. He was what they call a Hard-shell Baptist in those parts, with a long, shaven upper lip and a whacking appetite, and a sort of superior look, as if he didn't expect to see many of us hereafter -- the way a New York pilot looks round, and orders things about when he boards an Italian cargo-dragger, as if the ship weren't up to much anyway, though it was his business to see that she didn't get aground. That's the way a good many parsons look, I think. He said grace as if he were ordering the men to sheet home the topgallant-sail and get the helm up. After dinner we went out on the piazza, for it was warm autumn weather; and the young folks went off in pairs along the beach road, and the tide had turned and was beginning to come in. The morning had been clear and fine, but by four o'clock it began to look like a fog, and the damp came up out of the sea and settled on everything. Jack said he'd go down to his cottage and have a last look, for the wedding was to be at five o'clock, or soon after, and he wanted to light the lights, so as to have things look cheerful.

"I will just take a last look," he said again, as we reached the house. We went in, and he offered me another cigar, and I lit it and sat down in the parlour. I could hear him moving about, first in the kitchen and then upstairs, and then I heard him in the kitchen again; and then before I knew anything I heard somebody moving upstairs again. I knew he couldn't have got up those stairs as quick as that. He came into the parlour, and he took a cigar himself, and while he was lighting it I heard those steps again overhead. His hand shook, and he dropped the match.

"Have you got in somebody to help?" I asked.

"No," Jack answered sharply, and struck another match.

"There's somebody upstairs, Jack," I said. "Don't you hear footsteps?"

"It's the wind, captain," Jack answered; but I could see he was trembling.

"That isn't any wind, Jack," I said; "it's still and foggy. I'm sure there's somebody upstairs."

"If you are so sure of it, you'd better go and see for yourself, captain," Jack answered, almost angrily.

He was angry because he was frightened. I left him before the fireplace, and went upstairs. There was no power on earth that could make me believe I hadn't heard a man's footsteps overhead. I knew there was somebody there. But there wasn't. I went into the bedroom, and it was all quiet, and the evening light was streaming in, reddish through the foggy air; and I went out on the landing and looked in the little back room that was meant for a servant girl or a child. And as I came back again I saw that the door of the other room was wide open, though I knew Jack had locked it. He had said the lock was no good. I looked in. It was a room as big as the bedroom, but almost dark, for it had shutters, and they were closed. There was a musty smell, as of old gear, and I could make out that the floor was littered with sea chests, and that there were oilskins and stuff piled on the bed. But I still believed that there was somebody upstairs, and I went in and struck a match and looked round. I could see the four walls and the shabby old paper, an iron bed and a cracked looking-glass, and the stuff on the floor. But there was nobody there. So I put out the match, and came out and shut the door and turned the key. Now, what I am telling you is the truth. When I had turned the key, I heard footsteps walking away from the door inside the room. Then I felt queer for a minute, and when I went downstairs I looked behind me, as the men at the wheel used to look behind them on board the Helen B.

Jack was already outside on the steps, smoking. I have an idea that he didn't like to stay inside alone.

"Well?" he asked, trying to seem careless.

"I didn't find anybody," I answered, "but I heard somebody moving about." "I told you it was the wind," said Jack, contemptuously. "I ought to know, for I live here, and I hear it often."

There was nothing to be said to that, so we began to walk down toward the beach. Jack said there wasn't any hurry, as it would take Miss Mamie some time to dress for the wedding. So we strolled along, and the sun was setting through the fog, and the tide was coming in. I knew the moon was full, and that when she rose the fog would roll away from the land, as it does sometimes. I felt that Jack didn't like my having heard that noise, so I talked of other things, and asked him about his prospects, and before long we were chatting as pleasantly as possible.

I haven't been at many weddings in my life, and I don't suppose you have, but that one seemed to me to be all right until it was pretty near over; and then, I don't know whether it was part of the ceremony or not, but Jack put out his hand and took Mamie's and held it a minute, and looked at her, while the parson was still speaking.

Mamie turned as white as a sheet and screamed. It wasn't a loud scream, but just a sort of stifled little shriek, as if she were half frightened to death; and the parson stopped, and asked her what was the matter, and the family gathered round.

"Your hand's like ice," said Mamie to Jack, "and it's all wet!"

She kept looking at it, as she got hold of herself again.

"It don't feel cold to me," said Jack, and he held the back of his hand against his cheek. "Try it again."

Mamie held out hers, and touched the back of his hand, timidly at first, and then took hold of it.

"Why, that's funny," she said.

"She's been as nervous as a witch all day," said Mrs. Brewster, severely.

"It is natural," said the parson, "that young Mrs. Benton should experience a little agitation at such a moment."

Most of the bride's relations lived at a distance, and were busy people, so it had been arranged that the dinner we'd had in the middle of the day was to take the place of a dinner afterwards, and that we should just have a bite after the wedding was over, and then that everybody should go home, and the young couple would walk down to the cottage by themselves. When I looked out I could see the light burning brightly in Jack's cottage, a quarter of a mile away. I said I didn't think I could get any train to take me back before half-past nine, but Mrs. Brewster begged me to stay until it was time, as she said her daughter would want to take off her wedding dress before she went home; for she had put on something white with a wreath, that was very pretty, and she couldn't walk home like that, could she?

So when we had all had a little supper the party began to break up, and when they were all gone Mrs. Brewster and Mamie went upstairs, and Jack and I went out on the piazza, to have a smoke, as the old lady didn't like tobacco in the house.

The full moon had risen now, and it was behind me as I looked down toward Jack's cottage, so that everything was clear and white, and there was only the light burning in the window. The fog had rolled down to the water's edge, and a little beyond, for the tide was high, or nearly, and was lapping up over the last reach of sand, within fifty feet of the beach road.

Jack didn't say much as we sat smoking, but he thanked me for coming to his wedding, and I told him I hoped he would be happy; and so I did. I dare say both of us were thinking of those footsteps upstairs, just then, and that the house wouldn't seem so lonely with a woman in it. By and by we heard Mamie's voice talking to her mother on the stairs, and in a minute she was ready to go. She had put on again the dress she had worn in the morning, and it looked black at night, almost as black as Jack's coat.

Well, they were ready to go now. It was all very quiet after the day's excitement, and I knew they would like to walk down that path alone now that they were man and wife at last. I bade them good-night, although Jack made a show of pressing me to go with them by the path as far as the cottage, instead of going to the station by the beach road. It was all very quiet, and it seemed to me a sensible way of getting married; and when Mamie kissed her mother good-night I just looked the other way, and knocked my ashes over the rail of the piazza. So they started down the straight path to Jack's cottage, and I waited a minute with Mrs. Brewster, looking after them, before taking my hat to go. They walked side by side, a little shyly at first, and then I saw Jack put his arm round her waist. As I looked he was on her left, and I saw the outline of the two figures very distinctly against the moonlight on the path; and the shadow on Mamie's right was broad and black as ink, and it moved along, lengthening and shortening with the unevenness of the ground beside the path.

I thanked Mrs. Brewster, and bade her good-night; and though she was a hard New England woman her voice trembled a little as she answered, but being a sensible person she went in and shut the door behind her as I stepped out on the path. I looked after the couple in the distance a last time, meaning to go down to the road, so as not to overtake them; but when I had made a few steps I stopped and looked again, for I knew I had seen something queer, though I had only realised it afterwards. I looked again, and it was plain enough now; and I stood stock-still, staring at what I saw. Mamie was walking between two men. The second man was just the same height as Jack, both being about a half a head taller than she; Jack on her left in his black tail-coat and round hat, and the other man on her right -- well, he was a sailor-man in wet oilskins. I could see the moonlight shining on the water that ran down him, and on the little puddle that had settled where the flap of his sou'wester was turned up behind: and one of his wet, shiny arms was round Mamie's waist, just above Jack's. I was fast to the spot where I stood, and for a minute I thought I was crazy. We'd had nothing but some cider for dinner, and tea in the evening, otherwise I'd have thought something had got into my head, though I was never drunk in my life. It was more like a bad dream after that.

I was glad Mrs. Brewster had gone in. As for me, I couldn't help following the three, in a sort of wonder to see what would happen, to see whether the sailor-man in his wet togs would just melt away into the moonshine. But he didn't.

I moved slowly, and I remembered afterwards that I walked on the grass, instead of on the path, as if I were afraid they might hear me coming. I suppose it all happened in less than five minutes after that, but it seemed as if it must have taken an hour. Neither Jack nor Mamie seemed to notice the sailor. She didn't seem to know that his wet arm was round her, and little by little they got near the cottage, and I wasn't a hundred yards from them when they reached the door. Something made me stand still then. Perhaps it was fright, for I saw everything that happened just as I see you now.

Mamie set her foot on the step to go up, and as she went forward I saw the sailor slowly lock his arm in Jack's, and Jack didn't move to go up. Then Mamie turned round on the step, and they all three stood that way for a second or two. She cried out then, -- I heard a man cry like that once, when his arm was taken off by a steam-crane, -- and she fell back in a heap on the little piazza.

I tried to jump forward, but I couldn't move, and I felt my hair rising under my hat. The sailor turned slowly where he stood, and swung Jack round by the arm steadily and easily, and began to walk him down the pathway from the house. He walked him straight down that path, as steadily as Fate; and all the time I saw the moonlight shining on his wet oilskins. He walked him through the gate, and across the beach road, and out upon the wet sand, where the tide was high. Then I got my breath with a gulp, and ran for them across the grass, and vaulted over the fence, and stumbled across the road. But when I felt the sand under my feet, the two were at the water's edge; and when I reached the water they were far out, and up to their waists; and I saw that Jack Benton's head had fallen forward on his breast, and his free arm hung limp beside him, while his dead brother steadily marched him to his death. The moonlight was on the dark water, but the fog-bank was white beyond, and I saw them against it; and they went slowly and steadily down. The water was up to their armpits, and then up to their shoulders, and then I saw it rise up to the black rim of Jack's hat. But they never wavered; and the two heads went straight on, straight on, till they were under, and there was just a ripple in the moonlight where Jack had been.

It has been on my mind to tell you that story, whenever I got a chance. You have known me, man and boy, a good many years; and I thought I would like to hear your opinion. Yes, that's what I always thought. It wasn't Jim that went overboard; it was Jack, and Jim just let him go when he might have saved him; and then Jim passed himself off for Jack with us, and with the girl. If that's what happened, he got what he deserved. People said the next day that Mamie found it out as they reached the house, and that her husband just walked out into the sea, and drowned himself; and they would have blamed me for not stopping him if they'd known that I was there. But I never told what I had seen, for they wouldn't have believed me. I just let them think I had come too late.

When I reached the cottage and lifted Mamie up, she was raving mad. She got better afterwards, but she was never right in her head again.

Oh, you want to know if they found Jack's body? I don't know whether it was his, but I read in a paper at a Southern port where I was with my new ship that two dead bodies had come ashore in a gale down East, in pretty bad shape. They were locked together, and one was a skeleton in oilskins.


*     *     *     *     *


Francis Marion Crawford, the youngest of the four children of the well-known sculptor Thomas Crawford, was born in Rome, educated by a French governess; then at St Paul's School, Concord, N.H.; in the quiet country village of Hatfield Regis, under an English tutor; at Trinity College, Cambridge, where they thought him a mathematician in those days; at Heidelberg and Karlsruhe, and at the University of Rome, where a special interest in Oriental languages sent him to India with the idea of preparing for a professorship.

At one time in India hard times nearly forced him into enlistment in the British army, but a chance opening sent him as editor of the Indian Herald to Allahabad. It was during the next eighteen months that he met at Simla the hero of his first novel, "Mr. Isaacs." "If it had not been for him," Mr. Crawford has been known to say, "I might at this moment be a professor of Sanskrit in some American college;" for that idea persisted after his return to the United States, where he entered Harvard for special study of the subject.

But from the May evening when the story of the interesting man at Simla was first told in a club smoking-room overlooking Madison Square, Mr. Crawford's life has been one of hard literary work. He returned to Italy in 1883, spent most of the next year in Constantinople, where he was married to a daughter of General Berdan. From 1885 he has made his home in Sorrento, Italy, visiting America at intervals.

"Mr. Isaacs," published in 1882, was followed almost at once by "Dr. Claudius." Then The Atlantic Monthly claimed a serial, "A Roman Singer," in 1883. Since that time the list of his novels has been increased to thirty-two, besides the historical and descriptive works entitled "Ave Roma Immortalis" and "The Rulers of the South."

To Mr. Crawford, the development of a story and of the character which suggested it, is the preeminent thing. As the critics say: -- 

"He is an artist, a born story-teller and colourist, imaginative and dramatic, virile and vivid."

His wide range as a traveller has contributed doubtless to another characteristic quality: -- 

"... his strength in unexcelled portraits of odd characters and his magical skill in seeming to make his readers witnesses of the spectacles."

His intimate knowledge of many countries has resulted in an unequalled series of brilliant romances, including varied characters from the old families of Rome, the glassblowers of Venice, the silversmiths of Rome, the cigarette makers of Munich, the court of old Madrid, the Turks of Stamboul and the Bosphorus, simple sailors on the coast of Spain, Americans of modern New York and Bar Harbor, to Crusaders of the twelfth century. But whether the scene be in modern India, rural England, the Black Forest, or the palaces of Babylon, the story seizes on the imagination and fascinates the reader.

"The romantic reader will find here a tale of love passionate and pure; the student of character, the subtle analysis and deft portrayal he loves; the historian will approve its conscientious historic accuracy; the lover of adventure will find his blood stir and pulses quicken as he reads."

<eob>

Marjorie's Vacation

By

Carolyn Wells



Chapter I

Marjorie's Home


In the Maynards' side yard at Rockwell, a swingful of children was slowly swaying back and forth.

The swing was one of those big double wooden affairs that hold four people, so the Maynards just filled it comfortably.

It was a lovely soft summer day in the very beginning of June; the kind of day that makes anybody feel happy but a little bit subdued. The kind of day when the sky is so blue, and the air so clear, that everything seems dreamy and quiet.

But the Maynard children were little, if any, affected by the atmosphere, and though they did seem a trifle subdued, it was a most unusual state of things, and was brought about by reasons far more definite than sky or atmosphere.

Kingdon Maynard, the oldest of the four, and the only boy, was fourteen. These facts had long ago fixed his position as autocrat, dictator, and final court of appeal. Whatever King said, was law to the three girls, but as the boy was really a mild-mannered tyrant, no trouble ensued. Of late, though, he had begun to show a slight inclination to go off on expeditions with other boys, in which girls were not included. But this was accepted by his sisters as a natural course of events, for of course, if King did it, it must be all right.

Next to Kingdon in the swing sat the baby, Rosamond, who was five years old, and who was always called Rosy Posy. She held in her arms a good-sized white Teddy Bear, who was adorned with a large blue bow and whose name was Boffin. He was the child's inseparable companion, and, as he was greatly beloved by the other children, he was generally regarded as a member of the family.

On the opposite seat of the swing sat Kitty, who was nine years old, and who closely embraced her favorite doll, Arabella.

And by Kitty's side sat Marjorie, who was almost twelve, and who also held a pet, which, in her case, was a gray Persian kitten. This kitten was of a most amiable disposition, and was named Puff, because of its fluffy silver fur and fat little body.

Wherever Marjorie went, Puff was usually with her, and oftenest hung over her arm, looking more like a fur boa than a cat.

At the moment, however, Puff was curled up in Marjorie's lap, and was merely a nondescript ball of fur.

These, then, were the Maynards, and though their parents would have said they had four children, yet the children themselves always said, "We are seven," and insisted on considering the kitten, the doll, and the bear as members of the Maynard family.

Kingdon scorned pets, which the girls considered quite the right thing for a boy to do; and, anyway, Kingdon had enough to attend to, to keep the swing going.

"I 'most wish it wasn't my turn," said Marjorie, with a little sigh. "Of course I want to go for lots of reasons, but I'd love to be in Rockwell this summer, too."

"As you're not twins you can't very well be in two places at once," said her brother; "but you'll have a gay old time, Mops; there's the new boathouse, you know, since you were there."

"I haven't been there for three years," said Marjorie, "and I suppose there'll be lots of changes."

"I was there two years ago," said Kitty, "but Arabella has never been."

"I'se never been, eever," said Rosy Posy, wistfully, "and so Boffin hasn't, too. But we don't want to go, us wants to stay home wiv Muvver."

"And I say, Mops, look out for the Baltimore oriole," went on Kingdon. "He had a nest in the big white birch last year, and like as not he'll be there again."

"There was a red-headed woodpecker two years ago," said Kitty; "perhaps he'll be there this summer."

"I hope so," said Marjorie; "I'm going to take my big Bird book, and then I can tell them all."

It was the custom in the Maynard household for one of the children to go each summer to Grandma Sherwood's farm near Morristown. They took turns, but as Rosy Posy was so little she had not begun yet.

The children always enjoyed the vacation at Grandma's, but they were a chummy little crowd and dreaded the separation. This was the reason of their subdued and depressed air to-day.

It was Marjorie's turn, and she was to leave home the next morning. Mrs. Maynard was to accompany her on the journey, and then return, leaving Marjorie in the country for three months.

"I wonder how Puffy will like it," she said, as she picked up the kitten, and looked into its blue eyes.

"She'll be all right," said Kingdon, "if she doesn't fight with Grandma's cats. There were about a dozen there last year, and they may object to Puff's style of hair-dressing. Perhaps we'd better cut her hair before she starts."

"No, indeed!" cried Marjorie, "not a hair shall be touched, unless you'd like a lock to keep to remember her while she's gone."

"No, thank you," said King, loftily; "I don't carry bits of cat around in my pockets."

"I'd like a lock," said Kitty; "I'd tie it with a little blue ribbon, and keep it for a forget-me-not. And I'll give you a little curl of Arabella's, and you can keep that to remember her by."

"All right," said Marjorie; "and I'll take a lock of Boffin Bear's hair too. Then I'll have a memento of all the family, because I have pictures of all of you, you know."

With the Maynards to suggest was to act. So the four scrambled out of the swing, and ran to the house.

The Maynard house was a large square affair, with verandas all around. Not pretentious, but homelike and comfortable, and largely given over to the children's use. Though not often in the drawing-room, the four young Maynards frequently monopolized the large living-room, and were allowed free access to the library as well.

Also they had a general playroom and a nursery; and Kingdon had a small den or workroom for his own use, which was oftener than not invaded by the girls.

To the playroom they went, and Kingdon carefully cut small locks from the kitten, the doll, and the bear, and Marjorie neatly tied them with narrow blue ribbons. These mementoes the girls put away, and carefully treasured all through the summer.

Another Maynard custom was a farewell feast at dinner, the night before vacation began. Ordinarily, only the two older children dined with their parents, the other two having their tea in the nursery. But on this occasion, all were allowed at dinner, and the feast was made a special honor for the one who was going away. Gifts were made, as on a birthday, and festival dress was in order.

A little later, then, the four children presented themselves in the library, where their parents awaited them.

Mr. Maynard was a man of merry disposition and rollicking nature, and sometimes joined so heartily in the children's play that he seemed scarcely older than they.

Mrs. Maynard was more sedate, and was a loving mother, though not at all a fussy one. She was glad in many ways to have one of her children spend the summer each year with her mother, but it always saddened her when the time of departure came.

She put her arm around Marjorie, without a word, as the girl came into the room, for it had been three years since the two had been parted, and Mrs. Maynard felt a little sad at the thought of separation.

"Don't look like that, Mother," said Marjorie, "for if you do, I'll begin to feel weepy, and I won't go at all."

"Oh, yes, you will, Miss Midge," cried her father; "you'll go, and you'll stay all summer, and you'll have a perfectly beautiful time. And, then, the first of September I'll come flying up there to get you, and bring you home, and it'll be all over. Now, such a short vacation as that isn't worth worrying about, is it?"

"No," put in Kingdon, "and last year when I went there wasn't any sad good-by."

"That's because you're a boy," said his mother, smiling at him proudly; "tearful good-bys are only for girls and women."

"Yes," said Mr. Maynard, "they enjoy them, you know. Now, I think it is an occasion of rejoicing that Marjorie is to go to Grandma's and have a happy, jolly vacation. We can all write letters to her, and she will write a big budget of a family letter that we can all enjoy together."

"And Mopsy must wite me a little letter, all for my own sef," remarked Rosy Posy, "'cause I like to get letters all to me."

Baby Rosamond was dressed up for the occasion in a very frilly white frock, and being much impressed by the grandeur of staying up to dinner, she had solemnly seated herself in state on a big sofa, holding Boffin Bear in her arms. Her words, therefore, seemed to have more weight than when she was her everyday roly-poly self, tumbling about on the floor, and Marjorie at once promised that she should have some letters all to herself.

When dinner was announced, Mr. Maynard, with Marjorie, led the procession to the diningroom. They were followed by Mrs. Maynard and Rosamond, and after them came Kingdon and Kitty.

Kitty was a golden-haired little girl, quite in contrast to Marjorie, who had tangled masses of dark, curly hair and large, dark eyes. Her cheeks were round and rosy, and her little white teeth could almost always be seen, for merry Marjorie was laughing most of the time. To-night she wore one of her prettiest white dresses, and her dark curls were clustered at the top of her head into a big scarlet bow. The excitement of the occasion made her cheeks red and her eyes bright, and Mrs. Maynard looked at her pretty eldest daughter with a pardonable pride.

"Midge," she said, "there are just about a hundred things I ought to tell you before you go to Grandma's, but if I were to tell you now, you wouldn't remember one of them; so I have written them all down, and you must take the list with you, and read it every morning so that you may remember and obey the instructions."

Midge was one of the numerous nicknames by which Marjorie was called. Her tumbling, curly hair, which was everlastingly escaping from its ribbon, had gained for her the title of Mops or Mopsy. Midge and Midget had clung to her from babyhood, because she was an active and energetic child, and so quick of motion that she seemed to dart like a midge from place to place. She never did anything slowly. Whether it was an errand for her mother or a game of play, Midge always moved rapidly. Her tasks were always done in half the time it took the other children to do theirs; but in consequence of this haste, they were not always done as well or as thoroughly as could be desired.

This, her mother often told her, was her besetting sin, and Marjorie truly tried to correct it when she thought of it; but often she was too busy with the occupation in hand to remember the good instructions she had received.

"I'm glad you did that, Mother," she replied to her mother's remark, "for I really haven't time to study the list now. But I'll promise to read it over every morning at Grandma's, and honest and true, I'll try to be good."

"Of course you will," said her father, heartily; "you'll be the best little girl in the world, except the two you leave here behind you."

"Me's the bestest," calmly remarked Rosamond, who seemed especially satisfied with herself that evening.

"You are," agreed King; "you look good enough to eat, to-night."

Rosamond beamed happily, for she was not unused to flattering observations from the family. And, indeed, she was a delicious-looking morsel of humanity, as she sat in her high chair, and tried her best to "behave like a lady."

The table was decorated with June roses and daisies. The dinner included Marjorie's favorite dishes, and the dessert was strawberries and ice cream, which, Kitty declared, always made a party, anyway.

So with the general air of celebration, and Mr. Maynard's gay chatter and jokes, the little trace of sadness that threatened to appear was kept out of sight, and all through the summer Marjorie had only pleasant memories of her last evening at home.

After the dessert the waitress appeared again with a trayful of parcels, done up in the most fascinating way, in tissue paper and dainty ribbons.

This, too, was always a part of the farewell feast, and Marjorie gave a little sigh of satisfaction, as the well-filled tray was placed before her.

"That's mine! Open mine first!" cried Rosamond, as Marjorie picked up a good-sized bundle.

"Yes, that's Rosy Posy's," said her mother, laughing, "and she picked it out herself, because she thought it would please you. Open it first, Midge."

So Marjorie opened the package, and discovered a little clock, on the top of which was perched a brilliant red bird.

Rosamond clapped her hands in glee. "I knew you'd love it," she cried, "'cause it's a birdie, a yed birdie. And I finded it all mysef in the man's shop. Do you yike it, Mopsy?"

"Indeed I do," cried Marjorie; "it's just what I wanted. I shall keep it on my dressing-table at Grandma's, and then I'll know just when to get up every morning."

"Open mine next," said Kitty; "it's the square flat one, with the blue ribbon."

So Marjorie opened Kitty's present and it was a picture, beautifully framed to hang on the wall at Grandma's. The picture was of birds, two beautiful orioles on a branch. The colors were so bright, and so true to nature, that Marjorie exclaimed in delight:

"Now I shall have orioles there, anyway, whether there are real ones in the trees or not. It is lovely, Kitsie, and I don't see how you ever found such a beautiful bird picture."

Marjorie had always been fond of birds, and lately had begun studying them in earnest. Orioles were among her favorites, and so Kitty's picture was a truly welcome gift. King's present came next, and was a beautiful gold pen with a pearl holder.

"That," he explained, "is so you'll write to us often. For I know, Mops, your old penholder is broken, and it's silver, anyway. This is nicer, because it's no trouble to keep it clean and bright."

"That's so, King, and I'm delighted with this one. I shall write you a letter with it, first of all, and I'll tell you all about the farm."

Mrs. Maynard's gift was in a very small parcel, and when Marjorie opened it she found a dear little pearl ring.

"Oh, goody!" she cried. "I do love rings, and I never had one before! May I wear it always, Mother?"

"Yes," said Mrs. Maynard, smiling. "I don't approve of much jewelry for a little girl not yet twelve years old, but you may wear that."

Marjorie put it on her finger with great satisfaction, and Kitty looked at it lovingly.

"May I have one when I am twelve, Mother?" she asked.

"May I, may I?" chimed in Rosy Posy.

"Yes," said Mr. Maynard; "you girls may each have one just like Marjorie's when you are as old as she is now. That last parcel, Mops, is my present for you. I'm not sure that you can learn to use it, but perhaps you can, and if not I'll take it back and exchange it for something else."

Marjorie eagerly untied the wrappings of her father's gift, and found a little snapshot camera.

"Indeed I can learn to use it," she cried; "I took some pictures once with a camera that belonged to one of the girls at school, and they were all right. Thank you heaps and heaps, father dear; I'll send you pictures of everything on the place; from Grandma herself down to the littlest, weeniest, yellow chicken."

"Next year it will be my turn to go," said Kitty; "I hope I'll get as lovely presents as Mopsy has."

"You will," said Kingdon; "because last year mine were just as good, and so, of course, yours will be."

"I'm sure they will," said Kitty.



Chapter II

The Trip To Haslemere


The next morning all was bustle and excitement.

Mr. Maynard stayed at home from business to escort the travellers to the train. The trunks were packed, and everything was in readiness for their departure. Marjorie herself, in a spick-and-span pink gingham dress, a tan-colored travelling cloak, and a broad-brimmed white straw hat, stood in the hall saying good-bye to the other children. She carried Puff in her arm, and the sleepy, indifferent kitten cared little whither she was going.

"Be sure," Kingdon was saying, "to plant the seeds I gave you in a sunny place, for if you don't they won't grow right."

"What are the seeds?" asked Marjorie.

"Never mind that," said her brother; "you just plant them in a warm, sunny bed, in good, rich soil, and then you wait and see what comes up. It's a surprise."

"All right, I'll do that, and I suppose Grandma will give me a lot of seeds besides; we always have gardens, you know."

"Be sure to write to me," said Kitty, "about Molly Moss. She's the one that lives in the next house but one to Grandma's. You've never seen her, but I saw her two years ago, and she's an awfully nice girl. You'll like her, I know."

"And what shall I remember to do for you, Rosy Posy?" asked Marjorie, as she kissed the baby good-bye.

"Don't know," responded the little one; "I've never been to Gamma's. Is they piggy-wigs there?"

"No," said Marjorie, laughing; "no piggy-wigs, but some nice ducks."

"All wite; b'ing me a duck."

"I will, if Grandma will give me one"; and then Marjorie was hurried down the steps by her father, and into the carriage, and away she went, with many a backward look at the three children who stood on the veranda waving good-byes to her.

The railroad trip to Morristown lasted about four hours, and Marjorie greatly enjoyed it. Mr. Maynard had put the two travellers into their chairs in the parlor car, and arranged their belongings for them. Marjorie had brought a book to read and a game to play, but with the novel attractions of the trip and the care of her kitten, she was not likely to have time hang heavily on her hands.

Mrs. Maynard read a magazine for a time, and then they were summoned to luncheon in the diningcar. Marjorie thought this great fun, for what is nicer than to be a hungry little girl of twelve, and to eat all sorts of good things, while flying swiftly along in a railroad train, and gazing out of the window at towns and cities rushing by?

Marjorie sat opposite her mother, and observed with great interest the other passengers about. Across the car was a little girl who seemed to be about her own age, and Marjorie greatly wished that they might become acquainted. Mrs. Maynard said that after luncheon she might go and speak to the little stranger if she chose, and Marjorie gladly did so.

"I wonder if you belong in my car," said Marjorie, by way of opening the conversation.

"I don't know," said the other child; "our seats are in the car just back of this."

"We are two cars back," said Marjorie, "but perhaps your mother will let you come into my car a while. I have my kitten with me."

"Where is it?" asked the other little girl.

"I had to leave it with the porter while we came to luncheon. Oh, she's the loveliest kitten you ever saw, and her name is Puff. What's your name?"

"My name is Stella Martin. What's yours?"

"My real name is Marjorie Maynard. But I'm almost always called Midge or Mops or some name like that. We all have nicknames at home; don't you?"

"No, because you see I haven't any brothers or sisters. Mother always calls me Stella."

"Well, let's go and ask her if you can't come into my car for a while. My mother will look after you, and then you can see the kitten."

After some courteous words of explanation between the two mothers, Stella was allowed to play with Marjorie for the rest of the journey.

Seated together in one of the big Pullman easy chairs, with the kitten cuddled between them, they rapidly made each other's acquaintance, and soon became good friends. They were not at all alike, for Stella Martin was a thin, pale child with a long braid of straight, light hair, and light blue eyes. She was timid, too, and absolutely devoid of Marjorie's impetuosity and daring. But they were both pleased at the discovery that they were to be near neighbors throughout the summer. Stella's home was next-door to Grandma Sherwood's, although, as both country places were so large, the houses were some distance apart.

Next beyond Stella's house, Marjorie remembered, was where Molly Moss lived, and so the outlook seemed to promise plenty of pleasant company.

About three o'clock in the afternoon the train reached Morristown, and springing out on the platform, Marjorie soon spied Grandma Sherwood's carriage there to meet them. Old Moses was still in charge of the horses, as he had been ever since Marjorie could remember, and in a moment she heard a hearty voice cry, "Oh, there you are!" and there was Uncle Steve waiting for them on the platform.

Uncle Steve was a great friend of Marjorie's, and she flew to greet him almost before he had time to welcome her mother. Then in a few moments the luggage was looked after, and they were all in the carriage, rolling away toward Haslemere.

Marjorie chatted away like a magpie, for she had many questions to ask Uncle Steve, and as she was looking out to renew acquaintance with old landmarks along the road, the drive to the house seemed very short, and soon they were turning in at the gate.

Haslemere was not a large, old-fashioned farm, but a fair-sized and well-kept country place. Grandma Sherwood, who had been a widow for many years, lived there with her son Stephen. It was like a farm, because there were chickens and ducks, and cows and horses, and also a large garden where fresh vegetables of all sorts were raised. But there were no grain fields or large pasture lands, or pigs or turkeys, such as belong to larger farms. The drive from the gate up to the house was a long avenue, shaded on both sides by beautiful old trees, and the wide expanse of lawn was kept as carefully mowed as if at a town house. There were flower beds in abundance, and among the trees and shrubbery were rustic seats and arbors, hammocks and swings, and a delightful tent where the children loved to play. Back of the house the land sloped down to the river, which was quite large enough for delightful boating and fishing.

The house was of that old-fashioned type which has two front doors and two halls, with large parlors between them, and wings on either side. A broad veranda ran across the front, and, turning both corners, ran along either side.

As they drove up to the house, Grandma Sherwood was on the piazza waiting for them. She was not a very old lady, that is, she was not of the white-haired, white-capped, and silver-spectacled variety. She was perhaps sixty years old, and seemed quite as energetic and enthusiastic as her daughter, if perhaps not quite so much so as her granddaughter.

Marjorie sprang out of the carriage, and flew like a young whirlwind to her grandmother's arms, which were open to receive her.

"My dear child, how you have grown!"

"I knew you'd say that, Grandma," said Marjorie, laughing merrily, "and, indeed, I have grown since I was here last. Just think, that was three years ago! I'm almost twelve years old now."

"Well, you are a great girl; run in the house, and lay off your things, while I speak to your mother."

Marjorie danced into the house, flung her coat and gloves on the hall rack, and still holding her kitten, went on through to the kitchen, in search of Eliza the cook.

"The saints presarve us!" cried Eliza. "An' is it yersilf, Miss Midget! Why, ye're as big as a tellygraft pole, so ye are!"

"I know I am, Eliza, but you're just the same as ever; and just look at the kitten I have brought! Have you any here now?"

"Cats, is it? Indade we have, then! I'm thinkin' there do be a hundred dozen of thim; they're undher me feet continual! But what kind of a baste is thot ye have there? I niver saw such a woolly one!"

"This is a Persian kitten, Eliza, and her name is Puff. Isn't she pretty?"

"I'll not be sayin' she's purty, till I see how she doos be behavin'. Is she a good little cat, Miss Midget dear?"

"Good! Indeed she is a good kitty. And I wish you'd give her some milk, Eliza, while I run out to see the chickens. Is Carter out there?"

But without waiting for an answer, Marjorie was already flying down through the garden, and soon found Carter, the gardener, at his work.

"Hello, Carter!" she cried. "How are you this summer?"

"Welcome, Miss Midge! I'm glad to see you back," exclaimed the old gardener, who was very fond of the Maynard children.

"And I'm glad to be here, Carter; and I have some seeds to plant; will you help me plant them?"

"That I will. What are they?"

"I don't know; King gave them to me, but he wouldn't tell me what they were."

"Ah, the mischievous boy! Now, how can we tell where to plant them when we don't know if they'll come up lilies of the valley or elephant's ears?"

Marjorie laughed gayly. "It doesn't matter, Carter," she said; "let's stick them in some sunny place, and then, if they seem to be growing too high, we can transplant them."

"It's a wise little head you have, Miss; we'll do just that."

Humoring Marjorie's impatience, the good-natured gardener helped her plant the seeds in a sunny flowerbed, and raked the dirt neatly over them with an experienced touch.

"That looks lovely," said Marjorie, with a satisfied nod of approval; "now let's go and see the chickens."

This proved even more interesting than she had anticipated, for since her last visit an incubator had been purchased, and there were hundreds of little chickens of various sizes, in different compartments, to be looked at and admired.

"Aren't they darlings!" exclaimed Marjorie, as she watched the little yellow balls trying to balance themselves on slender little brown stems that hardly seemed as if they could be meant for legs. "Oh, Carter, I shall spend hours out here every day!"

"Do, Miss Midge; I'll be glad to have you, and the chickens won't mind it a bit."

"Now the horses," Marjorie went on, and off they went to the stables, where Moses had already unharnessed the carriage team, and put them in their stalls. Uncle Steve had a new saddle horse, which came in for a large share of admiration, and the old horse, Betsy, which Grandma Sherwood liked to drive herself, was also to be greeted.

Marjorie loved all animals, but after cats, horses were her favorites.

"Are there any ducks this year, Carter?" she inquired.

"Yes, Miss Midge, there is a duck-pond full of them; and you haven't seen the new boathouse that was built last year for Master Kingdon."

"No, but I want to see it; and oh, Carter, don't you think you could teach me to row?"

"I'm sure of it, Miss Midge; but I hear your grandmother calling you, and I think you'd better leave the boathouse to see to-morrow."

"All right; I think so too, Carter." And Marjorie ran back to the house, her broad-brimmed hat in one hand and her hair ribbon in the other, while her curls were, indeed, in a tangled mop.



Chapter III

On The Roof


"Why, Mopsy Maynard," exclaimed her mother, as Marjorie danced into the house, smiling and dishevelled, "what a looking head! Please go straight to your room, and make yourself tidy before supper time."

"Yes, indeed, Mother, but just listen a minute! Uncle Steve has a new horse, a black one, and there are a hundred million little chickens, in the queerest kind of a thing, but I can't remember its name, -- it's something like elevator."

"Incubator, perhaps," suggested her mother.

"Yes, that's it; and oh, Mother, it's so funny! Do come out and see it, won't you?"

"Not to-night, child; and now run up to your room and tie up your hair."

Marjorie danced upstairs, singing as she went, but when she reached the door of the room she was accustomed to use, she stopped her singing and stood in the doorway, stock-still with sheer bewilderment.

For somehow the room had been entirely transformed, and looked like a totally different apartment.

The room was in one of the wings of the house, and was large and square, with windows on two sides. But these had been ordinary windows, and now they were replaced by large, roomy bay windows, with glass doors that reached from floor to ceiling, and opened out on little balconies. In one of these bay windows was a dear little rocking-chair painted white, and a standard work-basket of dainty white and green wicker, completely furnished with sewing materials. In the other bay window was a dear little writing-desk of bird's-eye maple, and a wicker chair in front of it. The desk was open, and Marjorie could see all sorts of pens and pencils and paper in fascinating array.

But these were only a few of the surprises. The whole room had been redecorated, and the walls were papered with a design of yellow daffodils in little bunches tied with pale green ribbon. The woodwork was all painted white, and entirely around the room, at just about the height of Marjorie's chin, ran a broad white shelf. Of course this shelf stopped for the windows and doors, but the room was large, and there was a great deal of space left for the shelf. But it was the things on the shelf that attracted Marjorie's attention. One side of the room was devoted to books, and Marjorie quickly recognized many of her old favorites, and many new ones. On another side of the room the shelf was filled with flowers, some blooming gayly in pots, and some cut blossoms in vases of water. On a third side of the room the shelf held birds, and this sight nearly took Marjorie's breath away. Some were in gilt cages, a canary, a goldfinch, and another bird whose name Marjorie did not know. And some were stuffed birds of brilliant plumage, and mounted in most natural positions on twigs or branches, or perched upon an ivy vine which was trained along the wall. The fourth side was almost empty, and Marjorie knew at once that it was left so in order that she might have a place for such treasured belongings as she had brought with her.

"Well!" she exclaimed, although there was no one there to hear her. "Well, if this isn't the best ever!" She stood in the middle of the room, and turned slowly round and round, taking in by degrees the furnishings and adornment. All of the furniture was new, and the brass bed and dainty dressing-table seemed to Marjorie quite fit for any princess.

"Well!" she exclaimed again, and as she turned around this time she saw the older people watching her from the hall.

"Oh, Grandma Sherwood!" she cried, and running to the old lady, proceeded to hug her in a way that was more affectionate than comfortable.

"Do you like it?" asked Grandma, when she could catch her breath.

"Like it! It's the most beautiful, loveliest, sweetest room in the whole world! I love it! Did you do it all for me, Grandma?"

"Yes, Midget; that is, I fixed up the room, but for the shelf you must thank Uncle Steve. That is his idea entirely, and he superintended its putting up. You're to use it this year, and next year Kitty can have her dolls and toys on it, and then the year after, King can use it for his fishing-tackle and boyish traps. Though I suppose by that time Rosamond will be old enough to take her turn."

"Then I can't come again for four years," exclaimed Marjorie, with an expression of consternation on her face.

"Not unless you come two at a time," said Grandma; "and I doubt if your mother would consent to that."

"No, indeed," said Mrs. Maynard; "it's hard enough to lose one of the flock, without losing two."

"Well, I'll have a good time with it this summer, anyway," said Marjorie; "can't we unpack my trunk now, Mother, so I can put my pearl pen in my desk; and my clock, that Rosy Posy gave me, on the shelf; and hang up my bird picture on the wall?"

"Not just now," said her mother, "for it is nearly supper time, and you must transform yourself from a wild maid of the woods into a decorous little lady."

The transformation was accomplished, and it was not very long before a very neat and tidy Marjorie walked sedately downstairs to the dining-room. Her white dress was immaculate; a big white bow held the dark curls in place, and only the dancing eyes betrayed the fact that it was an effort to behave so demurely.

"Well, Midget," said Uncle Steve, as they were seated at the supper table, "does the old place look the same?"

"No, indeed, Uncle; there are lots of changes, but best of all is my beauty room. I never saw anything so lovely; I just want to stay up there all the time."

"I thought you'd like that shelf. Now you have room for all the thousand and one bits of rubbish that you accumulate through the summer."

"'Tisn't rubbish!" exclaimed Marjorie, indignantly; "it's dear little birds' nests, and queer kinds of rocks, and branches of strange trees and grasses and things."

"Well, I only meant it sounds to me like rubbish," said Uncle Steve, who loved to tease her about her enthusiasms.

But she only smiled good-naturedly, for she well knew that Uncle Steve was the very one who would take her for long walks in the woods, on purpose to gather this very "rubbish."

The next day Marjorie was up bright and early, quite ready for any pleasure that might offer itself.

Her mother went back home that day, and though Marjorie felt a little sad at parting, yet, after all, Grandma Sherwood's house was like a second home, and there was too much novelty and entertainment all about to allow time for feeling sad.

Moreover, Marjorie was of a merry, happy disposition. It was natural to her to make the best of everything, and even had she had reasons for being truly miserable, she would have tried to be happy in spite of them.

So she bade her mother good-by, and sent loving messages to all at home, and promised to write often.

"Remember," said her mother, as a parting injunction, "to read every morning the list I gave you, which includes all my commands for the summer. When I see you again I shall expect you to tell me that you obeyed them all."

"I will try," said Marjorie; "but if it is a long list I may forget some of them sometimes. You know, Mother, I AM forgetful."

"You are, indeed," said Mrs. Maynard, smiling; "but if you'll try I think you'll succeed, at least fairly well. Good-by now, dear; I must be off; and do you go at once to your room and read over the list so as to start the day right."

"I will," said Marjorie, and as soon as she had waved a last good-by, and the carriage had disappeared from view, she ran to her room, and sitting down at her pretty desk, unfolded the list her mother had given her.

To her great surprise, instead of the long list she had expected to find, there were only two items. The first was, "Keep your hands clean, and your hair tidy"; and the other read, "Obey Grandma implicitly."

"Well," thought Marjorie to herself, "I can easily manage those two! And yet," she thought further, with a little sigh, "they're awfully hard ones. My hands just WON'T keep clean, and my hair ribbon is forever coming off! And of course I MEAN to obey Grandma always; but sometimes she's awful strict, and sometimes I forget what she told me."

But with a firm resolve in her heart to do her best, Marjorie went downstairs, and went out to play in the garden.

Some time later she saw a girl of about her own age coming down the path toward her. She was a strange-looking child, with a very white face, snapping black eyes, and straight wiry black hair, braided in two little braids, which stood out straight from her head.

"Are you Marjorie?" she said, in a thin, piping voice. "I'm Molly Moss, and I've come to play with you. I used to know Kitty."

"Yes," said Marjorie, pleasantly, "I'm Marjorie, and I'm Kitty's sister. I'm glad you came. Is that your kitten?"

"Yes," said Molly, as she held up a very small black kitten, which was indeed an insignificant specimen compared to the Persian beauty hanging over Marjorie's arm.

"It's a dear kitten," Molly went on. "Her name is Blackberry. Don't you like her?"

"Yes," said Marjorie, a little doubtfully; "perhaps she can be company for Puff. This is my Puff." Marjorie held up her cat, but the two animals showed very little interest in one another.

"Let's put them to sleep somewhere," said Molly, "and then go and play in the loft."

The kittens were soon deposited in the warm kitchen, and the two girls ran back to the barn for a good play. Marjorie had already begun to like Molly, though she seemed rather queer at first, but after they had climbed the ladder to the warm sweet-smelling hay-loft, they grew better acquainted, and were soon chattering away like old friends.

Molly was not at all like Stella Martin. Far from being timid, she was recklessly daring, and very ingenious in the devising of mischief.

"I'll tell you what, Mopsy," she said, having already adopted Marjorie's nickname, "let's climb out of the window, that skylight window, I mean, onto the roof of the barn, and slide down. It's a lovely long slide."

"We'll slide off!" exclaimed Marjorie, aghast at this proposition.

"Oh, no, we won't; there's a ledge at the edge of the roof, and your heels catch that, and that stops you. You CAN'T go any further."

"How do you get back?"

"Why, scramble back up the roof, you know. Come on, it's lots of fun."

"I don't believe Grandma would like it," said Marjorie, a little doubtfully.

"Oh, pshaw, you're afraid; there's no danger. Come on and try it, anyhow."

Now Marjorie did not like to be called afraid, for she really had very little fear in her disposition. So she said: "Well, I'll go up the ladder and look out, and if it looks dangerous I won't do it."

"Not a bit of danger," declared Molly. "I'll go up first." Agile as a sprite, Molly quickly skipped up the ladder, and opened the trap-door in the barn roof. Sticking her head up through, she soon drew her thin little body up after it and called to Marjorie to follow. Marjorie was a much heavier child, but she sturdily climbed the ladder, and then with some difficulty clambered out on the roof.

"Isn't it gay?" cried Molly, and exhilarated by the lofty height, the novel position, and the excitement of the moment, Marjorie thought it was.

"Now," went on Molly, by way of instruction, "sit down beside me right here at the top. Hang on with your hands until I count three and then let go, and we'll slide straight down the roof."

Marjorie obeyed directions, and sat waiting with a delightful feeling of expectancy.

"One, two, three!" counted Molly, and at the last word the two girls let go their grasp and slid.

Swiftly and lightly the slender little Molly slid to the gutter of the eaves of the roof, caught by her heels, and stopped suddenly, leaning against the slanted roof, comfortably at her ease.

Not so Marjorie. She came swiftly down, and, all unaccustomed to motion of this sort, her feet struck the gutter, her solid little body bounced up into the air, and instead of falling backward again, she gave a frightened convulsive movement, and fell headlong to the ground.

Quick as a flash, Molly, when she saw what had happened, scrambled back up the roof with a wonderful agility, and let herself down through the skylight, and down the ladder like lightning. She rushed out of the barn, to where Marjorie lay, and reached her before Carter did, though he came running at the first sounds of Marjorie's screams.

"I'm not hurt much," said Marjorie, trying to be brave; "if you'll help me, Carter, I think I can walk to the house."

"Walk nothin'," growled Carter; "it's Miss Mischief you are for sure! I thought you had outgrown your wild ways, but you're just as bad as ever! What'll your grandma say?"

Molly stood by, decidedly scared. She didn't know how badly Marjorie was hurt, and she longed to comfort her, and tell her how sorry she was that she had urged her to this mischief, but Carter gave her no opportunity to speak. Indeed, it was all she could do to keep up with the gardener's long strides, as he carried Marjorie to the house. But Molly was no coward, and she bravely determined to go to the house with them, and confess to Mrs. Sherwood that she was to blame for the accident.

But when they reached the door, and Grandma Sherwood came out to meet them, she was so anxious and worried about Marjorie that she paid little attention to Molly's efforts at explanation.

"What are you trying to say, child?" she asked hastily of Molly, who was stammering out an incoherent speech. "Well, never mind; whatever you have to say, I don't want to hear it now. You run right straight home; and if you want to come over to-morrow to see how Marjorie is, you may, but I can't have you bothering around here now. So run home."

And Molly ran home.



Chapter IV

A Paper-Doll House


The result of Marjorie's fall from the roof was a sprained ankle. It wasn't a bad sprain, but the doctor said she must stay in bed for several days.

"But I don't mind very much," said Marjorie, who persisted in looking on the bright side of everything, "for it will give me a chance to enjoy this beautiful room better. But, Grandma, I can't quite make out whether I was disobedient or not. You never told me not to slide down the roof, did you?"

"No, Marjorie; but your common-sense ought to have told you that. I should have forbidden it if I had thought there was the slightest danger of your doing such a thing. You really ought to have known better."

Grandma's tone was severe, for though she was sorry for the child she felt that Marjorie had done wrong, and ought to be reproved.

Marjorie's brow wrinkled in her efforts to think out the matter.

"Grandma," she said, "then must I obey every rule that you would make if you thought of it, and how shall I know what they are?"

Grandma smiled. "As I tell you Midget, you must use your common-sense and reason in such matters. If you make mistakes the experience will help you to learn; but I am sure a child twelve years old ought to know better than to slide down a steep barn roof. But I suppose Molly put you up to it, and so it wasn't your fault exactly."

"Molly did suggest it, Grandma, but that doesn't make her the one to blame, for I didn't have to do as she said, did I?"

"No, Midge; and Molly has behaved very nicely about it. She came over here, and confessed that she had been the ringleader in the mischief, and said she was sorry for it. So you were both to blame, but I think it has taught you a lesson, and I don't believe you'll ever cut up that particular trick again. But you certainly needn't be punished for it, for I think the consequences of having to stay in bed for nearly a week will be punishment enough. So now we're through with that part of the subject, and I'm going to do all I can to make your imprisonment as easy for you as possible."

It was in the early morning that this conversation had taken place, and Grandma had brought a basin of fresh, cool water and bathed the little girl's face and hands, and had brushed out her curls and tied them up with a pretty pink bow.

Then Jane came with a dainty tray, containing just the things Marjorie liked best for breakfast, and adorned with a spray of fresh roses. Grandma drew a table to the bedside and piled pillows behind Marjorie's back until she was quite comfortable.

"I feel like a queen, Grandma," she said; "if this is what you call punishment I don't mind it a bit."

"That's all very well for one day, but wait until you have been here four or five days. You'll get tired of playing queen by that time."

"Well, it's fun now, anyway," said Marjorie, as she ate strawberries and cream with great relish.

After breakfast Jane tidied up the room, and Marjorie, arrayed in a little pink kimono, prepared to spend the day in bed. Grandma brought her books to read and writing materials to write letters home, and Marjorie assured her that she could occupy herself pleasantly.

So Grandma went away and left her alone. The first thing Marjorie did was to write a letter to her mother, telling her all about the accident. She had thought she would write a letter to each of the children at home, but she discovered to her surprise that it wasn't very easy to write sitting up in bed. Her arms became cramped, and as she could not move her injured ankle her whole body grew stiff and uncomfortable. So she decided to read. After she had read what seemed a long time, she found that that, too, was difficult under the circumstances. With a little sigh she turned herself as well as she could and looked at the clock. To her amazement, only an hour had elapsed since Grandma left her, and for the first time the little girl realized what it meant to be deprived of the free use of her limbs.

"Only ten o'clock," she thought to herself; "and dinner isn't until one!"

Not that Marjorie was hungry, but like all the invalids she looked forward to meal-times as a pleasant diversion.

But about this time Grandma reappeared to say that Molly had come over to see her.

Marjorie was delighted, and welcomed Molly gladly.

"I'm awful sorry," the little visitor began, "that I made you slide down the roof."

"You didn't make me do it," said Marjorie, "it was my fault quite as much as yours; and, anyway, it isn't a very bad sprain. I'll be out again in a few days, and then we can play some more. But we'll keep down on the ground, -- we can't fall off of that."

"I thought you might like to play some games this morning," Molly suggested, "so I brought over my jackstraws and my Parcheesi board."

"Splendid!" cried Marjorie, delighted to have new entertainment.

In a few moments Molly had whisked things about, and arranged the jackstraws on a small table near the bed. But Marjorie could not reach them very well, so Molly changed her plan.

"I'll fix it," she said, and laying the Parcheesi board on the bed, she climbed up herself, and sitting cross-legged like a little Turk, she tossed the jackstraws out on the flat board, and the game began in earnest.

They had a jolly time and followed the jackstraws with a game of Parcheesi.

Then Jane came up with some freshly baked cookies and two glasses of milk.

"Why, how the time has flown!" cried Marjorie, "it's half-past eleven, and it doesn't seem as if you'd been here more than five minutes, Molly."

"I didn't think it was so late, either," and then the two girls did full justice to the little luncheon, while the all-useful Parcheesi board served as a table.

"Now," said Marjorie, when the last crumbs had disappeared, "let's mix up the two games. The jackstraws will be people, and your family can live in that corner of the Parcheesi board, and mine will live in this. The other two corners will be strangers' houses, and the red counters can live in one and the blue counters in the other. This place in the middle will be a park, and these dice can be deer in the park."

"Oh, what fun!" cried Molly, who was not as ingenious as Marjorie at making up games, but who was appreciative enough to enter into the spirit of it at once.

They became so absorbed in this new sort of play that again the time flew and it was dinner-time before they knew it.

Grandma did not invite Molly to stay to dinner, for she thought Marjorie ought to rest, but she asked the little neighbor to come again the next morning and continue their game.

After dinner Grandma darkened the room and left Marjorie to rest by herself, and the result of this was a long and refreshing nap.

When she awoke, Grandma appeared again with fresh water and towels, and her afternoon toilet was made. Marjorie laughed to think that dressing for afternoon meant only putting on a different kimono, for dresses were not to be thought of with a sprained ankle.

And then Uncle Steve came in.

Uncle Steve was always like a ray of sunshine, but he seemed especially bright and cheery just now.

"Well, Midget Mops," he said, "you have cut up a pretty trick, haven't you? Here, just as I wanted to take you driving, and walking in the woods, and boating, and fishing, and perhaps ballooning, and airshipping, and maybe skating, here you go and get yourself laid up so you can't do anything but eat and sleep! You're a nice Midget, you are! What's the use of having an Uncle Steve if you can't play with him?"

"Just you wait," cried Marjorie; "I'm not going to be in bed more than a few days, and I'm going to stay here all summer. There'll be plenty of time for your fishing and skating yet."

"But unless I get you pretty soon, I'll pine away with grief. And everybody out on the farm is lonesome for you. The horses, Ned and Dick, had made up their minds to take you on long drives along the mountain roads where the wild flowers bloom. They can't understand why you don't come out, and they stand in their stalls weeping, with great tears rolling down their cheeks."

Marjorie laughed gayly at Uncle Steve's foolery, and said: "If they're weeping so you'd better take them some of my pocket handkerchiefs."

"Too small," said Uncle Steve, scornfully; "one of your little handkerchiefs would get lost in Dick's eye or Ned's ear. And old Betsy is weeping for you too. Really, you'll have to get around soon, or those three horses will run away, I fear."

"What about the cow; does she miss me?" asked Marjorie, gravely, though her eyes were twinkling.

"The cow!" exclaimed Uncle Steve. "She stands by the fence with her head on the top rail, and moos so loud that I should think you could hear her yourself. She calls 'Mopsy, Mopsy, Moo,' from morning till night. And the chickens! Well, the incubator is full of desolate chickens. They won't eat their meal, and they just peep mournfully, and stretch their little wings trying to fly to you."

"And the dogs?" prompted Marjorie.

"Oh, the dogs -- they howl and yowl and growl all the time. I think I'll have to bring the whole crowd of animals up here. They're so anxious to see you."

"Do, Uncle Steve. I'd be glad to see them, and I'm sure they'd behave nicely."

"I think so. The cow could sit in that little rocking-chair, and the three horses could sit on the couch, side by side. And then we could all have afternoon tea."

Marjorie shook with laughter at the thought of the cow sitting up and drinking afternoon tea, until Uncle Steve declared that if she laughed so hard she'd sprain her other ankle. So he said he would read to her, and selecting a book of fairy tales, he read aloud all the rest of the afternoon. It was delightful to hear Uncle Steve read, for he would stop now and then to discuss the story, or he would put in some funny little jokes of his own, and he made it all so amusing and entertaining that the afternoon flew by as if on wings.

Then Jane came again with the pretty tray of supper, and after that Grandma and Marjorie had a nice little twilight talk, and then the little girl was tucked up for the night, and soon fell asleep.

When she woke the next morning and lay quietly in bed thinking over of the events of the day before, she came to the conclusion that everybody had been very kind to her, but that she couldn't expect so much attention every day. So she made up her mind that when she had to spend hours alone, she would try to be good and patient and not trouble Grandma more than she could help.

Then she thought of the written list her mother had given her. She smiled to think how easy it was now to keep those commands. "Of course," she thought, "I can keep my hands clean and my hair tidy here, for Grandma looks after that herself; and, of course, I can't help obeying her while I'm here, for she doesn't command me to do anything, and I couldn't do it if she did."

Molly came again that morning, and as Grandma had asked her to stay to dinner with Marjorie, the girls prepared for a good morning's play.

It was astonishing how many lovely things there were to play, even when one of the players couldn't move about.

Molly had brought over her paper-doll's house, and as it was quite different from anything Marjorie had ever seen before, she wondered if she couldn't make one for herself, and so double the fun of the game.

Grandma was consulted, but it was Uncle Steve who brought them the necessary materials to carry out their plan.

A paper-doll's house is quite different from the other kind of a doll's house, and Molly's was made of a large blankbook.

So Uncle Steve brought a blankbook almost exactly like it for Marjorie, and then he brought her scissors, and paste, and several catalogues which had come from the great shops in the city. He brought, too, a pile of magazines and papers, which were crammed full of illustrated advertisements.

The two little girls set busily to work, and soon they had cut out a quantity of chairs, tables, beds, and furniture of all sorts from the pictured pages.

These they pasted in the book. Each page was a room, and in the room were arranged appropriate furniture and ornaments.

The parlor had beautiful and elaborate furniture, rugs, pictures, bric-a-brac, and even lace curtains at the windows. The library had beautiful bookcases, writing-desk, reading-table and a lamp, easy-chairs, and everything that belongs in a well-ordered library.

The dining-room was fully furnished, and the kitchen contained everything necessary to the satisfaction of the most exacting cook.

The bedrooms were beautiful with dainty brass beds, chintz-covered furniture, and dressing-tables fitted out with all sorts of toilet equipments.

All of these things were found in the catalogues and the magazine advertisements; and in addition to the rooms mentioned, there were halls, a nursery, playroom, and pleasant verandas fitted up with hammocks and porch furniture.

Of course it required some imagination to think that these rooms were in the shape of a house, and not just leaves of a book, but both Midge and Molly had plenty of imagination, and besides it was very practical fun to cut out the things, and arrange them in their places. Sometimes it was necessary to use a pencil to draw in any necessary article that might be missing; but usually everything desired could be found, from potted palms to a baby carriage.

Marjorie grew absorbed in the work, for she dearly loved to make things, and her ingenuity suggested many improvements on Molly's original house.



Chapter V

Some Interesting Letters


The family for the paper-doll house was selected from the catalogues that illustrate ready-made clothing. Beautiful gentlemen were cut out, dressed in the most approved fashions for men. Charming ladies with trailing skirts and elaborate hats were found in plenty. And children of all ages were so numerous in the prints that it was almost difficult to make a selection. Then, too, extra hats and wraps and parasols were cut out, which could be neatly put away in the cupboards and wardrobes which were in the house. For Marjorie had discovered that by pasting only the edges of the wardrobe and carefully cutting the doors apart, they could be made to open and shut beautifully.

Uncle Steve became very much interested in these wonderful houses, and ransacked his own library for pictures to be cut up.

Indeed, so elaborate did the houses grow to be, Molly's being greatly enlarged and improved, that they could not be finished in one morning.

But Grandma was not willing to let Marjorie work steadily at this occupation all day, and after dinner Molly was sent home, and the paper dolls put away until the next day.

"But I'm not ill, Grandma," said Marjorie; "just having a sprained ankle doesn't make me a really, truly invalid."

"No, but you must rest, or you will get ill. Fever may set in, and if you get over-excited with your play, and have no exercise, you may be in bed longer than you think for. Besides, I think I remember having heard something about implicit obedience, and so I expect it now as well as when you're up on your two feet."

"I don't think I can help obeying," said Marjorie, roguishly, "for I can't very well do anything else. But I suppose you mean obey without fretting; so I will, for you are a dear, good Grandma and awfully kind to me."

With a parting pat on her shoulder, Grandma left the little girl for her afternoon nap, and Marjorie would have been surprised at herself had she known how quickly she fell asleep.

Uncle Steve made it a habit to entertain her during the later hours of each afternoon, and, although they were already great chums, his gayety and kindness made Marjorie more than ever devoted to her uncle.

This afternoon he came in with a handful of letters.

"These are all for you," he said; "it is astonishing what a large correspondence you have."

Marjorie was amazed. She took the budget of letters her uncle handed her and counted five. They were all duly stamped, and all were postmarked, but the postmarks all read Haslemere.

"How funny!" exclaimed Marjorie; "I didn't know there was a post office at Haslemere."

"You didn't!" exclaimed Uncle Steve; "why, there certainly is. Do you mean to say that you don't know that there's a little post office in the lowest branch of that old maple-tree down by the brook?"

"You mean just where the path turns to go to the garden?"

"That's the very spot. Only this morning I was walking by there, and I saw a small post office in the tree. There was a key in the door of it, and being curious, I opened it, and looked in. There I saw five letters for you, and as you're not walking much this summer, I thought I'd bring them to you. I brought the key, too."

As he finished speaking, Uncle Steve drew from his pocket a little bright key hung on a blue ribbon, which he gravely presented to Marjorie. Her eyes danced as she took it, for she now believed there was really a post office there, though it was sometimes difficult to distinguish Uncle Steve's nonsense from the truth.

"Now I'm more than ever anxious to get well," she cried, "and go out to see that post office."

"Oh, no," said Uncle Steve, shaking his head; "you don't care about post offices and walks in the woods, and drives through the country. You'd rather slide down an old barn roof, and then lie in bed for a week."

"Catch me doing it again," said Marjorie, shaking her head decidedly; "and now, Uncle, suppose we open these letters."

"Why, that wouldn't be a bad idea. Here's a paper-cutter. Let's open one at a time, they'll last longer. Suppose you read this one first."

Marjorie opened the first letter, and quickly turned the page to see the signature.

"Why, Uncle Steve," she cried, "this is signed Ned and Dick! I didn't know horses could write letters."

"There are a great many things, my child, that you don't know yet. And so Ned and Dick have written to you! Now that's very kind of them. Read me what they say."

In great glee, Marjorie read aloud:

"DEAR MARJORIE: It is too bad For you to act this way; Just think what fun we might have had Out driving every day.

"We could have gone to Blossom Banks, Or Maple Grove instead; But no, you had to cut up pranks That landed you in bed!

"We hope you'll soon be well again, And get downstairs right quick; And we will all go driving then. Your true friends,

Ned And Dick."

"Well, I do declare," said Uncle Steve, "I always said they were intelligent horses, but this is the first time I've ever heard of their writing a letter. They must be very fond of you, Marjorie."

Marjorie's eyes twinkled. She well knew Uncle Steve had written the letter himself, but she was always ready to carry out her part of a joke, so she replied:

"Yes, I think they must be fond of me, and I think I know somebody else who is, too. But it was nice of Ned and Dick to write and let me know that they hadn't forgotten me. And as soon as I can get downstairs, I shall be delighted to go driving with them. Where is Blossom Banks, Uncle?"

"Oh, it's a lovely place, a sort of picnic ground; there are several grassy banks, and blossoms grow all over them. They slope right down to the river; but, of course, you wouldn't think them nearly so nice as a sloping barn roof."

Marjorie knew she must stand teasing from Uncle Steve, but his smile was so good-natured, and he was such a dear old uncle anyway, that she didn't mind it very much.

"Suppose I read another letter," she said, quite ready to turn the subject.

"Do; open that one with the typewritten address. I wonder who could have written that! Perhaps the cow; she's very agile on the typewriter."

The mental picture of the cow using the typewriter produced such hilarity that it was a few moments before the letter was opened.

"It IS from the cow!" exclaimed Marjorie, "and she does write beautifully on the machine. I don't see a single error."

"Read it out, Midge; I always love to hear letters from cows."

So Marjorie read the cow's note:

"Mopsy Midge, come out to play; I've waited for you all the day. In the Garden and by the brook, All day for you I vainly look. With anxious brow and gaze intense I lean against the old rail fence, And moo and moo, and moo, and moo, In hopes I may be heard by you. And if I were not so forlorn, I think I'd try to blow my horn. Oh, come back, Midget, come back now, And cheer your lonely, waiting

Cow."

"Now, that's a first-class letter," declared Uncle Steve. "I always thought that cow was a poet. She looks so romantic when she gazes out over the bars. You ought to be pleased, Marjorie, that you have such loving friends at Haslemere."

"Pleased! I'm tickled to death! I never had letters that I liked so well. And just think, I have three left yet that I haven't opened. I wonder who they can be from."

"When you wonder a thing like that, it always seems to me a good idea to open them and find out."

"I just do believe I will! Why, this one," and Marjorie hastily tore open another letter, "this one, Uncle, is from old Bet!"

"Betsy! That old horse! Well, she must have put on her spectacles to see to write it. But I suppose when she saw Ned and Dick writing, she didn't want them to get ahead of her, so she went to work too. Well, do read it, I'm surely interested to hear old Betsy's letter."

"Listen then," said Marjorie:

"Dear Little Midge:

I'm lonesome here, Without your merry smiles to cheer. I mope around the livelong day, And scarcely care to munch my hay. I am so doleful and so sad, I really do feel awful bad! Oh hurry, Midge, and come back soon; Perhaps to-morrow afternoon. And then my woe I will forget, And smile again.

Your lonesome   BET"

"Well, she is an affectionate old thing," said Uncle Steve; "and truly, Midget, I thought she was feeling lonesome this morning. She didn't seem to care to eat anything, and she never smiled at me at all."

"She's a good old horse, Uncle, but I don't like her as much as I do Ned and Dick. But don't ever tell Betsy this, for I wouldn't hurt her feelings for anything."

"Oh, yes, just because Ned and Dick are spirited, fast horses you like them better than poor, old Betsy, who used to haul you around when you were a baby."

"Oh, I like her well enough; and, anyway, I think a heap more of her now, since she wrote me such an affectionate letter. Now, Uncle, if you'll believe it, this next one is from the chickens! Would you have believed that little bits of yellow chickens, in an incubator, could write a nice, clear letter like this? I do think it's wonderful! Just listen to it:

"Dear Mopsy:

Why Are you away? We weep and cry All through the day.

"Oh, come back quick, Dear Mopsy Mop! Then each small chick Will gayly hop.

"We'll chirp with glee, No more we'll weep; Each chickadee Will loudly peep."

"Well, that's certainly fine, Midget, for such little chickens. If it were the old hen, now, I wouldn't be so surprised, for I see her scratching on the ground every day. I suppose she's practising her writing lesson, but I never yet have been able to read the queer marks she makes. But these little yellow chickadees write plainly enough, and I do think they are wonderfully clever."

"Yes, and isn't it funny that they can rhyme so well, too?"

"It is, indeed. I always said those Plymouth Rocks were the smartest chickens of all, but I never suspected they could write poetry."

"And now, Uncle, I've only one left." Marjorie looked regretfully at the last letter, wishing there were a dozen more. "But I can keep them and read them over and over again, I like them so much. I'd answer them, but I don't believe those animals read as well as they write."

"No," said Uncle Steve, wagging his head sagely, "I don't believe they do. Well, read your last one, Mops, and let's see who wrote it."

"Why, Uncle, it's from the dogs! It's signed 'Nero and Tray and Rover'! Weren't they just darling to write to me! I believe I miss the dogs more than anything else, because I can have Puffy up here with me."

Marjorie paused long enough to cuddle the little heap of grey fur that lay on the counterpane beside her, and then proceeded to read the letter:

"Dear Mopsy Midget, We're in a fidget, Because we cannot find you; We want to know How you could go And leave your dogs behind you!

"We bark and howl, And snarl and yowl, And growl the whole day long; You are not here, And, Mopsy dear, We fear there's something wrong!

"We haven't heard; Oh, send us word Whatever is the matter! Oh, hurry up And cheer each pup With laughter and gay chatter."

"That's a very nice letter," said Marjorie, as she folded it up and returned it to its envelope. "And I do think the animals at Haslemere are the most intelligent I have ever known. Uncle, I'm going to send these letters all down home for King and Kitty to read, and then they can send them back to me, for I'm going to keep them all my life."

"I'll tell you a better plan than that, Midget. If you want the children to read them, I'll make copies of them for you to send home. And then I'll tell you what you might do, if you like. When I go downtown I'll buy you a great big scrapbook, and then you can paste these letters in, and as the summer goes on, you can paste in all sorts of things; pressed leaves or flowers, pictures and letters, and souvenirs of all sorts. Won't that be nice?"

"Uncle Steve, it will be perfectly lovely! You do have the splendidest ideas! Will you get the book to-morrow?"

"Yes, Miss Impatience, I will."

And that night, Marjorie fell asleep while thinking of all the lovely things she could collect to put in the book, which Uncle Steve had told her she must call her Memory Book.



Chapter VI

Boo!


The days of Marjorie's imprisonment went by pleasantly enough. Every morning Molly would come over, and they played with their paper-doll houses. These houses continually grew in size and beauty. Each girl added a second book, which represented grounds and gardens. There were fountains, and flowerbeds and trees and shrubs, which they cut from florists' catalogues; other pages were barns and stables, and chicken-coops, all filled with most beautiful specimens of the animals that belonged in them. There were vegetable gardens and grape arbors and greenhouses, for Uncle Steve had become so interested in this game that he brought the children wonderful additions to their collections.

It was quite as much fun to arrange the houses and grounds as it was to play with them, and each new idea was hailed with shrieks of delight.

Molly often grew so excited that she upset the paste-pot, and her scraps and cuttings flew far and wide, but good-natured Jane was always ready to clear up after the children. Jane had been with Mrs. Sherwood for many years, and Marjorie was her favorite of all the grandchildren, and she was never too tired to wait upon her. She, too, hunted up old books and papers that might contain some contributions to the paper-doll houses. But afternoons were always devoted to rest, until four or five o'clock, when Uncle Steve came to pay his daily visit.

One afternoon he came in with a fresh budget of letters.

"Letters!" exclaimed Marjorie. "Goody! I haven't had any letters for two days. Please give them to me, Uncle, and please give me a paper-cutter."

"Midge," said Uncle Steve, "if you think these are letters, you're very much mistaken. They're not."

"What are they, then?" asked Marjorie, greatly mystified, for they certainly looked like letters, and were sealed and stamped.

"As I've often told you, it's a good plan to open them and see."

Laughing in anticipation at what she knew must be some new joke of Uncle Steve's, Marjorie cut the envelopes open.

The first contained, instead of a sheet of paper, a small slip, on which was written:

"If you think this a letter, you're much mistook; It's only a promise of a New Book!"

"Well," said Marjorie, "that's just as good as a letter, for if you promise me a book, I know I'll get it. Oh, Uncle, you are such a duck! Now I'll read the next one."

The next one was a similar slip, and said:

"This isn't a letter, though like one it seems; It's only a promise of Chocolate Creams!"

"Oh!" cried Marjorie, ecstatically, "this is just too much fun for anything! Do you mean real chocolate creams, Uncle?"

"Oh, these are only promises. Very likely they don't mean anything."

"YOUR promises do; you've never broken one yet. Now I'll read another:

"This isn't a letter, dear Marjorie Mops, It's only a promise of Peppermint Drops!"

"Every one is nicer than the last! And now for the very last one of all!"

Marjorie cut open the fourth envelope, and read:

"Dear Mopsy Midget, this isn't a letter; It's only a promise of something much better!"

"Why, it doesn't say what!" exclaimed Midge, but even as she spoke, Jane came into the room bringing a tray.

She set it on the table at Marjorie's bedside, and Marjorie gave a scream of delight when she saw a cut-glass bowl heaped high with pink ice cream.

"Oh, Uncle Steve!" she cried, "the ice cream is the 'something better,' I know it is, and those other parcels are the other three promises! Can I open them now?"

Almost without waiting for her question to be answered, Marjorie tore off papers and strings, and found, as she fully expected, a box of chocolate creams, a box of peppermint drops, and a lovely new story book.

Then Grandma came in to their tea party and they all ate the ice cream, and Marjorie declared it was the loveliest afternoon tea she had ever attended.

Even Puff was allowed to have a small saucer of the ice cream, for she was a very dainty kitten, and her table manners were quite those of polite society.

But the next afternoon Uncle Steve was obliged to go to town, and Marjorie felt quite disconsolate at the loss of the jolly afternoon hour.

But kind-hearted Grandma planned a pleasure for her, and told her she would invite both Stella Martin and Molly to come to tea with Marjorie from four till five.

Marjorie had not seen Stella since the day they came up together on the train, and the little girls were glad to meet again. Stella and Molly were about as different as two children could be, for while Molly was headstrong, energetic, and mischievous, Stella was timid, quiet, and demure.

Both Marjorie and Molly were very quick in their actions, but Stella was naturally slow and deliberate. When they played games, Stella took as long to make her move as Molly and Midge together. This made them a little impatient, but Stella only opened her big blue eyes in wonder and said, "I can't do things any faster." So they soon tired of playing games, and showed Stella their paper-dolls' houses. Here they were the surprised ones, for Stella was an adept at paper dolls and knew how to draw and cut out lovely dolls, and told Marjorie that if she had a paintbox she could paint them.

"I wish you would come over some other day, Stella, and do it," said Midge; "for I know Uncle Steve will get me a paint-box if I ask him to, and a lot of brushes, and then we can all paint. Oh, we'll have lots of fun, won't we?"

"Yes, thank you," said Stella, sedately.

Marjorie giggled outright. "It seems so funny," she said, by way of explanation, "to have you say 'yes, thank you' to us children; I only say it to grown people; don't you, Molly?"

"I don't say it at all," confessed Molly; "I mean to, but I 'most always forget. It's awful hard for me to remember manners. But it seems to come natural to Stella."

Stella looked at her, but said nothing. She was a very quiet child, and somehow she exasperated Marjorie. Perhaps she would not have done so had they all been out of doors, playing together, but she sat on a chair by Marjorie's bedside with her hands folded in her lap, and her whole attitude so prim that Marjorie couldn't help thinking to herself that she'd like to stick a pin in her. Of course she wouldn't have done it, really, but Marjorie had a riotous vein of mischief in her, and had little use for excessive quietness of demeanor, except when the company of grown-ups demanded it.

But Stella seemed not at all conscious that her conduct was different from the others, and she smiled mildly at their rollicking fun, and agreed quietly to their eager enthusiasms.

At last Jane came in with the tea-tray, and the sight of the crackers and milk, the strawberries and little cakes, created a pleasant diversion.

Stella sat still in her chair, while Marjorie braced herself up on her pillows, and Molly, who was sitting on the bed, bounced up and down with glee.

Marjorie was getting much better now, so that she could sit upright and preside over the feast. She served the strawberries for her guests, and poured milk for them from the glass pitcher.

Molly and Marjorie enjoyed the good things, as they always enjoyed everything, but Stella seemed indifferent even to the delights of strawberries and cream.

She sat holding a plate in one hand, and a glass of milk in the other, and showed about as much animation as a marble statue. Even her glance was roving out of the window, and somehow the whole effect of the child was too much for Marjorie's spirit of mischief.

Suddenly, and in a loud voice, she said to Stella, "BOO!"

This, in itself, was not frightful, but coming so unexpectedly it startled Stella, and she involuntarily jumped, and her glass and plate fell to the floor with a crash; and strawberries, cakes, and milk fell in a scattered and somewhat unpleasant disarray.

Marjorie was horrified at what she had done, but Stella's face, as she viewed the catastrophe, was so comical that Marjorie went off into peals of laughter. Molly joined in this, and the two girls laughed until the bed shook.

Frightened and nervous at the whole affair, Stella began to cry. And curiously enough, Stella's method of weeping was as noisy as her usual manner was quiet. She cried with such loud, heart-rending sobs that the other girls were frightened into quietness again, until they caught sight of Stella's open mouth and tightly-closed but streaming eyes, when hilarity overtook them again.

Into this distracting scene, came Grandma. She stood looking in amazement at the three children and the debris on the floor.

At first Mrs. Sherwood naturally thought it an accident due to Stella's carelessness, but Marjorie instantly confessed.

"It's my fault, Grandma," she said; "I scared Stella, and she couldn't help dropping her things."

"You are a naughty girl, Mischief," said Grandma, as she tried to comfort the weeping Stella. "I thought you would at least be polite to your little guests, or I shouldn't have given you this tea party."

"I'm awfully sorry," said Marjorie, contritely; "please forgive me, Stella, but honestly I didn't think it would scare you so. What would YOU do, Molly, if I said 'boo' to you?"

"I'd say 'boo yourself'!" returned Molly, promptly.

"I know you would," said Marjorie, "but you see Stella's different, and I ought to have remembered the difference. Don't cry, Stella; truly I'm sorry! Don't cry, and I'll give you my -- my paper-doll's house."

This was generous on Marjorie's part, for just then her paper-doll's house was her dearest treasure.

But Stella rose to the occasion.

"I w-wont t-take it," she said, still sobbing, though trying hard to control herself; "it wasn't your fault, Marjorie; I oughtn't to have been so silly as to be scared b-because you said b-boo!"

By this time Jane had removed all evidences of the accident, and except for a few stains on Stella's frock, everything was in order.

But Stella, though she had quite forgiven Marjorie, was upset by the whole affair, and wanted to go home.

So Grandma declared she would take the child home herself and apologize to Mrs. Martin for Marjorie's rudeness.

"It was rude, Marjorie," she said, as she went away; "and I think Molly must go home now, and leave you to do a little thinking about your conduct to your other guest."

So Marjorie was left alone to think, and half an hour later Grandma returned.

"That was a naughty trick, Marjorie, and I think you ought to be punished for it."

"But, Grandma," argued Miss Mischief, "I wasn't disobedient; you never told me not to say boo to anybody."

"But I told you, dear, that you must use your common-sense; and you must have known that to startle Stella by a sudden scream at her was enough to make her drop whatever she was holding."

"Grandma, I 'spect I was mischievous; but truly, she did look so stiff and pudgy, I just HAD to make her jump."

"I know what you mean, Midge; and you have a natural love of mischief, but you must try to overcome it. I want you to grow up polite and kind, and remember those two words mean almost exactly the same thing. You knew it wasn't kind to make Stella jump, even if it hadn't caused her to upset things."

"No, I know it wasn't, Grandma, and I'm sorry now. But I'll tell you what: whenever Stella comes over here again, I'll try to be SPECIALLY kind to her, to make up for saying boo!"



Chapter VII

A Boat-Ride


Great was the rejoicing of the whole household when at last Marjorie was able to come downstairs once more.

Uncle Steve assisted her down. He didn't carry her, for he said she was far too much of a heavyweight for any such performance as that, but he supported her on one side, and with a banister rail on the other she managed beautifully.

And, anyway, her ankle was just about as well as ever. The doctor had not allowed the active child to come downstairs until there was little if any danger that an imprudence on her part might injure her again.

It was Saturday afternoon, and though she could not be allowed to walk about the place until the following week, yet Uncle Steve took her for a long, lovely drive behind Ned and Dick, and then brought her back to another jolly little surprise.

This was found in a certain sheltered corner of one of the long verandas. It was so built that it was almost like a cosy, little square room; and climbing vines formed a pleasant screen from the bright sunlight. To it Uncle Steve had brought a set of wicker furniture: dear little chairs and a table and a settee, all painted green. Then there was a green-and-white hammock swung at just the right height, and containing two or three fat, jolly-looking, green pillows, in the midst of which Puff had chosen to curl herself up for a nap.

There was a little bamboo bookcase, with a few books and papers, and a large box covered with Japanese matting, which had a hinged lid, and was lovely to keep things in. There was a rug on the floor, and Japanese lanterns hung from the ceiling, all in tones of green and white and silver.

Marjorie unceremoniously dislodged Puff from her comfortable position, and flung herself into the hammock instead.

"Uncle Steve!" she exclaimed, grabbing that gentleman tightly round the neck as he leaned over her to adjust her pillows, "you are the best man in the whole world, and I think you ought to be President! If you do any more of these lovely things for me I shall just -- just SUFFOCATE with joy. What makes you so good to me, anyhow?"

"Oh, because you're such a little saint, and never do anything naughty or mischievous!"

"That's a splendid reason," cried Marjorie, quite appreciating the joke, "and, truly, Uncle Steve, -- don't you tell, -- it's a great secret: but I AM going to try to be more dignified and solemn."

This seemed to strike Uncle Steve as being very funny, for he sat down on the little wicker settee and laughed heartily.

"Well, you may as well begin now, then; and put on your most dignified and pompous manner, as you lie there in that hammock, for I'm going to read to you until tea-time."

"Goody, goody!" cried Marjorie, bobbing up her curly head, and moving about excitedly. "Please, Uncle, read from that new book you brought me last night. I'll get it!"

"That's a nice, dignified manner, that is! Your Serene Highness will please calm yourself, and stay just where you are. I shall select the book to read from, and I shall do the reading. All you have to do is to lie still and listen."

So Marjorie obeyed, and, of course, Uncle Steve picked out the very book she wanted, and read to her delightfully for an hour or more.

Marjorie's porch, as it came to be called, proved to be a favorite resort all summer long for the family and for any guests who came to the house. Marjorie herself almost lived in it for the first few days after she came downstairs, but at last the doctor pronounced her ankle entirely well, and said she might "start out to find some fresh mischief."

So the next morning, directly after breakfast, she announced her intention of going down to see the boathouse.

"Just think," she exclaimed, "I have never seen it yet, and King told me to go down there the very first thing."

"I suppose you'll come back half-drowned," said Grandma, "but as you seem unable to learn anything, except by mistakes, go ahead. But, Marjorie, do try not to do some absurd thing, and then say that I haven't forbidden it! I don't forbid you to go in the boat, if Carter goes with you, but I do forbid you to go alone. Will you remember that?"

"Yes, Grandma, truly I will," said Marjorie, with such a seraphic smile that her grandmother kissed her at once.

"Then run along and have a good time; and don't jump off the dock or anything foolish."

"I won't," cried Marjorie, gayly; and then she went dancing down the path to the garden. Carter was in the greenhouse potting some plants.

"Carter," said Marjorie, putting her head in at the door, "are you very busy?"

"Busy, indeed! I have enough work here with these pesky plants to keep me steady at it till summer after next. Busy, is it? I'm so busy that the bees and the ants is idle beside me. Busy? Well, I AM busy!"

But as the good-natured old man watched Marjorie's face, and saw the look of disappointment settling upon it, he said: "But what matters that? If so be, Miss Midget, I can do anything for you, you've only to command."

"Well, Carter, I thought this morning I'd like to go down to see the boathouse; and I thought, perhaps, -- maybe, if you weren't busy, you might take me for a little row in the boat. Just a little row, you know -- not very far."

It would have taken a harder heart than Carter's to withstand the pleading tones and the expectant little face; and the gardener set down his flower-pots, and laid down his trowel at once.

"Did your grandmother say you could go, Miss Midget?"

"She said I could go if you went with me."

"Then it's with ye I go, and we'll start at once."

Marjorie danced along by the side of the old man as he walked more slowly down the garden path, when suddenly a new idea came into her head.

"Oh, Carter," she cried, "have my seeds come up yet? And what are the flowers? Let's go and look at them."

"Come up yet, is it? No, indeed, they've scarcely settled themselves down in the earth yet."

"I wish they would come up, I want to see what they'll be. Let's go and look at the place where we planted them, Carter."

So they turned aside to the flowerbed where the precious seeds had been planted, but not even Marjorie's sharp eyes could detect the tiniest green sprout. With an impatient little sigh she turned away, and as they continued down toward the boathouse, Marjorie heard somebody calling, and Molly Moss came flying up to her, all out of breath.

"We were so afraid we wouldn't catch you," she exclaimed, "for your Grandma said you had gone out in the boat."

"We haven't yet," answered Marjorie, "but we're just going. Oh, Carter, can we take Molly, too?"

"And Stella," added Molly. "She's coming along behind."

Sure enough, Stella was just appearing round the corner of the house, and walking as sedately as if on her way to church.

"Hurry up, Stella," called Marjorie. "Can we all go, Carter?"

"Yes, if yees'll set still in the boat and if the other little lady gets here before afternoon. She's the nice, quiet child, but you two are a pair of rascally babies, and I don't know whether it's safe to go on the water with ye. I'm thinkin' I'll take little Miss Stella, and leave ye two behind."

"I don't think you will, Carter," said Marjorie, not at all alarmed by the old man's threat. "I think you'll take all three of us, and we'll sit as still as mice, won't we, Molly?"

"Yes," said Molly; "can we take off our shoes and stockings and hang our feet over the sides of the boat?"

"Oh, yes," cried Marjorie, "that will be lots of fun!"

"Indeed you'll do nothing of the sort," and Carter's honest old face showed that he felt great anxiety concerning his madcap charges. "Ye must promise to sit still, and not move hand or foot, or I'll go back to my work and leave yees on shore."

This awful suggestion brought about promises of strictly good behavior, and as Stella had arrived, the party proceeded to the boathouse.

Stella was mildly pleased at the prospect of a row, and walked demurely by Carter's side, while the other two ran on ahead and reached the boathouse first.

As the door was locked, and they could not open it, Marjorie, who was all impatience to see the boat, proposed that they climb in the window. Molly needed no second invitation, and easily slipped through the little square window, and Marjorie, with a trifle more difficulty, wriggled her own plump little body through after.

As the window was not on the side of the boathouse toward which Carter was approaching, he did not see the performance, and so when he and Stella reach the boathouse a few moments later, they could see nothing at all of the other two girls.

"Merciful powers!" he exclaimed. "Whatever has become of them two witches?"

"Where can they be?" cried Stella, clasping her hands, and opening her eyes wide in alarm.

Old Carter was genuinely frightened. "Miss Marjorie!" he called, loudly. "Miss Molly! Where be ye?"

Meanwhile, the two girls inside the boathouse had carefully scrambled down into the boat and sat quietly on the stern seat. There was a strong breeze blowing, and as the boat swayed up and down on the rippling water, its keel grating against the post to which it was tied, and the doors and windows being tightly shut, they did not hear Carter's voice. They really had no intention of frightening the old man, and supposed he would open the door in a moment.

But Carter's mind was so filled with the thought that the children had fallen into the water that it didn't occur to him to open the boathouse. He went to the edge of the pier, which was a narrow affair, consisting only of two wooden planks and a single hand rail, and gazed anxiously down into the water.

This gave Stella a firm conviction that the girls were drowned, and without another word she began to cry in her own noisy and tumultuous fashion. Poor Carter, already at his wits' end, had small patience with any additional worry.

"Keep still, Miss Stella," he commanded; "it's enough to have two children on me hands drowned without another one raising a hullabaloo. And it's a queer thing, too, if them wicked little rats is drownded, why they don't come up to the surface! My stars! Whatever will the Missus say? But, havin' disappeared so mortal quick, there's no place they can be but under the water. I'll get a boat-hook, and perhaps I can save 'em yet."

Trembling with excitement and bewildered with anxiety, so that he scarcely knew what he did, the old man fitted the key in the lock. He flung open the boathouse door and faced the two children, who sat quietly and with smiling faces in the boat.

"Well, if ye don't beat all! Good land, Miss Marjorie, whatever did ye give me such a scare for? Sure I thought ye was drownded, and I was jest goin' to fish ye up with a boat-hook! My, but you two are terrors! And how did ye get in now? Through the keyhole, I suppose."

"Why, no, Carter," exclaimed Marjorie, who was really surprised at the old man's evident excitement; "we were in a hurry, and the door was locked, so we just stepped in through the window."

"Stepped in through the window, is it? And if the window had been locked ye'd have jest stepped in through the chimley! And if the chimley had been locked, ye'd have stepped into the water, and ducked under, and come up through the floor! When ye're in a hurry, ye stop for nothin', Miss Midget."

The old man's relief at finding the children safe was so great that he was really talking a string of nonsense to hide his feelings.

But Stella, though she realized the girls were all right, could not control her own emotions so easily, and was still crying vociferously.

"For goodness' sake!" exclaimed Molly, "what IS the matter with Stella? Doesn't she want to go boating?"

"Why -- yes," sobbed Stella, "b-but I thought you two were drowned."

"Well, we're not!" cried Marjorie, gayly. "So cheer up, Stella, and come along."

Leaving the two girls, as they were already seated, in the stern of the boat, Carter carefully tucked Stella into the bow seat, and then took his own place on the middle thwart. This arrangement enabled him to keep his eye on the two mischievous madcaps, and he had no fear that Stella would cut up any tricks behind his back.

He could not reprove the mischief-makers, for they had done nothing really wrong, but he looked at them grimly as he rowed out into the stream.

"Oh," exclaimed Marjorie, "isn't this just too lovely for anything! Please, Carter, mayn't we just put our hands in the water if we keep our feet in the boat?"

"No," growled Carter; "you'll be wantin' to put your heads in next. Now do set still, like the nice young lady behind me."

Anxious to be good, Marjorie gave a little sigh and folded her hands in her lap, while Molly did likewise.

Carter's eyes twinkled as he looked at the two little martyrs, and his heart relented.

"Ye may just dangle your fingers in the water, if ye want to," he said, "but ye must be careful not to wobble the boat."

The children promised, and then gave themselves up to the delight of holding their hands in the water and feeling the soft ripples run through their fingers.

The row down the river was perfect. The balmy June day, with its clear air and blue sky, the swift, steady motion of the boat impelled by Carter's long, strong strokes, and the soothing sensation of the rushing water subdued even the high spirits of Midge and Molly into a sort of gentle, tranquil happiness.



Chapter VIII

A Memory Book


With a few deft strokes Carter brought the boat to land on a long, smooth, shelving beach. A crunch of the keel on the pebbles, and then the boat was half its length on shore. Stella, in the bow, grasped the sides of the boat tightly with both hands, as if the shore were more dangerous than the water. Carter stepped out, and drew the boat well up on land, and assisted the girls out.

Stella stepped out gingerly, as if afraid of soiling her dainty boots; but Midge and Molly, with a hop, skip, and jump, bounded out on the beach and danced round in glee.

"I do believe," cried Marjorie, "that this is Blossom Banks! For there are three banks, one after another, just covered with wild flowers. And as true as I live there's a scarlet tanager on that bush! Don't startle him, Stella."

Molly laughed at the idea of Stella startling anything, and softly the girls crept nearer to the beautiful red bird, but in a moment he spread his black-tipped wings and flew away.

"It is Blossom Banks, Miss Midge," said Carter, who now came up to the girls, and who was carrying a mysterious-looking basket. He had secured the boat, and seemed about to climb the banks.

"What's in the basket, Carter?" cried Midge. "Is it a picnic? Is it a truly picnic?"

"Well, just a wee bit of a picnic, Miss Midget. Your Grandma said that maybe some cookies and apples wouldn't go begging among yees. But ye must climb the banks first, so up ye go!"

Gayly the girls scrambled up the bank, and though Stella was not as impetuous as the others, she was not far behind. At every step new beauties dawned, and Marjorie, who was a nature-lover, drew a long breath of delight as she reached the top of the Blossom Banks.

They trotted on, sometimes following Carter's long strides and sometimes dancing ahead; now falling back to chatter with Stella and now racing each other to the next hillock.

At last they reached the dearest little picnic place, with soft green grass for a carpet, and gnarled roots of great trees for rustic seats.

"For a little picnic," said Midge, as she sat with an apple in one hand and a cookie in the other, contentedly munching them both alternately, "this is the bestest ever. And isn't this a splendiferous place for a big picnic!"

"Perhaps your grandma will let you have one this summer," said Stella. "She had one for Kingdon last year and we all came to it. It was lovely fun."

"Indeed it was," cried Molly; "there were swings on the trees, and we played tag, and we had bushels of sandwiches."

"I'm going to ask Grandma as soon as ever I get home," declared Midge, "and I 'most know she'll let me have one. But I don't know many children around here to ask."

"I'll make up a list for you," volunteered Molly. "Come on, girls, let's play tag."

The cookies and apples being all gone and Carter having consented in response to their coaxing to stay half an hour longer, they had a glorious game of tag.

Stella, though so sedate when walking, could run like a deer, and easily caught the others; for Marjorie was too plump to run fast, and Molly, though light on her feet, was forever tumbling down.

At last, tired and warm from their racing, they sat down again in the little mossy dell and played jackstones until Carter declared they must go home.

"All right," said Midge; "but, Carter, row us a little farther down stream, won't you, before you turn around?"

"I will, Miss Midge, if ye'll sit still and not be everlastin' makin' me heart jump into me throat thinkin' ye'll turn the boat upside down."

"All right," cried Midge, and she jumped into the boat with a spring and a bounce that made the other end tip up and splash the water all over her.

"There ye go now," grumbled Carter; "my, but it's the rambunctious little piece ye are! Now, Miss Molly, for the land's sake, do step in with your feet and not with your head! You two'll be the death of me yet!"

Carter's bark was worse than his bite, for, although he scolded, he helped the children in carefully and gently seated Stella in her place. Then he stepped in, and with a mighty shove of the oar pushed the boat off the beach, and they were afloat again.

The exhilaration of the occasion had roused Midge and Molly to a high state of frolicsomeness, and it did seem impossible for them to keep still. They dabbled their hands in the water and surreptitiously splashed each other, causing much and tumultuous giggling. This was innocent fun in itself, but Carter well knew that a sudden unintentional bounce on the part of either might send the other one into the water. Regardless of their entreaties he turned around and headed the boat for home.

"Ye're too many for me, Miss Midge," he exclaimed; "if I land you safe this trip ye can get somebody else to row ye the next time. I'm having nervous prostration with your tricks and your didoes. NOW, will ye be good?"

This last exasperated question was caused by the fact that a sudden bounce of Molly's caused the boat to lurch and Carter's swift-moving oar sent a drenching wave all over Midge.

"Pooh, water doesn't hurt!" cried the victim. "I like it. Do it again, Molly!"

"Don't you do it, Miss Molly!" roared Carter, bending to his oars and pulling fast in an effort to get home before these unmanageable children had passed all bounds.

"Girls," piped Stella, plaintively from her end of the boat, "if you don't stop carrying on, I shall cry."

This threat had more effect than Carter's reprimands, and, though the two madcaps giggled softly, they did sit pretty still for the remainder of the trip.

Once more on the dock, Marjorie shook herself like a big dog, and declared she wasn't very wet, after all. "And I'm very much obliged to you, Carter," she said, smiling at the old man; "you were awful good to take us for such a lovely boat-ride, and I'm sorry we carried on so, but truly, Carter, it was such a lovely boat that I just couldn't help it! And you do row splendid!"

The compliment was sincere, and by no means made with the intention of softening Carter's heart, but it had that effect, and he beamed on Midget as he replied:

"Ah, that's all right, me little lady. Ye just naturally can't help bouncin' about like a rubber ball. Ye have to work off yer animal spirits somehow, I s'pose. But if so be that ye could sit a bit quieter, I might be injuced to take ye agin some other day. But I'd rather yer grandma'd be along."

"Oho!" laughed Marjorie. "It would be funny to have Grandma in a boat! She'd sit stiller than Stella, and I don't believe she'd like it, either."

With Stella in the middle, the three girls intertwined their arms and skipped back to the house. Marjorie and Molly had found that the only way to make Stella keep up with them was to urge her along in that fashion.

"Good-by," said Marjorie, as the three parted at the gate; "be sure to come over to-morrow morning; and, Stella, if you'll bring your paintbox, it will be lovely for you to paint those paper dolls."

The three girls had become almost inseparable companions, and though Midge and Molly were more congenial spirits, Stella acted as a balance wheel to keep them from going too far. She really had a good influence over them, though exerted quite unconsciously; and Midge and Molly inspired Stella with a little more self-confidence and helped her to conquer her timidity.

"Good-by," returned Stella, "and be sure to have a letter in the post office by four o'clock, when James goes for the milk."

The post office in the old maple tree had become quite an institution, and the girls put letters there for each other nearly every day, and sent for them by any one who might happen to be going that way.

Quiet little Stella was especially fond of getting letters and would have liked to receive them three times a day.

The elder members of the three families often sent letters or gifts to the children, and it was not at all unusual to find picture postcards or little boxes of candy, which unmistakably came from the generous hand of Uncle Steve.

One delightful afternoon Marjorie sat in her cosy little porch with a table full of delightful paraphernalia and a heart full of expectation.

She was waiting for Uncle Steve, who was going to devote that afternoon to helping her arrange her Memory Book. Marjorie had collected a quantity of souvenirs for the purpose, and Uncle Steve had bought for her an enormous scrapbook. When she had exclaimed at its great size, he had advised her to wait until it had begun to fill up before she criticised it; and when she looked at her pile of treasures already accumulated, she wondered herself how they would all get in the book.

At last Uncle Steve came, and sitting down opposite Marjorie at her little table, announced himself as ready to begin operations.

"We'll plan it out a little first, Mopsy, and then fasten the things in afterward."

Marjorie was quite content to sit and look on, at least until she found out how such things were done.

"You see," said her uncle, "we'll take a page for each occasion -- more or less. For instance, as this book is to represent just this summer it ought to begin with your trip up here. Have you anything that reminds you of that day?"

"Yes," said Marjorie, looking over her heap of treasures, "here's a little kind of a badge that father bought for me at the station as we were going to the train."

"Just the thing; now, you see, as this is on a pin itself we'll just stick it in this first page. Anything else?"

"Well, here's a pretty picture I cut out of a magazine on the train coming up; oh, and here are two postcards that I bought of a boy who brought them through the train."

"Fine! Now, you see, we'll paste all these on this page and anything more if you have it, and then every time you look at this page you can just seem to see that whole trip, can't you?"

"Yes," said Marjorie, who was becoming absorbedly interested in this new game; "and here's the time-table, Uncle: but that isn't very pretty and it's so big. Oh, and here's the card, the bill of fare, you know, that we had in the dining-car. See, it has a picture on it."

"Why, Midget, it isn't considered exactly good form to carry the MENU away with you; but it's really no crime, and since you have it, we'll put it in. As to the time-table, we'll just cut out this part that includes the stations at the beginning and end of your trip. See?"

"Oh, yes, indeed I do! And what a beautiful page!" Marjorie breathlessly watched as Uncle Steve arranged the souvenirs harmoniously on the big page and pasted them neatly in their places. Then, taking from his pocket a box of colored pencils, he printed at the top of the page, in ornate letters, the date and the occasion. Uncle Steve was an adept at lettering, and the caption was an additional ornament to the already attractive page.

Thus they went on through the book. Sometimes a page was devoted to a special occasion, and again many scattered mementoes were grouped together. It seemed as if every pleasure Marjorie had had since she came, had produced something attractive for her book.

A fancy lace paper represented the big box of bonbons that her father had sent her when she had her sprained ankle. Many photographs there were, for Marjorie had learned to use her camera pretty well, and Uncle Steve sometimes took snap-shots of the children with his own larger camera. There were several little pictures that Stella had painted for her, an old tintype that Grandma had given her, a feather from the tail of Marjorie's pet rooster, and many such trifles, each of which brought up a host of memories of pleasant or comical situations.

The sprained-ankle episode filled up several pages. For there were the letters that Marjorie had received from the animals, and other notes and pictures that had been sent to her, and many mementoes of those long days she had spent in bed. The beautiful book Uncle Steve had brought her at that time was suggested by its title, cut from the paper wrapper which had been on the book when it came. Indeed, it seemed that there was no end to the ingenious ways of remembering things that Marjorie wanted to remember. A tiny, bright bird feather would recall the walk she took with Grandma one afternoon; a pressed wild flower was an eloquent reminder of Blossom Banks; and a large strawberry hull, neatly pasted into place, Marjorie insisted upon to remind her of the day when she said "Boo" to Stella.

Several pages were devoted to souvenirs from home, and Rosy Posy's illegible scrawls were side by side with neatly-written postcards from her parents.

All of these things Uncle Steve arranged with the utmost care and taste, and Marjorie soon learned how to do it for herself. Some things, such as letters or thin cards, must be pasted in; heavier cards or postcards were best arranged by cutting slits for the corners and tucking them in; while more bulky objects, such as pebbles, a tiny china doll or a wee little Teddy Bear, must be very carefully tied to the page by narrow ribbons put through slits from the back.

Marjorie was so impetuous and hasty in her work that it was difficult for her to learn to do it patiently and carefully. Her first efforts tore the pages and were far from being well done. But, as she saw the contrast between her own untidy work and Uncle Steve's neat and careful effects, she tried very hard to improve, and as the book went on her pages grew every day better and more careful.

At the top of each page Uncle Steve would write the date or the place in dainty, graceful letters; and often he would write a name or a little joke under the separate souvenirs, until, as time went on, the book became one of Marjorie's most valued and valuable possessions.



Chapter IX

The Front Stairs


Marjorie had been at Grandma Sherwood's about weeks, and as a general thing she had been a pretty good little girl. She had tried to obey her mother's orders, and though it was not easy to keep her troublesome curls always just as they ought to be and her ribbon always in place, yet she had accomplished this fairly well, and Grandma said that she really deserved credit for it.

But to obey Grandma implicitly was harder still. Not that Marjorie ever meant to disobey or ever did it wilfully, but she was very apt to forget and, too, it seemed to be natural for her to get into mischief. And as it was always some new sort of mischief, which no one could have thought of forbidding, and as she was always so sorry for it afterward, there was more or less repentance and forgiveness going on all the time.

But, on the whole, she was improving, and Uncle Steve sometimes said that he believed she would live to grow up without tumbling off of something and breaking her neck, after all.

Grandma Sherwood found it far easier to forgive Marjorie's unintentional mischief than her forgetting of explicit commands.

One command in particular had caused trouble all summer. There were two front doors to Grandma's house and two halls. One of these halls opened into the great drawing-room on one side and a smaller reception room on the other, where callers were received. The stairs in this hall were of polished wood and were kept in a state of immaculate, mirror-like shininess by Jane, who took great pride in this especial piece of work.

The other front door opened into a hall less pretentious. This hall was between the drawingroom and the family library, and the stairs here were covered with thick, soft carpet.

It was Grandma's wish that the members of the family should usually use the carpeted stairs, for she too took great pride in the glossy, shining surface of the others. Uncle Steve preferred the carpeted stairs, anyway, as they led to the upper hall which opened into his own room, and Grandma invariably used them.

As a means of distinction, the wooden stairs were habitually called the Front Stairs; and, though they were equally front, the carpeted flight was always spoken of as the Other Stairs.

From the first, Marjorie had been explicitly forbidden to go up and down the Front Stairs; and from the first Marjorie had found this rule most difficult to remember.

Rushing from her play into the house, often with muddy or dusty shoes, she would fly into the hall, clatter up the Front Stairs, and, perhaps, down again and out, without a thought of her wrongdoing. This would leave footprints, and often scratches and heel-marks on the beautiful steps, which meant extra work for Jane; and even then the scratches were not always effaceable.

Many a serious talk had Grandma and Marjorie had on the subject; many times had Marjorie faithfully promised to obey this particular command; and, alas! many times had the child thoughtlessly broken her promise.

At last, Grandma said: "I know, my dear, you do not MEAN to forget, but you DO forget. Now this forgetting must stop. If you run up those Front Stairs again, Marjorie, I'm going to punish you."

"Do, Grandma," said Marjorie, cheerfully; "perhaps that will make me stop it. For honest and true I just resolve I won't do it, and then before I know it I'm just like Jack and the Beanstalk, 'a-hitchet, a-hatchet, a-up I go!' and, though I don't mean to, there I am!"

Grandma felt like smiling at Marjorie's naive confession, but she said very seriously: "That's the trouble, dearie, you DO forget and you must be made to remember. I hope it won't be necessary, but if it is, you'll have to be punished."

"What will the punishment be, Grandma?" asked Marjorie, with great interest. She was hanging around Mrs. Sherwood's neck and patting her face as she talked. There was great affection between these two, and though Marjorie was surprised at the new firmness her grandmother was showing, she felt no resentment, but considerable curiosity.

"Never mind; perhaps you'll never deserve punishment and then you will never know what it would have been. Indeed, I'm not sure myself, but if you don't keep off those Front Stairs we'll both of us find out in short order."

Grandma was smiling, but Marjorie knew from her determined tone that she was very much in earnest.

For several days after that Marjorie kept carefully away from the Front Stairs, except when she was wearing her dainty house slippers. It was an understood exception that, when dressed for dinner or on company occasions and her feet shod with light, thin-soled shoes, Marjorie might walk properly up or down the Front Stairs. The restriction only applied to her heavy-soled play shoes or muddied boots.

So all went well, and the question of punishment being unnecessary, it was almost forgotten.

One morning, Marjorie was getting ready to go rowing with Carter. Molly was to go too, and as the girls had learned to sit moderately still in the boat, the good-natured gardener frequently took them on short excursions.

It was a perfect summer day, and Marjorie sang a gay little tune as she made herself ready for her outing. She tied up her dark curls with a pink ribbon, and as a hat was deemed unnecessary by her elders, she was glad not to be bothered with one. She wore a fresh, pink gingham dress and thick, heavy-soled shoes, lest the boat should be damp. She took with her a small trowel, for she was going to dig some ferns to bring home; and into her pocket she stuffed a little muslin bag, which she always carried, in case she found anything in the way of pebbles or shells to bring home for her Memory Book. She danced down the Other Stairs, kissed Grandma good-by, and picking up her basket for the ferns, ran merrily off.

Molly was waiting for her, and together they trotted down the sandy path to the boathouse. It had rained the day before and the path was a bit muddy, but with heavy shoes the children did not need rubbers.

"Isn't it warm?" said Molly. "I 'most wish I'd worn a hat, it's so sunny."

"I hate a hat," said Marjorie, "but I'll tell you what, Molly, if we had my red parasol we could hold it over our heads."

"Just the thing, Mopsy; do skip back and get it. I'll hold your basket, and Carter isn't here yet."

Marjorie ran back as fast as she could, pattering along the muddy path and thinking only of the red parasol, bounded in at the front door and up the Front Stairs!

Grandma was in the upper hall, and her heart sank as she saw the child, thoughtlessly unconscious of wrongdoing, clatter up the stairs, her heavy boots splashing mud and wet on every polished step.

Her heart sank, not so much because of the mud on the steps as because of this new proof of Marjorie's thoughtlessness.

"My dear little girl!" she said, as Marjorie reached the top step, and in a flash Marjorie realized what she had done.

Crestfallen and horrified, she threw herself into her grandmother's arms.

"I'm sorry, Midget dear, but I cannot break my word. You know what I told you."

"Yes, Grandma, and I am so sorry, but please, oh, Grandma dear, -- can't you just postpone the punishment till to-morrow? 'Cause Molly and I are going to Blossom Banks to dig ferns, and it's such a BEAUTIFUL day for ferns."

Grandma Sherwood hesitated. It almost broke her heart to deprive the child of her holiday, and yet it was for Marjorie's own good that an attempt must be made to cure her of her carelessness.

"No, Marjorie; I cannot postpone the punishment until to-morrow. If you wanted to go rowing to-day, you should have waited to run up these stairs until to-morrow. You didn't postpone your naughtiness, so I cannot postpone its punishment."

Marjorie looked dumfounded. She had not intended to be naughty, but also she had never supposed her gentle grandma could be so severe. She looked utterly disconsolate, and said in despairing tones: "But, Grandma, won't you let me go rowing this morning and give me the punishment this afternoon? I must go; Molly and Carter are down by the boathouse waiting for me! Please, Grandma!"

So difficult was it for Mrs. Sherwood to resist the child's pleading tones that her own voice was more stern than she intended to make it, lest she reveal her true feeling.

"No, Marjorie; you have been very naughty now, and so you must be punished now. Listen to me. I shall send Jane to tell Carter to go back to his work and to tell Molly to go home. I'm sorry to spoil your pleasure, but remember you have really spoiled it yourself."

Marjorie did not cry, she was not that sort of a child. But she had a broken-down, wilted air, the very despondency of which almost made her grandmother relent. Had it been a more important occasion she might have done so, but the children could go on the river any day, and though it was a very real disappointment to Marjorie to stay at home, yet discipline required it.

"Now, Marjorie," went on Mrs. Sherwood, after Jane had been despatched on her errand, "take off those muddy shoes and set them on the top step of the stairs."

Rather wondering at this command, Marjorie sat down on the top step, unlaced her shoes, and did with them as she had been bidden.

"Now, this is your punishment, my child; you came up these stairs when you had been told not to do so: now you may spend the rest of the day on the stairs. You are not to leave them until six o'clock to-night. With the muddy steps and your muddy shoes in front of your eyes all day long, you may, perhaps, learn to remember better in future."

Marjorie could scarcely believe her ears. To stay on the stairs all day long seemed a funny punishment; and except for missing the row on the river, it did not seem a very hard one.

"May I have a book, Grandma," she asked, still a little bewildered by the outlook.

Grandma considered. "Yes," she said at last; "you may go to your room, put on your worsted bedroom slippers, and then you may bring back with you any books or toys you care for."

"How many?" asked Marjorie, whose spirits were rising, for her punishment seemed to promise a novel experience.

"As many as you can carry at once," replied Grandma, turning aside to hide a smile.

In a few minutes Marjorie returned. She had turned up the short, full skirt of her pink gingham frock to form a sort of bag, and into it she had tumbled, helter-skelter, several books, some paper and pens, her paper-doll's house, her paintbox, her kitten, a few odd toys, her Memory Book, and her clock. Staggering under the bulging load, but in a more cheerful frame of mind, she reached the stairs again.

"I brought my clock," she observed, "because I shall want to know as the hours so by; but I'll be careful not to scratch the stairs with it, Grandma."

"Your carefulness comes too late, Marjorie. I shall have to send for a man from town to repolish the stairs, anyway, for the nails in the heels of your heavy boots have entirely ruined them."

"Oh, Grandma, I am so sorry; and if you think a day won't be punishment enough, I'll stay for a week. Do I get anything to eat?" she added, as a sudden thought of their picnic luncheon occurred to her. "You might just send me the picnic basket."

"Jane will bring you your dinner," said her grandmother, shortly, for she began to think the punishment she had devised was more like a new game.

"Goody!" cried Marjorie. "I do love dinner on a tray. Send plenty of strawberries, please; and, Grandma, don't think that I'm not truly being punished, for I am. I shall think over my naughtiness a good deal, and when I look at those awful shoes, I don't see how I COULD have done such a wicked thing. But you know yourself, Grandma, that we ought to make the best of everything, and so I'll just get what fun I can out of my books and my strawberries."

Mrs. Sherwood went away, uncertain whether she had succeeded in what she had intended to do or not. She knew Marjorie would not leave the stairs without permission, for the little girl was exceedingly conscientious.

Left to herself, Marjorie began to take in the situation.

She carefully unpacked her dressful of things, and arranged them on the steps. In this she became greatly interested. It was a novel way of living, to go always up and down and never sideways. She planned her home for the day with care and thought. She decided to reserve a narrow space next the banister to go up and down; and to arrange her belongings on the other side of the staircase. She put her clock on the top step that she might see it from any point of view; and on the other steps she laid neatly her books, her paint-box, her writing things, and her toys. She became absorbed in this occupation, and delightedly scrambled up and down, arranging and rearranging her shelved properties.

"It's a good deal like my shelf in my own room," she thought, "except it's all in little pieces instead of straight ahead. But that doesn't really matter, and I'm not sure but I like it better this way. Now, I think I'll write a letter to Mother, first, and confess this awful thing I've done. I always feel better after I get my confessions off of my mind, and when Jane brings my dinner I expect she'll take it to be mailed."

Marjorie scrambled up to a step near the top where her little writing tablet was. She arranged her paper and took up her pen, only to discover that in her haste she had forgotten to bring any ink.

"But it doesn't matter," she thought, cheerfully, "for it would have upset in my dress probably, and, anyway, I can just as well use a pencil."

But the pencil's point was broken, and, of course, it had not occurred to her to bring a knife. She had promised Grandma not to leave the stairs without permission, so there was nothing to do but to give up the idea of letter-writing, and occupy herself with something else.

"And, anyway," she thought, "it must be nearly dinner time, for I've been here now for hours and hours."

She glanced at the clock, and found to her amazement that it was just twenty minutes since her grandmother had left her alone.

"The clock must have stopped!" she said, bending her ear to listen.

But it hadn't, and Marjorie suddenly realized that a whole day, solitary and alone, is an interminable length of time.

"Oh, dear," she sighed, putting her head down on her arms on the step above, "I do wish I had gone up the Other Stairs! This day is going to last forever! I just know it is! But if it ever DOES get over, I never want to see the Front Stairs again!"



Chapter X

A Long Day


Marjorie had expected to derive much satisfaction, during her sojourn on the stairs, from playing with her kitten. But Puff ran away almost immediately, and no amount of calling or coaxing could bring her back.

Sighing deeply, Marjorie tried to amuse herself reading the books she had brought. But the light was not very good on the stairs, and somehow, too, the books seemed to have lost their interest. Thinking over what she could do to make the time pass, she remembered her paint-box. She was fond of painting, and concluded she would try to paint a little sketch of the stairs to put in her Memory Book to represent this dreadful day.

"Not that I need anything to make me remember it," she thought, "for I'm sure I can never, never, never forget it." But when she had her other materials all prepared she realized she had no glass of water, so, of course, her paints were useless.

Even her paper-doll's house seemed to have lost its flavor. She had no new things to paste in, nor had she any paste.

She began to learn what a lot of little things make up the comforts of life, and, utterly discouraged, she tried to think of something to while away the time.

At last she concluded she would start at the top and go down, sitting on each step five minutes. "This," she calculated to herself, "will fill up a long time. There are seventeen steps, and seventeen times five is, -- well, I don't know how much it is, exactly, but it must be several hours. Perhaps, when I get down to the bottom it will be afternoon!"

With a reviving sense of interest in something, she sat on the top step and waited for five minutes to pass. Never had a period of time seemed so long. It was twice as long as a church service, and a dozen times as long as the ride in the cars when she came up to Grandma's. But at last the five minutes was up, and with a little jounce Marjorie slid down to the next step, and prepared to spend another five. This was longer yet, and at the third-step Marjorie gave up this plan, as being the most dreadful thing she had ever tried.

She began to feel like crying, but was determined not to do anything so foolish.

Slowly and wearily the morning dragged away, and at last, when Marjorie had begun to feel that lassitude which comes from utter weariness, Jane appeared with a tray of luncheon.

Marjorie brightened up at once. "Oh, Jane," she cried, "I'm SO glad to see you! I AM so lonesome!"

"Pore lamb!" said Jane, sympathetically; "I'm thinkin' ye're purty nigh dead, be now. But here's the foine lunch for ye. See, darlint, here's chicken and strawberries and jelly and all the things ye like best! Cheer up, now, and ate yer food."

"Indeed, I will! Oh, Jane, what lovely things! Fresh little cakes, with pink icing; and gooseberry jam! But don't go away, Jane."

"I must, Miss Midget. Yer grandma towld me not to shtay wid yez."

"But I'm so lonesome," said Marjorie, who had just seemed to realize what the main trouble was.

But Jane dared not disobey orders, and setting the tray on the stairs, she went away, with fond backward glances at the forlorn little figure sitting there.

However, the lonesomest human heart is bound to cheer up a little under the influence of a specially fine feast, and as Marjorie ate her luncheon and drank a big glass of milk, the detested stairs began to assume a rather more attractive air.

And so, when Jane came to take the tray away she found on it only empty dishes, while Marjorie, who was cuddled up in a corner, reading, looked at her with a smile.

"The day is half gone!" she announced, triumphantly. "And, Jane, won't you ask Grandma if you may bring me a glass of water so I can paint. But tell her I don't want it unless she's perfectly willing."

Grandma smiled a little at the stipulation, but sent Marjorie the glass of water, and the child filled up half an hour or more painting pictures. But the cramped position was very uncomfortable, and Marjorie grew restless and longed for exercise. Suddenly an inspiration seized her, and she concluded it would be great fun to slide down the banister. For a few times this was amusing, but it stung her hands, and finally she fell off and bumped her head rather soundly.

"It's lucky I fell on the stair side," she said to herself, rubbing the lump on her forehead, "for I promised Grandma not to leave the stairs, and if I had fallen off on the other side I should have broken my promise!"

The afternoon hours seemed to move rather more slowly than the morning. Occasionally, Marjorie's naturally cheerful disposition would assert itself and she would bravely endeavor to occupy herself pleasantly in some way. But there was so little light, and stairs are uncomfortable at best to sit on, and the silence and loneliness were so oppressive, that her efforts successively failed.

And, though Marjorie did not realize it, her spirits were depressed because of the mere fact that she was undergoing punishment. Had she been there of her own free choice she could have played happily on the stairs all day long; or had the opportunity been bestowed upon her, as a great and special treat, the hours would have flown by.

At last, exhausted, Nature conquered all else, and, seated on one step, Marjorie folded her arms on the step above, laid her head down upon them, and went to sleep.

And it was thus that Uncle Steve found her when he came home at four o'clock.

"Hello, Queen of Mischief!" he cried, gayly. "Wake up here and tell me all about it!"

"Oh, Uncle Steve!" cried Marjorie, waking, flushed from her nap, and delighted at having some one to speak to; "do you know why I'm here? Did Grandma tell you?"

"Yes, she told me; and she told me something else, too. She says that if you are properly sorry for what you did, -- really, AWFULLY sorry, you know, -- that you may be excused for the rest of the day and may go out driving with me."

"Well, I just rather guess I AM sorry! I'm two sorries. One, because I disobeyed Grandma and tracked up her Front Stairs; and another, because I've had this terrible, dreadful punishment."

Uncle Steve looked at his niece a little gravely. "Which are you more sorry for, Marjorie," he asked: "because you did wrong or because you were punished?"

Marjorie considered. "About equal, I think. No, I'm more sorry I did wrong, because if I hadn't, I wouldn't have had the punishment; and, besides, it hurt Grandma's feelings."

"Which did?"

"Why, my running up the stairs! Of course, the punishment didn't hurt her," and Marjorie laughed merrily at the idea.

"I think it hurt her more than it did you," said Uncle Steve, but Marjorie only stared, open-eyed, at this nonsense.

"Well, anyway, it's all over now; so bundle your belongings back where they belong and get yourself ready for a drive."

Marjorie flew to obey, but meeting Grandma in the hall, she dropped her dressful of books and toys, and flung herself into Mrs. Sherwood's waiting arms.

"Oh, Grandma!" she cried. "I AM so sorry I slam-banged upstairs, and I'll never do it again, and I had a perfectly awful, DREADFUL time, but of course you had to punish me for your own good, -- I mean for my own good, -- but now it's all over, and you love me just the same, don't you?"

The ardent embrace in progress left no doubt of the affection still existing between the pair, and if Marjorie's hugs were of the lovingly boisterous variety, Grandma Sherwood appeared quite willing to submit to them.

"I don't know," she thought to herself, after Marjorie had gone for her drive, "whether that child is impervious to discipline or whether she is unusually capable of receiving and assimilating it."

But at any rate, Marjorie never went up or down the front stairs again, except on the occasions when it was distinctly permissible.

The drive with Uncle Steve was a succession of delights. This was partly because it was such a sudden and pleasant change from the abominable staircase and partly because Uncle Steve was such an amiable and entertaining companion.

The two were alone in an old-fashioned, low basket-phaeton; and Uncle Steve was willing to stop whenever Marjorie wished, to note an especially beautiful bird on a neighboring branch or an extra-fine blossom of some wild flower.

Also, Uncle Steve seemed to know the names of all the trees and flowers and birds they chanced to see. Greatly interested in these things, Marjorie learned much nature-lore, and the lessons were but play. Tying the horse to a fence, the two cronies wandered into the wood and found, after much careful search, some Indian Pipes of an exquisite perfection. These fragile, curious things were Marjorie's great delight, and she carried them carefully home for her Memory Book.

"They won't be very satisfactory as mementoes," warned Uncle Steve, "for they will turn brown and lose their fair, white beauty."

Marjorie looked regretful, but an inspiration came to her.

"I'll tell you what, Uncle Steve, I'll get Stella to draw them in my book and paint them. She's so clever at copying flowers, and I'm sure she can do it."

"Let her try it, then, and if she doesn't succeed I'll photograph them for you, so you'll have at least a hint of the lovely things."

Hand in hand they walked through the wood, spying new beauties here and there. Sometimes they sat on a fallen log to rest a bit or to discuss some new marvel in Nature's kingdom.

At last, as the sun was sinking low in the west, they left the wood, untied old Betsy, who was patiently waiting for them, and jogged along homeward.

"Punishment is a strange thing," said Marjorie to Grandma, as they were having their little "twilight talk" that evening, before the child went to bed.

"Why?" asked Grandma.

"Because it makes you remember," said Marjorie, slowly; "I don't see why I couldn't remember to keep off the Front Stairs, just because you told me to, but somehow I couldn't. Now, after to-day, I'm sure I shall never forget again."

"That's the difference, my child, between youth and age. You are young and careless of other people's wishes. I want you to learn to consider others before yourself, and to remember to do so without a dreadful punishment to fix it in your memory."

"It's lucky, isn't it, that I don't get punished for all the naughty things I do? It would keep me busy being punished most of the time."

"You ARE a mischievous child, Marjorie; but your mischief is always the result of carelessness or forgetfulness. I have never known you purposely to disobey me or deliberately to cut up some naughty trick."

"No, I don't, Grandma; often I'm being just as good as an angel and as quiet as a mouse, when suddenly something pops into my head that would be fun to do; and I fly and do it, before I think, and just about every time it's something wrong!"

"Then suppose you try to act more slowly. When you think of some piece of fun, pause a moment, to make sure that it isn't mischief. There's quite enough innocent fun in the world to keep you busy all day, and every day."

"I 'spect there is; and truly, Grandma, after this, when I want to cut up jinks, I'll wait until I can think it out, whether they're good jinks or bad jinks! Will that do?"

"That will do admirably," said Grandma, smiling as she kissed the little girl; "if you go through life on that principle and if you have judgment enough -- and I think you have -- to tell 'good jinks' from 'bad jinks,' you will probably have plenty of good times without any necessity for punishment."

"Then that's all right," said Marjorie, and feeling that her life problems were all settled, she dropped off to sleep.



Chapter XI

The Dunns


"Marjorie," said Mrs. Sherwood, one morning, "do you know where Mrs. Dunn lives?"

"Yes, Grandma; down the river-road, toward the blacksmith's."

"Yes, that's right; and I wish you would go down there for me and carry a small basket. There isn't any one else I can send this morning and I have just heard that she is quite ill."

"They're awfully poor people, aren't they? Are you sending them something nice?"

"Yes; some food. Mrs. Dunn scalded her hands severely last night, and I fear she will not be able to work for several days. So if you will carry them these things for their dinner, I will try to get down there myself this afternoon."

"Of course I will, Grandma; I'm glad to help the poor people. May I ask Molly to go with me?"

"Why, yes; I don't care. If there are two of you, you can carry more things. Run over after her, and I'll have the baskets ready by the time you get back."

With a hop and a skip, Marjorie took the shortcut across the fields to Molly's house. It was a beautiful summer morning, and Marjorie didn't stop more than half a dozen times, to watch the crows or the bees or the clouds or a hop-toad.

She captured Molly, and after waiting for that dishevelled young person to scramble into a clean frock, the two girls hopped and skipped back again.

Marjorie was somewhat inexperienced in the practical matters of charity, and looked with surprise at the large quantity of substantial viands.

"There is a large family of the Dunns," observed Grandma, "and they're all blessed with healthy appetites. These things won't go to waste."

"Are there children?" asked Marjorie.

"Yes, indeed, four of them. You must see how Mrs. Dunn is and find out if she's badly hurt. Ask her what she wants especially, and tell her I am coming this afternoon, and I'll carry it to her."

The girls trotted away with the well-filled baskets, and Grandma Sherwood looked after them a little uncertainly, as she saw how preoccupied they were in their own conversation, and remembered how careless Marjorie was, and how prone to mischief.

"Thim scalawags'll be afther havin' a picnic wid thim baskets," prophesied Eliza, as she too watched the children's departure.

Grandma Sherwood laughed. "I hardly think they'll do that," she said; "but they're liable to set down the baskets, and go hunting for wild flowers or something, and never think of their errand again."

But, on the contrary, the children were quite interested in their mission.

"Your grandma is an awful good woman," observed Molly.

"Yes, she is," agreed Marjorie; "it's lovely of her to send all these good things to poor people. It must be awful to be so poor that you don't have enough to eat!"

"Yes, but it must be lovely when the baskets come in."

"But they don't always come in," said Marjorie.

"They must," declared Molly, with an air of conviction; "if they didn't, the poor people would have nothing to eat, and then they would die; and you know yourself, we never hear of anybody dying of starvation around here."

"No; not around here, maybe. But in China they drop off by millions, just from starvation."

"Well, they wouldn't if your grandmother was there. She'd send baskets to every one of them."

"I believe she would," said Marjorie, laughing; "she'd manage it somehow."

By this time they had reached the Dunns' domain. At least they had come to a broken-down gate in a tumble-down fence, which Marjorie knew was the portal of their destination. In their endeavors to open the rickety gate the girls pushed it over, and nearly fell over, themselves.

But carefully holding their baskets they climbed over the pile of fallen pickets and followed the grass-grown path to the house.

And a forlorn enough house it was. Everything about it betokened not only poverty but shiftlessness. Marjorie was not experienced enough to know how often the former is the result of the latter, and her heart was full of pity for people who must live in such comfortless surroundings. The little old cottage was unpainted, and the front porch was in such a dilapidated condition that one step was entirely missing and several floor-boards were gone.

"It's like walking a tight-rope," said Marjorie, as she picked her way carefully along what she hoped was a sound plank. "But it's rather exciting. I wonder if we can get in."

There was no bell, and she tapped loudly on the door.

Almost instantly it was opened by a child whose appearance almost made Marjorie scream out with laughter.

A little girl of about ten, dressed in a bright pink skirt and a bright blue waist, stood before them. This startling color combination was enhanced by a red sash, which, though faded in streaks, was wide and tied at the back in a voluminous bow. The girl's naturally straight hair had apparently been urged by artificial means to curl in ringlets, but only a part of it had succumbed to the hot iron. The rest fairly bristled in its stiff straightness, and the whole mop was tied up with a large bow of red ribbon.

This rainbow-hued specimen of humanity opened the door with a flourish and bowed to the visitors with an air of extreme elegance.

Marjorie looked at her in astonishment. The gorgeous trappings and the formal demeanor of the child made her think she must have mistaken the house.

"Is this Mrs. Dunn's house?" she inquired, with some hesitation.

"Yes; I'm Miss Dunn," said the child, with such a ridiculous air of affectation that Molly giggled outright.

"Yes," Miss Dunn went on, "I am the eldest daughter. My name is Ella. They call me the Elegant Ella, but I don't mind."

"I am Marjorie Maynard and Mrs. Sherwood is my grandmother. She heard your mother was ill and she sent her these baskets."

"How kind of her!" exclaimed the Elegant Ella, clasping her hands and rolling up her eyes. "Won't you come in?"

As Marjorie and Molly had been with difficulty balancing themselves on the broken boards of the porch, they were glad to accept the invitation.

Their first glance at the interior of the cottage showed that the rest of the family and the ways of the house did not at all harmonize with the manner and appearance of the eldest daughter.

Everything was of the poorest, and there was no attempt at order or thrift.

Mrs. Dunn sat in a rockerless rocking-chair, her left hand wrapped in bandages and her right hand holding a book which she was reading.

As the girls entered she threw the book on the floor and smiled at them pleasantly.

"Walk right in," she said, "and take seats if you can find any. Hoopsy Topsy, get off that chair this minute and give it to the ladies! Dibbs, you lift Plumpy out of the other one, quick! There! Now you girls set down and rest yourselves! Did you bring them baskets for us? Lawsee! What a good woman Mis' Sherwood is, to be sure! Now ain't that just like her! She's so kind and gen'rous-hearted that she makes it a pleasure fer folks to get all scalted with hot water! Ella, you fly round and empty them baskets so's the young ladies can take them home again. But you set a while, girls, and visit."

"Are you much hurt, Mrs. Dunn?" asked Marjorie. "And how did it happen?"

"Hurt! Land sakes, I guess I am! Why, the hull kittle of boilin' water just doused itself on my hand and foot!"

"That's why Ma didn't rise to greet you," explained the Elegant Ella, and again Molly had hard work to keep her face straight as she noted the girl's comical efforts at etiquette.

"Aw, you keep still, Ella," said her mother; "you ain't got no call to talk to the young ladies."

But although Mrs. Dunn apparently tried to subdue her elegant daughter, yet it was plain to be seen that she greatly admired the flower of the family, and spoke thus merely from a pretended modesty.

"Ella's so fond of dress," said Mrs. Dunn, "that she jest don't hev time to bother with housekeepin'. So Hoopsy Topsy does it, and that's why we ain't so slick as we might be. But fer a child of eight, I must say Hoopsy Topsy does wonderful well."

Mrs. Dunn's pride in her offspring was unmistakable, and Hoopsy Topsy, who quite understood she was being complimented, smiled and looked happily self-conscious.

The novelty of the scene quite fascinated Marjorie. She had expected that abject poverty would leave its victims a despondent, down-hearted set of people; and instead of that she found them not only pleasant and amiable, but seemingly happy and care-free.

"My grandmother said, Mrs. Dunn," said Marjorie, "that if you would tell me of anything you specially want she would come this afternoon and bring it to you."

"My! ain't she good!" said Mrs. Dunn. "Well, if she don't mind, I'd like some old linen to wrap around the burns. You see, I am scalted pretty bad and it'll be a while 'fore I kin get to work again. But, of course, the children are right handy, an' ef we jest have a stove an' a bed we can scratch along somehow. Ella, she's more hifalutin. She'd like red plush sofys and lace curtings. But I say, 'Land, child! What's the use of worrying? If you can't have them things, you can't!' So, Ella, she makes the best of what she has, and I must say she doos have wonderful fine taste."

Marjorie looked at the Elegant Ella, and, though she didn't agree with Mrs. Dunn as to Ella's taste, she felt sorry for the poor child, who wanted the refinements of life, yet was doomed to live without them.

"It is of no consequence," said Ella, tossing her head; "we are very comfortable; and though I should like a piano, I am in no haste to procure one."

"Lucky you ain't," observed her mother, "as I don't see none runnin' this way. What's the matter, Dibbsy dear?"

Dibbs, who was a baby of four years, was sitting on the floor digging both his fists into his eyes. And though not audibly crying, he evidently was not entirely happy.

"Wants to know what's in de bastick!" he announced without hesitation.

"So you shall," declared his fond mother. "Hoopsy Topsy, lift Dibbs up so he can see what the young ladies brought."

Nothing loath, Hoopsy Topsy lifted up her brother, who at once forgot his grief, and, smiling broadly, began to investigate the baskets.

"Land sake, Ella," said Mrs. Dunn, "I told you to empty them baskets long ago. Whatever have you been a-doin' all this time?"

"I was retying my sash, Ma," exclaimed Ella, reappearing from the next room; "I think it has more of an air tied on the side."

"Ain't she the airy piece!" exclaimed the proud mother, looking at her daughter with undisguised admiration.

But it seemed to Molly and Marjorie that, if anything could be funnier than the Ella who first met them, it was the Ella of the retied sash!

Having arranged her finery to her satisfaction, Ella proceeded with her work of taking the things from the baskets, and, as she lifted out a large piece of cold beef, a delicious pie, some tea and sugar, and various parcels of bread and butter, and a jar of apple-sauce, the little Dunns all gathered round, quite unable to refrain from noisy expressions of glee and delight.

"Jiminy Christmas!" cried Hoopsy Topsy, quite upsetting Dibbs as she made a rush for the pie. And then Plumpy, the baby, wiggled his fat little self across the floor and joined the crowd about the pie, and aided by the Elegant Ella, in a few moments there wasn't any pie at all.

"Just look at them," said Mrs. Dunn, placidly; "you'd think they didn't have no manners! But they're that fond of pie, you wouldn't believe! They don't never get none, you know, and so it's a novelty."

"We'd like it if we had it every day," announced Hoopsy Topsy, with her mouth full.

"Pie ev'y day!" agreed Dibbs, as he contentedly munched his piece. The whole scene made a great impression on the two visitors, but they were affected quite differently. Marjorie felt a strong inclination to get away as soon as she could, for, though she felt very sorry for the poor people and was glad to give them things, yet the situation was not at all attractive, and having done her errand, she was quite ready to go.

Not so Molly. That active and energetic young person was dismayed at the untidiness and discomfort all about, and felt a strong desire at least to alleviate it.

"Mrs. Dunn," she said, "of course with your injured hand and foot you can't sweep. Mayn't I just take a broom and brush up a little? You'd be so much more comfortable."

"Land sakes, child, 'taint fer you to be sweepin' our house! Ella here, she can sweep; and Hoopsy Topsy's a good fist at it."

"I shall tidy up the room to-morrow," said Ella, with an air of haughty apology, "but to-day I have a hat to trim and I can't be bothered with household matters."

"Ella's just great on trimmin' hats," observed her mother, "and Mis' Green, she giv' her her last year's straw; and Ella, she'll trim it up so Mis' Green herself couldn't recognize it!"

Marjorie didn't doubt this in the least, and as Molly's suggestion had put an idea into her own head, she began to look upon an acquaintance with the Dunns as a new sort of entertainment.



Chapter XII

The Bazaar


"Mrs. Dunn," Marjorie said, "please let Molly and me fix up this room a little bit. Now, I'll tell you what: you and the children take these baskets of things out into the kitchen and put them away, or eat them, or do what you please. And then you all stay out there until we tell you you may come back. Ella can trim her hat if she chooses, and Hoopsy Topsy can take care of the children, and you can go on with your reading which we interrupted."

"Now, ain't you kind," said Mrs. Dunn; "I do declare that would be jest lovely! I ain't had a good rest like that in I don't know when! Hoopsy Topsy, you and Ella'll have to shove me out in this here chair. I can hobble some, but I can't walk."

With the children's assistance, Mrs. Dunn was transferred to the other room, her children followed, and Midge and Molly were left to their own devices.

"It's hopeless," said Marjorie, as she looked around at the untidy room.

"Not a bit of it!" declared Molly; "if I only had a decent broom instead of this old stub! Now, I'll sweep, Mopsy, and you find something that'll do for a duster, and we'll straighten up the place in less than no time."

Molly was a brave little housekeeper, and though Marjorie knew less about it, she was an apt pupil, and the whole performance seemed great fun. In less than an hour the two girls had quite transformed the room. Everything was clean and tidy, and Marjorie had scampered out and picked a bunch of daisies and clover to decorate the mantel.

"They haven't any pretty things," she said, as she scowled at the effect of her bouquet in an old cracked jar. "I'll tell you what, Molly, let's come back to-morrow and bring some little traps to decorate with. I can spare a number of things out of my own room; and Grandma will give me some, I know; and Uncle Steve will give me some, too."

"Yes, I can bring a lot," said Molly, with enthusiasm; "let's make this family all over. Let's make them be neat and tidy and thrifty."

"Do you suppose we can?" said Marjorie, doubtfully.

"Well, we can try," said Molly. "Now let's call them in, and then let's go home. It must be dinner-time, and I'm nearly starved."

They opened the door and found the Dunn family apparently happy and contented; and in no wise disturbed by the unusual occupation of their visitors.

"Come in," cried Marjorie, "come in all of you, and see how nice your room looks!"

"I can't come just now," said Elegant Ella, whose speech was rather indistinct by reason of several pins held in her mouth. "I'm trimming my hat, and if I leave it now I'll forget how I was going to arrange the feather."

"I think I won't move just at present," said Mrs. Dunn. "The gettin' out here hurt me more'n I thought it was goin' to, and now I'm landed, I guess I'll set a spell. I'm ever so much obliged to you fer all your kindness, and now you'd better run along home or your grandma'll be worried. You're mighty good children, and I'm glad to have that room swep' up; it must be a weight off en Ella's mind."

It did not seem probable that Ella ever had a weight on her mind in the way of housekeeping cares, but at the moment she was so absorbed in her hat-trimming that she paid no attention to her mother's remark.

It seemed hard that Molly and Midge had no one to appreciate the results of their labors, but Hoopsy Topsy was washing the dishes after the family meal, Plumpy was asleep on the floor, and Dibbs was playing out in the door-yard, with some battered old toys.

So, taking their baskets, Molly and Midge started homeward.

"I thought it would be fun to take things to poor people," said Marjorie, with an air of disappointment; "but those people are too aggravating for anything. They just accept what you bring and hardly thank you for it, and then they seem to want you to go home as fast as you can."

"That's so," agreed Molly; "but I don't care whether they like it or not. I think we ought to try to do them good. I don't mean only to take them things to eat, but try to make them more -- more -- "

"Respectable," suggested Marjorie. "But I suppose that Ella thinks she's more respectable than we are this minute."

"I s'pose she does; but we oughtn't to be discouraged by such things. I think mother'll give me some of my last year's dresses to give her, and then she won't have to wear that funny-looking rig she had on."

"She likes that," said Marjorie. "I don't believe she'd wear your dresses if you took them to her."

By this time the girls had reached the Sherwood house, and Grandma invited Molly to stay to dinner, which invitation the little girl gladly accepted.

At the dinner-table they told Grandma the whole story of the morning.

Mrs. Sherwood was greatly amused at their description of the Dunn family, and greatly surprised to learn of their efforts in the house-cleaning line.

"I want you to be charitable," she said, "and generously inclined toward the poor and needy. But I don't want you to adopt such unusual methods of dispensing your charity. After this, when you feel inclined to such energetic measures, come home first and ask permission. Then, if the plan seems to me feasible, you can carry it out."

"But, Grandma," said Marjorie, "the Dunns really need help. They can't seem to do anything and they haven't anything to do with."

"But you're too young, my child, to know what they do need. You must be content to help them under the direction of some one older than yourself. Mrs. Dunn, I fear, is not a thrifty or hard-working woman. She has not been here long, and I know little about her; but I've been told that she quite spoils that oldest child and makes the second one do all the work."

"The second one is named Hoopsy Topsy," said Marjorie, laughing; "and she's like her name. She's always tumbling down and racing about, with her dress torn and her hair in her eyes, like a perfect witch. The Elegant Ella is quite different. Truly, Grandma, they're a funny lot, and if you go there this afternoon, mayn't we go with you?"

"No," said Mrs. Sherwood, "I shall go by myself, to-day, and investigate the case. Perhaps some other time I may take you children."

The girls were disappointed, but when they found they couldn't go, they went out to Marjorie's porch to talk it all over.

"I think," said Marjorie, "it's our duty to do something for those children. Just think, Molly, we have everything we want, and they have nothing."

"I'll tell you what, Mopsy: let's sew and make things for them; dresses, you know, and aprons."

"I can't sew fit to be seen, Molly; and 'twould take me all summer to get one apron made. I'd rather give them things that we have. Why, I'd rather give Ella my best parasol than to try to sew anything for her!"

"Oh, don't give her that lovely parasol! We'll think of something else. Suppose we invite them all to dinner; you one day, and I another."

"I don't believe Grandma would like that. And, anyway, that would only give them dinner for two days; we couldn't keep it up, you know. But, Molly, I'll tell you what! Let's have a fair, or a bazaar or something, -- and make some money for them that way."

"Just the thing! That would be lovely. Where shall we have it?"

"Right here in this porch. Uncle Steve'll help, I know. And I'm sure Grandma won't mind our doing that."

When Marjorie laid the plan before Mrs. Sherwood that lady quite approved of it.

"Now, that's something sensible," she said; "it will be very nice for you girls to make things, and have a pretty little fair, but don't go down there again and sweep rooms for those people. I'm very sorry for poor Mrs. Dunn, but in this neighborhood there are not many poor people, and as the farmers are all kind-hearted I do not think she will suffer for lack of food while her injuries keep her from her work."

"Isn't there any Mr. Dunn?" asked Marjorie.

"No; he died a few months ago. That is why she had to come here and live in that forlorn little cottage. She hopes to support herself and her children by going out to work each day, but until her burns get well of course she can't do that."

"I'm sorry for her," said Marjorie, decidedly, "and I hope we'll make a lot at our fair to help her along."

When they told Stella about the plan for the fair, she thought it all great fun. She did not seem to care much about the Dunns or their needs, and positively refused to visit the little old cottage, but she was ready to work for the fair with all her might.

There seemed to be no end to the pretty things Stella knew how to make. She was a clever little artist, and she painted cards, pictures, and trinkets of all sorts, which Molly and Midge helped to make up into various salable fancy articles.

Midge was ingenious, too, and every afternoon the three worked busily, making all sorts of things.

Dolls were a specialty; and they made funny Chinese-looking affairs by stringing peanuts together, and making queer little costumes out of Japanese paper-napkins. They made paper dolls, too, which Stella painted prettily, and they dressed some little china dolls and wooden Dutch dolls.

Uncle Steve brought them materials to make up; and a letter which Marjorie wrote to her mother resulted in the arrival of a big box filled with all sorts of pretty and curious things, which would doubtless find a ready sale.

Marjorie crocheted mats and strung bead chains, while Molly, whose tastes were practical, made sweeping-caps and ironing-holders by the dozen.

So enthusiastic did the girls grow over their plan that their elders became interested, and soon donations for the fair began to arrive from many of the neighbors.

As the day drew near, preparations went on more rapidly, and the affair took on larger proportions.

It was arranged that all the toys, dolls, and fancy things for sale should be displayed in Marjorie's porch. Carter had put up some long tables, which Grandma Sherwood had draped prettily with white and light green cheese-cloth.

The other parts of the big veranda were arranged with tables, where ices and cakes were to be served; and a pretty booth was devoted to the sale of home-made candies.

The verandas and grounds were made gay with flags and Chinese lanterns. Uncle Steve superintended these decorations, which insured their being beautiful and appropriate. A tent on the lawn sheltered some musicians; and in an arbor, lemonade was dispensed.

The day of the bazaar was clear and pleasant, and not too warm. Early in the afternoon, Stella and Molly arrived, and the two, with Midge, all in their fresh white dresses, flitted about from one booth to another, to make sure that everything was in readiness.

Several other girls and boys, and some ladies and gentlemen too, had been invited to assist in selling the things and to wait on the guests, so that when the bazaar opened at four o'clock in the afternoon a merry lot of young people were scattered about the grounds.

Marjorie was in her element. "Oh, Uncle Steve," she cried; "isn't it all perfectly lovely! And I think we'll make quite a lot of money, don't you?"

"I do, indeed, Mopsy. I'm only afraid, by the way the customers are flocking in, that we haven't provided enough refreshment for them."

And sure enough, though the hour was yet early, crowds of people were coming in at the gate.

The fame of the little fair had spread among the country people, and they all seemed determined to help along the good cause. Molly and Marjorie found their stock of wares rapidly fading away, while Stella, who was selling lemonade, could scarcely keep enough on hand to supply her customers.

"You must put up your prices, Mopsy," said her uncle; "that's the way to do when your stock is getting low."

So Marjorie doubled the price of everything she had left for sale, but even then the dolls and trinkets were willingly bought.

"What shall we do?" said Grandma, in despair. "It isn't seven o'clock, we haven't lighted the lanterns yet for the evening, and the ice cream is all gone! I never dreamed we'd have such a crowd."

"We'll light the lanterns, anyway," declared Uncle Steve, "for if the ice cream is gone they'll want to buy the lanterns next!"

And sure enough they did. When the people came in the evening and learned that everything was sold out but the lanterns, they declared they would buy them for souvenirs. So the merry guests walked about the grounds, carrying the lighted lanterns they had bought (at astonishing prices), and it lent a fantastic effect to the scene to see the lanterns bobbing about among the trees and shrubs on the lawn.

Marjorie was so sorry not to have wares to offer her would-be customers that she ran up to her room several times, gathering up books, pictures, or toys that she thought she could by any possibility spare. She would fly with them down to the porch, mark them at exorbitant prices, and in a few moments they would be sold to the amiable and generous buyers.

It was an unusual experience for a fancy fair, as often there are many unsold wares left to be auctioned off or sold at reduced rates.

When it was all over and the last guests had departed, swinging their lanterns, Marjorie, very tired but very happy, displayed a well-filled cash-box.

"How much do you suppose?" she cried gayly to Uncle Steve.

"Fifty dollars," guessed that jovial gentleman.

"Nonsense," cried Marjorie, "you know there's more than that! But I rather think you'll be surprised when I tell you that there's a little over two hundred dollars!"

"Fine!" exclaimed Uncle Steve. "That will keep the Elegant Ella in fans and sashes for some time!"

"Indeed, it won't be used for that," declared Marjorie. "We're going to give it to Grandma and let her use it for the Dunns just as she thinks best. Little girls can have a fair and earn the money, but it takes older people to manage the rest of it."

"That's true enough, Midge," said Grandma, "but you certainly shall have a share in the pleasure of bestowing it upon our poor neighbors."



Chapter XIII

A Birthday


"Mopsy," said Uncle Steve one morning, "I understand that next week Thursday has the honor of being your birthday."

"Yes, Uncle Steve, and I'll be twelve years old."

"My gracious goodness! What an old lady you are getting to be! Well, now for such an occasion as that we must celebrate in some way. So I'm going to give you a choice of pleasures. Would you rather have a party, a picnic, or a present?"

Marjorie considered. She well knew that a present which would balance against a party or a picnic would be a fine present, indeed. And so, after a moment's thought, she replied:

"I'll take the present, thank you, Uncle Steve; for somehow I feel sure we'll have picnics this summer, as we always do; and I don't care much about a party, because I know so few children around here."

"All right, then, Midget; a present it shall be, but with this stipulation: you must promise not to go down into the south orchard from now until next Thursday."

"Why not?" asked Mopsy, her eyes wide open with astonishment.

"Principally, because I tell you not to, and I want you to obey me; but I don't mind explaining that it is because I shall be there, at least part of the time, making your present; and as I want it to be a surprise, you mustn't come peeping around."

"All right, Uncle Steve, I won't; but why do you make it down there? Why not make it up here at the house?"

"Midget, your curiosity will some day get you into trouble. I prefer to do the work in the meadow. Perhaps it is sewing, and I shall take my work-basket and sit under the big maple-trees to sew."

Marjorie laughed to think of Uncle Steve sewing, but was really burning with curiosity to know what he was going to do.

However, she had given her word, and she conscientiously kept it. Not once during those intervening days did she so much as look toward the south meadow, though if she had done so she would not have been able to discover what her birthday surprise was to be.

Every day she discussed the subject with Molly and Stella, and each formed an opinion. Stella thought it was a new flower garden that Uncle Steve was making for Midge; Molly thought he was having a swing put up, because she had seen Carter carrying some long timbers over that way. But the girls considered themselves bound by Mopsy's promise to her uncle, and conscientiously refrained from going down to the meadow to investigate.

Grandma, of course, was in the secret, and as a result she often shut herself into her own room, telling Marjorie she must not come in. She would stay there for hours at a time, and Mopsy felt sure she was sewing on something connected with the birthday surprise, as indeed she was.

As the day came nearer, all the members of the household seemed to be in a state of great excitement. Carter was running about, bringing mysterious-looking parcels from the express office, and taking them to the barn to unpack them.

Eliza was concocting delicious-looking creams and jellies, but they, Marjorie knew, were for the birthday feast, which would, of course, be a hilarious festival, although not a party.

At last Thursday morning came, and Marjorie awoke bright and early; and very soon, arrayed in a fresh, pink gingham frock, went dancing downstairs.

So early was she that the others had not yet come down, and she went out into the kitchen to talk to Eliza.

"Oh, me!" she sighed. "I wish Uncle Steve would hurry. It just seems as if I couldn't wait any longer to know what my birthday surprise is going to be. Do you know, Eliza?"

"Faix, an' I do, Miss Midge, an' it's a foine gift yer uncle has for ye!"

"Don't tell me, Eliza, because Uncle Steve said I mustn't ask questions about it; but do you think I'll like it?"

"'Like it,' is it? 'Deed an' you will thin! Ye'll go crazy as a loonytic wid joy and delight! An' I'm thinkin' you and Miss Molly will be after breaking your necks in it, but the little lady Stella, -- I'm feared she won't get in it at all, at all; she'll be too sheared."

"Then it IS a swing," exclaimed Midget, and she felt a little disappointment, for though a swing was lovely to have, yet she had one at home, so it was no especial novelty; and, too, she hadn't thought Uncle Steve would make such a fuss about having a swing built.

"I'm not sayin' it isn't a swing," said Eliza, "and I'm not sayin' it is. And I'm not sayin' it isn't a merry-go-around-about, or whativer ye call thim noisy things that they do be havin' down by the circus tent, and I'm not sayin' it is."

"Don't say any more about what it is or isn't, or I'll guess."

"Indeed you wouldn't, Miss Mopsy, if ye guessed from now until ye're gray-headed."

This made Midget think that the gift was not a swing, as she had already guessed that, -- and then she heard Uncle Steve's voice calling her, and she ran gayly back to the dining-room.

The birthday breakfast was a festival indeed. Marjorie's place was decorated with flowers, and even the back of her chair was garlanded with wreaths.

At her plate lay such a huge pile of parcels, tied up in bewitching white papers and gay ribbons, that it seemed as if it would take all day to examine them.

"Goodness me!" exclaimed Midget. "Did anybody ever have so many birthday gifts? Are they all for me?"

"Any that you don't want," said Uncle Steve, "you may hand over to me. I haven't had a birthday for several years now, and I'd be thankful for one small gift."

"You shall have the nicest one here," declared Marjorie, "and I don't care what it is, or who sent it."

"The nicest one isn't here," observed Grandma, with a merry twinkle in her eye, and Marjorie knew that she was thinking of the surprise in the orchard.

"Of course, I mean except the swing," said Marjorie, looking roguishly at Uncle Steve to see if she had guessed right.

"You've been peeping!" he exclaimed, in mock reproach, and then Marjorie knew that whatever it was, it wasn't a swing.

"You know I haven't -- you know I wouldn't," she declared, and then she began to open the lovely-looking bundles.

It did seem as if everybody that Marjorie knew had remembered her birthday. There were gifts from everybody at home, to begin with. Mrs. Maynard had sent the sweetest blue-silk sash, and Mr. Maynard a beautiful book. The children all sent toys or games or trinkets, and every one seemed to Marjorie to be just what she had wanted.

There was a cup and saucer from Eliza, and small tokens from Carter and Jane. For Marjorie was a great pet with the servants, and they all adored her.

But among all the bundles there was no gift from Grandma or Uncle Steve, and Marjorie wondered what had become of the mysterious work which Grandma had been doing all shut up in her own room.

But even as she was thinking about it, Grandma explained:

"Our gifts will come later," she said. "When Uncle Steve gives you his birthday surprise, I will add my contribution."

Just after the last parcel had been untied, Molly and Stella came flying in. That is, Molly came flying, while serious little Stella walked at her usual sedate pace.

"Many happy returns of the day!" cried Molly, "and here's my gift." She had in her arms a large and rather ungainly bundle, loosely wrapped in white tissue paper.

Together she and Marjorie hastily pulled off the papers, and there was a beautiful cat-basket trimmed with blue ribbons and lined with soft cushions for Puff to sleep in.

"Oh!" cried Marjorie, flinging her arms around Molly's neck, "that's just what I've been wanting ever since I've had that kitten." And grabbing up Puff, who was never very far away, she laid her in the basket.

Puff seemed delighted with her new bed, and, after curiously sniffing and poking into all the nooks and corners of it, she curled up and began to purr herself to sleep.

Stella's gift was a dainty, little white-silk parasol, with a frill around it, which seemed to Marjorie the loveliest thing she had ever seen.

"It's beautiful, Stella!" she exclaimed. "And I shall always carry it whenever I'm dressed up enough. I hope you girls will have your birthdays soon, so I can give you some lovely things, too."

"Have you had your surprise yet?" asked impatient Molly, who, according to her usual fashion, was prancing about the room on one foot; while Stella sat demurely in a chair, her hands quietly folded in her lap, though her eyes seemed to make the same inquiry.

"No, not yet," answered Uncle Steve for his niece, "but I think it's about time for us to see if we can find it."

"All right," cried Marjorie, "let's all go to the orchard!"

"I don't see, Midget," said her uncle, "why you think the surprise is down at the orchard, just because I told you I was making it down there. In fact I have my birthday gift for you right here in my pocket."

Marjorie looked rather blank. She knew Uncle Steve loved to tease her, but she had certainly expected some out-of-door gift, and to receive a little trinket that could be carried in a pocket was a surprise indeed.

In proof of his words Uncle Steve drew a neatly-tied parcel from a pocket of his morning coat and handed it to Marjorie. It was about the size of a one-pound box of candy, and sure enough, when Marjorie eagerly pulled off the paper, the gilt letters on the cover proclaimed it a candy-box. Marjorie felt positive that her uncle would not offer her candy as a birthday gift, for he often brought her that on any ordinary day of the year. But she was mystified, and she took off the cover, not knowing herself what she expected to see. To her surprise, inside the box was another parcel, a trifle smaller, and on the paper which wrapped it was written:

"I am not candy as you thought, I bring you joys that can't be bought."

Marjorie began to understand that it was one of Uncle Steve's elaborate jokes, and she didn't know whether further search would reveal a valuable, though tiny gift, or some absurd hoax.

She took out the second box and tore off the wrappings. Molly eagerly helped her pull off the ribbon and paper, and though Stella sat quietly by, she, too, almost held her breath to see what would happen next.

Marjorie opened the second box, and this time was not so much surprised to see that it contained another wrapped and tied box. On this one was written:

"Oho, Miss Mopsy, fooled again! Suppose you keep on trying, then."

"Indeed, I will," cried Mopsy; "I expect there are a thousand boxes, each smaller than the other, and when I get to the end I'll find a bright penny, or something like that!"

"If you think that," said Uncle Steve, "I'll offer you two cents for the bundle as it is now; and then, you see, you'll double your money!"

"No siree!" cried Marjorie, "for, you see, I don't know. It MAY be a diamond ring, but that wouldn't do me much good, as I couldn't wear it until I'm grown up."

"Hurry up," cried Molly, who was dancing about, both helping and hindering Marjorie, "let's see what the next box says."

On the next box was written:

"Just a hint I'll give to you; I'm of metal, tied with blue."

"Metal, tied with blue!" screamed Molly, "What can that be? A hoe, perhaps, tied up with a blue ribbon."

"What kind of a hoe could you get in such a little box?" said Stella.

"I think it's a locket," said Marjorie, "on a blue ribbon to hang round your neck."

The next box said:

"Very seldom you will use me, But you'd cry if you should lose me."

"Ho!" said Marjorie, "if I'm going to use this thing so seldom I don't think I'd cry if I should lose it."

"Perhaps it's a something for Sunday," suggested Molly, "then you'd use it only once a week, you know."

"Oh, what a funny verse this is," said Marjorie, as she read:

"I'm nothing to eat, I'm nothing to wear; You can only use me high up in the air."

"I know what it is," said Stella, with her funny little air of decision; "it's a kite! You could only use that high in the air, you know; and it's that Japanese sort that squeezes all up to nothing and then spreads out when you open it."

"I believe it is," said Midge, "only you know it said it was made of metal. But just listen to this next verse!

"I am not pretty, I am not gay, But you'll enjoy me every day."

The boxes were getting very small now, and Marjorie felt sure that the one she held in her hand must be the last one, unless, indeed, the gift was a cherry stone. The verse read:

"At last, Dear Mopsy, you've come to me! Behold your birthday gift! only a -- "

As Marjorie read the last words she opened the box, and when she saw the contents she finished the rhyme herself by exclaiming, "key!"



Chapter XIV

"Breezy Inn"


Sure enough, the tiny box contained a small key tied with a bit of blue ribbon. Marjorie looked at it in bewilderment.

"It must unlock something!" cried Molly.

"Molly Moss," exclaimed Uncle Steve, "you have a wonderfully clever head for your years! How did you ever guess that a key would unlock something? You must have seen keys before!"

"But she never saw this one," cried Midge. "Oh, Uncle Steve, what is it for?"

"You've been in suspense quite long enough, and now we'll try to find a lock for that key to fit. Grandma and I will go first, and if you three young ladies will follow us, we will go and hunt for a keyhole."

Full of delightful anticipation, the three girls followed their older leaders. Marjorie was in the middle, her arms twined about Molly and Stella on either side, and their arms around her. Molly and Midge wanted to skip, but Stella never skipped, so the result was a somewhat joggly gait as they went down the path to the orchard.

The south meadow was a wide expanse of humpy grass-land, with only a few trees here and there.

Especially fine trees were two that were usually called the twin maples. These two very old trees grew side by side, their great trunks not more than four feet apart and their branches so intermingled that they were practically one tree in two parts. The delightful shade of this double tree afforded a favorite playground for the children, and they had missed it during the past week when they were forbidden to go into the meadow.

As they neared the meadow, Marjorie grew more and more amazed. There was nothing unusual in sight: no swing, no merry-go-round, and certainly nothing that a key could unlock. They reached the twin maples, and then Uncle Steve said: "If you'll all step around to the other side of this tree I think we may discover that missing keyhole."

The girls scampered around, and, looking up into the tree, they saw such an astonishing sight that the three simply sat down on the ground and stared at it. It was nothing more nor less than a house, a real little house high above the ground and nestled into the branches of the trees, just as a bird's nest might be.

The house, which was big enough for the girls to have gone into if they could have reached it, had a front door and a window on either side. There was a veranda on which stood three small rustic benches, quite strong enough to have held the three girls had they had wings to fly up there. The veranda had a railing around it, above which hung two hanging-baskets filled with bright flowers.

The door was shut and a keyhole could be distinctly seen.

"There's the keyhole, Mopsy, which I have reason to think will fit your key," said Uncle Steve.

"But I can't reach up to it," said Marjorie, looking very puzzled. "What's the house for? Is it for birds?"

"Yes, for three birds that I know of, who wear gingham dresses and hair ribbons."

"But we don't wear wings," interrupted Marjorie. "Oh, Uncle Steve, do tell me what that house is for!"

"It's for you, chickabiddy, and if you'd like to go up there I'll show you a way."

Uncle Steve stepped over to the double trunk, and reaching up pulled down something, which proved to be a weight hung on the end of a long cord. The cord reached up to the veranda of the little house.

"Here," said Uncle Steve, as he put the weight into Marjorie's hand, "this is perhaps as useful a birthday gift as the key I gave you. Pull hard, and see what happens."

Marjorie pulled hard, and as she pulled, a rope ladder came tumbling down from the edge of the little porch. It was a queer-looking ladder, the sides being of rope and the rounds of wood, while the top seemed to be securely fastened to the veranda floor.

"There you are," said Uncle Steve; "there's your birthday gift, and all you have to do is to skip up there, unlock the door, and take possession."

But instead of doing this, Marjorie, with a squeal of delight, threw her arms around Uncle Steve's neck.

"You dear, old, blessed uncle!" she cried. "I understand it all now; but truly I couldn't think how we were ever going to get up there. It's a lovely surprise, the best I ever had! You are SO good to me, and Grandma, too!"

Having nearly squeezed the breath out of Uncle Steve, Marjorie left him, and flying over to Grandma, treated her to a similar demonstration. And then, with her precious key tightly clasped in her hand, she started to climb the rather wabbly ladder. Impetuous Molly was crazy to follow, but Uncle Steve declared that it was the law of the house that there must never be more than one on the ladder at a time.

Though Marjorie became accustomed to it afterward, it was not an easy matter to climb the rope ladder for the first time; but under Uncle Steve's direction she began to learn the trick of it, and safely reached the top. Agile Molly scrambled up as if she had been used to rope ladders all her life; but to timid Stella the climbing seemed an impossible feat. But Uncle Steve held the ladder firmly at the bottom, and Marjorie encouraged her from the top, while Molly threw herself flat on the porch and reached down a helping hand.

At last the three girls were safely on the little veranda, and the sensation was as delightful as it was strange. To sit on the little benches, high above the ground, and look out straight across the meadow; and then, turning to either side, to see the great limbs and branches of the old maple-trees, was indeed a fairy-tale experience.

Over the door swung a quaint little old-fashioned signboard, on which in gilt letters were the words "Breezy Inn."

With bewildering anticipations of further delight, Marjorie took her little key and unlocked the door.

Grandma and Uncle Steve, watching from below, heard shouts of joy as the girls disappeared through the doorway.

But in a moment they reappeared at the windows, and their beaming faces told the tale of their happiness.

"Good-by," called Uncle Steve, "the presentation is over and 'Breezy Inn' is yours. I've fastened the ladder firmly, so you can go up and down as you choose. The furnishings are your birthday present from Grandma, but we're going back now to a house that we can get into; and you children had better show up there about dinner-time. Meanwhile, have all the fun you can."

Grandma and Uncle Steve went away, leaving the children to explore and make acquaintance of "Breezy Inn."

It was a fairy house, indeed; and yet, though tiny, everything seemed to be just large enough.

The interior of the house was one large room; and a smaller room, like an ell, at the back. The large room contained the front door and two front windows, also a window at each end. The smaller room had no outer exit, but three windows gave ample light and air.

The front room, or living-room, as Marjorie termed it, was pleasantly furnished. On the floor was a rug of grass-matting and the furniture was of light wicker. The sofa, chairs, and tables were not of a size for grown people, but were just right for twelve-year-old little girls. At one end were a few built-in bookshelves; at the other a wardrobe or cupboard, most convenient to keep things in.

Grandma's handiwork was shown in some dear little sofa-pillows and chair-cushions, in dainty, draped curtains and table covers.

The room at the back, Marjorie declared was a workroom. In the middle was a large table, just splendid to work at when making paper-dolls' houses or anything like that; and round the room were shelves and cupboards to hold materials.

"It just takes my breath away!" said Marjorie, as she sank down on the settee in the living-room; "I never saw anything like it! Can't we have just the best fun here all summer!"

"I should say we could!" declared Molly. "It seems almost as if it must be our birthdays too. We'll have just as much fun here as you will, Midge."

"Why, I couldn't have any fun at all without you two; at least, it would be very lonesome fun."

"I don't see how they ever built it," said Molly, who, by way of finding out, was hanging out of a window as far as she could and investigating the building.

"I know," said the wise Stella; "I read about one once; they nail the beams and things to the trunks of the trees and then they nail boards across, and then they build the house. But the one I read about wasn't as nice as this."

"I don't think there could be one as nice as this," declared Marjorie; "and we can fix it up a lot yet, you know. I shall bring some things down from my room, some of my favorite books for the book-shelves, and things like that."

"Do you suppose it will rain in, ever?" asked the practical Stella.

"No, of course not," said Molly, who was still examining the carpenter work. "See, these windows slide shut sideways, and then if you shut the door tight the rain couldn't get in, unless the roof leaks."

"Of course it doesn't!" declared Midget; "Uncle Steve wouldn't build me a house with a leaky roof. Did you ever see such cunning window curtains! Of course we don't need blinds, for the tree keeps the sun out. It does seem so queer to look out of the window and see only a tree."

"Look out of the front door," said Molly, "and you won't see a tree then. You'll just see grass and sky and cows. But what's this thing at the back, Mopsy? It looks like a pair of well-buckets."

"I don't know. What can it be?" said Mopsy, running to look.

There was a queer contraption that seemed to be something like a windlass and something like a dumbwaiter. It was at the very end of the veranda around the corner of the house.

"I know," said Stella quietly; "it's a kind of an elevator thing to pull up things when you want to."

"Why, so it is!" cried Marjorie. "This is the way it works." And releasing a big wooden button, she let the whole affair slide to the ground, and, then, grasping the handle of a crank, she began to draw it up again.

"Well, if that isn't great!" cried Molly. "We can boost up all sorts of things!"

"Here's something to boost up now," said Marjorie, who had spied Jane coming across the fields, with what was undoubtedly a tray of refreshment.

And sure enough, Grandma had sent some ginger-snaps and lemonade to furnish the first feast at "Breezy Inn."

"Your grandma wouldn't send much," explained Jane, "for she says you must all come back to the house at one o'clock for the birthday dinner, and it's well after eleven now. She sent your clock, Miss Midget, so you'll know when to come."

Apparently Jane knew more about the ways and means of "Breezy Inn" than the children did; for she directed them explicitly how to let down the dumbwaiter, and, then, after having carefully placed on it the tray of good things and the clock, she advised them about drawing it up. It worked almost like a well-bucket and was quite easy to manage. The tray reached the top in safety, and, in great glee, the girls arranged the little feast on the table in the living-room, and sat down to play tea-party.

"Isn't this lovely!" exclaimed Molly, as she took her seventh ginger-snap from the plate. "I don't see how your grandma knew that we were beginning to get hungry."

"Grandma always seems to know everything that's nice," said Marjorie. "Some day, girls, let's come out here and spend the whole day. We'll bring a lot of lunch, you know, and it will be just as if we lived here."

"Goody!" said Molly. "That will be heaps of fun. We'll all bring things; I know Mother will give me a pie."

"I'll like it," said Stella, with an expression of great satisfaction; "because up here you girls can't romp around so and run as you do down on the ground. When we come for a whole day let's bring a book of fairy stories and take turns reading aloud."

"All right," said Midge; "let's have it for a sort of a club, and meet here one day every week."

"Clubs ought to do something," observed Molly. "Charity, you know, or something like that."

"All right," said Midge; "let's make things and then sell them and get some money for the Dunns."

"What could we do?" asked Molly. "We couldn't have another bazaar, and, besides, I think the Dunns have enough money for the present."

"Don't let's work," said Stella, who was not very enterprising; "at least, not when we're up here. Let's just read or play paper dolls. If you want to work and make things, do them at home."

"I feel that way, too," said Midget; "let's just keep this for a playhouse. But maybe it isn't right; maybe we ought to do things for charity."

"Ask your grandma," said Molly; "she'll know what's right. But I expect they gave you this house to have fun in."

"I think they did, too," said Marjorie; "and, anyway, Molly, we could do both. We had lots of fun getting ready for the bazaar, and we did the charity besides."

"Well, let's read part of the time, anyway," said Stella; "I do love to read or to be read to."

"We will," agreed Marjorie, amiably, and Molly agreed, too.



Chapter XV

The Broken Ladder


As the days went on, "Breezy Inn" became more and more a delight to the children. They never grew tired of it, but, on the contrary, new attractions connected with it were forever developing. Many additions had been made to the furnishings, each of the three girls having brought over treasures from her own store.

They had reading days, and paper-doll days, and game-playing days, and feast days, and days when they did nothing but sit on the little veranda and make plans. Often their plans were not carried out, and often they were, but nobody cared much which way it happened. Sometimes Stella sat alone on the little porch, reading. This would usually be when Molly and Midge were climbing high up into the branches of the old maple-trees. It was very delightful to be able to step off of one's own veranda onto the branch of a tree and then climb on up and up toward the blue sky. And especially, there being two girls to climb, it was very useful to have two trees.

But not every day did the girls spend in "Breezy Inn." Sometimes they roamed in the woods, or went rowing on the river, and sometimes they visited at each other's houses.

One pleasant afternoon in late July, Marjorie asked Grandma if she mightn't go to spend the afternoon at Stella's.

Mrs. Sherwood liked to have her go to Stella's, as the influence of the quiet little girl helped to subdue Marjorie's more excitable disposition, and about three o'clock Marjorie started off.

Grandma Sherwood looked after the child, as she walked away, with admiring eyes. Marjorie wore a dainty frock of white dimity, scattered with tiny pink flowers. A pink sash and hair-ribbons were fresh and crisply tied, and she carried the pretty parasol Stella had given her on her birthday.

With Marjorie, to be freshly dressed always made her walk decorously, and Grandma smiled as she saw the little girl pick her way daintily down the walk to the front gate, and along the road to Stella's, which, though only next door, was several hundred yards away.

As Marjorie passed out of sight, Grandma sighed a little to think how quickly the summer was flying by, for she dearly loved to have her grandchildren with her, and though, perhaps, not to be called favorite, yet Marjorie was the oldest and possessed a very big share of her grandmother's affection.

Soon after she reached Stella's, Molly came flying over. Molly, too, had on a clean afternoon dress, but that never endowed her with a sense of decorum, as it did Marjorie.

"Hello, girls," she cried, as she climbed over the veranda-railing and plumped herself down in the hammock. "What are we going to do this afternoon?"

"Let's read," said Stella, promptly.

"Read, read, read!" said Molly. "I'm tired of your everlasting reading. Let's play tennis."

"It's too hot for tennis," said Stella, "and, besides, you girls haven't tennis shoes on and you'd spoil your shoes and the court, too."

"Oh, what do you think," said Mopsy, suddenly; "I have the loveliest idea! Only we can't do it this afternoon, because we're all too much dressed up. But I'll tell you about it, and we can begin to-morrow morning."

"What's your idea?" said Molly, rousing herself in the hammock and sitting with her chin in both hands as she listened.

"Why, I read it in the paper," said Marjorie, "and it's this. And it's a lovely way to make money; we could make quite a lot for the Dunns. It will be some trouble, but it would be a lot of fun, too."

"Yes, but what is it," said Stella, in her quietly patient way.

"You go out into the field," began Marjorie, "and you gather heaps and heaps of pennyroyal, -- you take baskets, you know, and gather just pecks of it. Then you take it home and you put it in pails or tubs or anything with a lot of water. And then you leave it about two days, and then you drain it off, and then it's pennyroyal extract."

Marjorie announced the last words with a triumphant air, but her hearers did not seem very much impressed.

"What then?" asked Molly, evidently awaiting something more startling.

"Why, then, you put it in bottles, and paste labels on, and take it all around and sell it to people. They love to have it, you know, for mosquitoes or burns or something, and they pay you quite a lot, and then you have the money for charity."

The artistic possibilities began to dawn upon Stella.

"Yes," she said, "and I could make lovely labels, with fancy letters; and you and Molly could paste them on, and we could tie the corks in with little blue ribbons, like perfumery bottles."

"And we'll each bring bottles," cried Molly, becoming interested; "we have lots at our house. Let's start out now to gather the pennyroyal. We're not so awfully dressed up. This frock will wash, anyway."

"So will mine," said Marjorie, but she spoke with hesitation. She knew that Grandma would not like to have her wear that dainty fresh frock out into the fields.

But, for some reason, Stella, too, was inclined to go, and with the trio, two against one always carried the day; and linking arms, in half a minute the three were skipping away toward the field. They had not asked permission, because the fields were part of Mr. Martin's property, and Stella was practically on her own home ground, though at a good distance from the house.

Enthusiastic over their new plan, the girls worked with a will, and, having carelessly gone off without any basket, they found themselves obliged to hold up the skirts of their dresses to carry their harvest.

"I should think we had enough to sell to everybody in Morristown," declared Molly, as, tired and flushed, she surveyed the great heap she had piled into her dress skirt.

"So should I," agreed Midget, gathering up more and more of her pretty dimity, now, alas! rumpled and stained almost beyond recognition.

Stella had a good share, though not so much as the others, and she stood calmly inquiring what they were going to do with it.

"There's no use taking it to my house," she declared, "for mother would only tell me to throw it away, -- I know she would."

"Wouldn't she let us make the extract?" asked Marjorie.

"She wouldn't care how much we made it, but she wouldn't let me make it at home, I know, because she hates a mess."

"I don't believe Grandma would like it either," said Marjorie, with a sudden conviction; "it is awful messy, and it smells pretty strong. But I'll tell you what, girls: let's take it all right to 'Breezy Inn.' Then we can put it to soak right away. We can get water from the brook, and there are plenty of pails and things there to make the extract in."

"We can call it The Breezy Extract," said Stella; "that'll look pretty painted on the labels."

"Breezy Extract is silly," said Molly; "Breezy-Inn Extract is prettier."

"All right," said Stella, good-naturedly. "Come on, I'm in a hurry to begin. I'll paint the labels, while you girls make the stuff."

So they trudged across the field to Breezy Inn, dumped their heaps of pennyroyal into the dumb-waiter, and themselves scrambled gayly up the rope ladder.

Almost before Molly and Midge had pulled up their somewhat odorous burden, Stella had seated herself at the table to work at the labels. The child was devoted to work of this sort, and was soon absorbed in designing artistic letters to adorn the bottles.

Midge and Molly worked away with a will. Unheeding their pretty summer frocks, and, indeed, there was little use now for care in that direction, they brought water from the brook, hauled it up the dumbwaiter, and filled several good-sized receptacles with steeping pennyroyal flowers.

Their work finished, they were anxious to start for home at once and begin a search for the bottles, but Stella begged them to stay a little longer until she should have finished the design she was making.

So Midge and Molly wandered out on the veranda, and amused themselves by jerking the rope ladder up and down. By a clever mechanical contrivance the ladder went up and down something on the principle of an automatic shade roller. It was great fun to roll it up and feel a certain security in the thought that nobody could get into "Breezy Inn" unless they saw fit to let down the ladder. Not that anybody ever wanted to, but it was fun to think so, and, moreover, the rolling ladder was most useful in the playing of certain games, where an unlucky princess was imprisoned in a castle tower.

But somehow, as they were idly jerking the ladder up and down, an accident happened. Something snapped at the top, and with a little cracking sound, the whole ladder broke loose from its fastenings and fell to the ground.

"Oh, Midget!" cried Molly, aghast, "whatever shall we do now? We can't get down, and we'll have to stay here until somebody happens to come by this way."

"That may not be for several days," said Midget, cheerfully. "Carter never hardly comes down into this meadow. Pooh, Molly, we can get down some way."

"Yes; but how?" insisted Molly, who realized the situation more truly than Marjorie.

"Oh, I don't know," responded Midge, carelessly. "We might go down in the dumb-waiter."

"No; your uncle said, positively, we must never go down on that. It isn't strong enough to hold even one of us at a time."

"I guess I could jump."

"I guess you couldn't! You'd sprain your ankles and break your collar bones."

"Oh, pshaw, Molly, there must be some way down. Let's ask Stella. She can always think of something."

"No; don't tell Stella. She can't think of any way, and it would scare her to pieces. I tell you, Mops, there ISN'T any way down. It's too high to jump and we can't climb. We could climb UP the tree, but not DOWN."

At last Marjorie began to realize that they were in a difficulty. She looked all around the house, and there really was no way by which the girls could get down. They went into the living-room, where Stella sat at the table, drawing.

"I'm ready to go home," she said, looking up as they entered. "This is finished, and, anyway, it's getting so dark I can't see any more."

"Dark!" exclaimed Marjorie. "Why, it isn't five o'clock yet."

"I don't care what time it is," said Stella; "it's getting awfully dark, just the same."

And sure enough it was, and a few glances at the sky showed the reason. What was undoubtedly a severe thunderstorm was rapidly approaching, and dark masses of cloud began to roll over each other and pile up higher and higher toward the zenith.

"It's a thunder shower, that's what it is," declared Stella; "let's scramble down the ladder quick, and run for home. Let's all run to your house, Marjorie, it's nearer."

Midge and Molly looked at each other.

There was no help for it, so Marjorie said: "We can't go down the ladder, Stella, because it's broken down."

"What! Who broke it?"

"We did," said Molly; "that is, we were playing with it and somehow it broke itself. Of course, we didn't do it on purpose."

Stella's face turned white. "How shall we get down?" she said.

"We CAN'T get down," said Midge, cheerfully; "we'll have to stay up. But the roof doesn't leak; I asked Uncle, and he said it was perfectly watertight."

"But I don't want to stay up here in a storm," said Stella, and her lips began to quiver.

"Now, don't you cry, Stella!" said Molly, who, if truth be told, was on the verge of tears herself.

Meantime, the darkness was rapidly increasing. It was one of those sudden showers where a black pall of cloud seems to envelop the whole universe, and the very air takes on a chill that strikes a terror of its own, even to a stout heart.

The three little girls sat looking at each other in despair.

Each was very much frightened, but each was trying to be brave. It had all happened so suddenly that they had even yet scarcely realized that they were in real danger, when suddenly a terrible clap of thunder burst directly above their heads, accompanied by a blinding flash of lightning.

Stella screamed and then burst into wild crying; Molly turned white and gritted her teeth in a determination not to cry; while Marjorie, with big tears rolling down her cheeks, put her arms around Stella in a vain endeavor to comfort her.

Molly crept up to the other two, and intertwining their arms, the three huddled together, shivering with fear and dismay.

One after another, the terrible thunderbolts crashed and rolled, and the fearful lightning glared at intervals.

Then, with a swish and a splash, the rain began. It came down in gusty torrents, and dashed in at the open windows like a spray.

Molly and Marjorie jumped up and flew to shut the windows, but Stella remained crouched in a pathetic little heap.

"Somebody will come to get us," whispered Molly, trying to be hopeful and to cheer the others.

"No, they won't," said Marjorie, despairingly; "for Grandma thinks I'm over at Stella's, and your mother thinks you're there, too."

"Yes, but Stella's mother will hunt us up; somebody is SURE to come," persisted Molly.

"No, she won't," said a weak little voice; "for I told Mother that we might stay home this afternoon, and we might go over to Molly's. And she'll think we're over there."

"It wouldn't matter if the ladder WAS up," said Molly, "for we couldn't go out in this pouring rain, and we might get struck by lightning, too."

"Under a tree is the very worst place to be in a thunderstorm," said Stella, lifting her white, little face, and staring at the girls with big, scared eyes.

Just then another terrible crash and flash made them all grasp each other again, and then, without further restraint, they all cried together.

The storm increased. The winds simply raged, and though the old maple-trees were too sturdy to shake much, yet the little house swayed some, and all about could be heard the cracking and snapping of branches.

"I think -- " began Molly, but even as she spoke there came the loudest crash of all. It was the splitting of the heavens, and with it came a fierce, sudden flash of flame that blinded them all.

The girls fell apart from one another through the mere shock, and when Molly and Midge dazedly opened their eyes, they saw Stella crumpled in a little heap on the floor.



Chapter XVI

Firecrackers


"Is she dead?" screamed Molly. "Oh, Marjorie, is she dead?"

"I don't know," said Marjorie, whose face was almost as white as Stella's, as she leaned over the unconscious little girl.

Although they tried, they couldn't quite manage to lift Stella up on the couch, so Marjorie sat down on the floor and took the poor child's head on her knee, while Molly ran for water.

"I'm sure it's right to douse people with water when they faint," said Molly, as she sprinkled Stella's face liberally; "and she is only in a faint, isn't she, Marjorie? Because if people are really struck by lightning they burn up, don't they, Marjorie?"

While she talked, Molly was excitedly pouring water promiscuously over Stella, until the child looked as if she had been out in the storm.

Marjorie was patting Stella's cheek and rubbing her hands, but it all seemed of no avail; and, though Stella was breathing softly, they could not restore her to consciousness.

"It's dreadful," said Marjorie, turning to Molly with a look of utter despair, "and we MUST do something! It isn't RIGHT for us two little girls to try to take care of Stella. We MUST get Grandma here, somehow."

"But how CAN we?" said Molly. "The ladder is down, you know, and we can't possibly get down from the house. I'd try to jump, but it's fifteen feet, and I'd be sure to break some bones, and we'd be worse off than ever."

The two girls were too frightened to cry; they were simply appalled by the awful situation and at their wits' end to know what to do.

"It was bad enough," wailed Marjorie, "when we were all wide awake and could be frightened together; but with Stella asleep, or whatever she is, it's perfectly horrible."

"She isn't asleep," said Molly, scrutinizing the pale little face, "but she's stunned with the shock, and I'm sure I don't know what to do. We ought to have smelling-salts, or something, to bring her to."

"We ought to have somebody that knows something to look after her. Molly, we MUST get Grandma here. I believe I'll try to jump myself, but I suppose I'd just sprain my ankle and lie there in the storm till I was all washed away. What CAN we do?"

"We could holler, but nobody could hear us, it's raining so hard. The thunder and lightning aren't so bad now, but the rain and wind are fearful."

Molly was flying about the room, peeping out at one window after another, and then flying back to look at Stella, who still lay unconscious.

"If we only had a megaphone," said Marjorie, "though I don't believe we could scream loud enough through that even, to make Carter hear. What do people do when they're shipwrecked?"

"They send up rockets," said Molly, wisely.

"We haven't any rockets; but, oh, Molly! we have some firecrackers. They've been here ever since Fourth of July; those big cannon crackers, you know! Do you suppose we could fire off some of those, and Carter would hear them?"

"The very thing! But how can we fire them in this awful rain? It would put them right out."

"We MUST do it! It's our only chance!"

Carefully putting a pillow under Stella's head, they left her lying on the floor, while they ran for the firecrackers.

Sure enough they were big ones, and there were plenty of them. It would be difficult to fire them in the rain, but, as Marjorie said, it MUST be done. Keeping them carefully in a covered box, the girls went out on the little veranda, closing the door behind them. A wooden box, turned up on its side, formed sufficient protection from the rain to get a cracker lighted, and Marjorie bravely held it until it was almost ready to explode, and then flung it out into the storm. It went off, but to the anxious girls the noise seemed muffled by the rain.

They tried another and another, but with little hope that Carter would hear them.

"Let's put them all in a tin pan," said Marjorie, "and put the box on top of them to keep them dry, and then set them all off at once."

"All right," said Molly, "but I'm afraid Carter will think it's thunder."

However, it seemed the best plan, and after lighting the end of the twisted string, the girls ran into the house and shut the door.

Such a racket as followed! The crackers went off all at once. The box flew off, and the tin pan tumbled down, and the little veranda was a sight to behold!

It sounded like Fourth of July, but to the two girls, watching from the window, there was no effect of celebration.

But their desperate plan succeeded. Carter heard the racket, and did not mistake it for thunder; but, strangely enough, realized at once what it was.

"It's them crazy children in their tree-house," he exclaimed; "but what the mischief do they be settin' off firecrackers for, in the pouring rain? Howsomever I'll just go and see what's up, for like as not they've burned their fingers, if so be that they haven't put their eyes out."

As Carter started from the greenhouse, where he had been working, the torrents of rain that beat in his face almost made him change his mind, but he felt a sense of uneasiness about Marjorie, and something prompted him to go on. In a stout raincoat, and under a big umbrella, he made his way across the field through the storm toward "Breezy Inn."

"My land!" he exclaimed, "if that ladder ain't disappeared. What will them youngsters be up to next?"

But even as he noticed the broken ladder, the door flew open, and Marjorie and Molly popped their heads out.

"Oh, Carter!" Marjorie screamed; "do get a ladder, and hurry up! Ours is broken down, and Stella is struck by lightning, and, oh, Carter, do help us!"

Carter took in the situation at a glance. He said nothing, for it was no time for words. He saw the broken ladder could not be repaired in a minute; and, turning, he ran swiftly back to the barn for another ladder. A long one was necessary, and with Moses to help him they hurried the ladder across the field and raised it.

Another fortunate effect of the firecracker explosion had been to rouse Stella. Partly owing to the noise of the explosion, and partly because the effect of the shock was wearing away, Stella had opened her eyes and, realizing what had happened, promptly made up for lost time by beginning to cry violently. Also, the reaction at finding Stella herself again, and the relief caused by the appearance of Carter, made Molly and Marjorie also break down, and when Carter came bounding up the ladder he found three girls, soaking wet as to raiment, and diligently adding to the general dampness by fast-flowing tears.

"What is it, now?" he inquired, and if his tone sounded impatient, it was scarcely to be wondered at. For the battle-scarred veranda and the drenched condition of the room, together with a broken ladder, surely betokened mischief of some sort.

"Oh, Carter," cried Marjorie, "never mind us, but can't you take Stella to the house somehow? She was struck by lightning, and she's been dead for hours! She only just waked up when she heard the firecrackers! Did you hear them, Carter?"

"Did I hear them! I did that -- not being deef. Faith, I thought it was the last trump! You're a caution, Miss Midget!" But even as Carter spoke he began to realize that the situation was more serious than a mere childish scrape. He had picked up little Stella, who was very limp and white, and who was still sobbing hysterically.

"Struck by lightning, is it? There, there, little girl, never mind now, I'll take care of ye."

Holding Stella gently in his arms, Carter looked out of the window and considered.

"I could take her down the ladder, Miss Midget, but it's raining so hard she'd be drenched before we could reach the house. Not that she could be much wetter than she is. Was she out in the rain?"

"No, that's where we threw water on her to make her unfaint herself. Can't we all go home, Carter? Truly we can't get any wetter, and we'll all catch cold if we don't."

"That's true," agreed Carter, as he deliberated what was best to do.

Though not a large man, Carter seemed to fill the little room with his grown-up presence, and the children were glad to shift their responsibility on to him.

"The thunder is melting away," he said at last, "and the lightning is nothin' to speak of; and a drop more of wet won't hurt you, so I think I'd better take ye all to your grandma's as soon as possible. I'll carry little Miss Stella, and do ye other two climb down the ladder mighty careful and don't add no broken necks to your distresses."

So down the ladder, which Moses on the ground was holding firmly, Carter carried Stella, who, though fully conscious, was nervous and shaken, and clung tightly around Carter's neck.

Midge and Molly followed, and then the procession struck out across the field for home.

"I s'pose," whispered Midget to Molly, "it's perfectly awful; but now that Stella's all right, I can't help thinking this is sort of fun, to be walking out in the storm, without any umbrella, and soaking wet from head to foot!"

Molly squeezed her friend's hand. "I think so, too," she whispered. "The thunder and lightning were terrible, and I was almost scared to death; but now that everything's all right, I can't help feeling gay and glad!"

And so these two reprehensible young madcaps smiled at each other, and trudged merrily along across soaking fields, in a drenching rain, and rescued from what had been a very real danger indeed.

During all this, Grandma Sherwood had been sitting placidly in her room, assuming that Marjorie was safely under shelter next door. Molly's mother had, of course, thought the same, and Stella's mother, finding the girls nowhere about, had concluded they were either at Molly's or Marjorie's.

Owing to the condition of the party he was bringing, Carter deemed it best to make an entrance by the kitchen door.

"There!" he said, as he landed the dripping Stella on a wooden chair, "for mercy's sake, Eliza, get the little lady into dry clothes as quick as you can!"

"The saints presarve us!" exclaimed Eliza, for before she had time to realize Stella's presence, Midge and Molly bounded in, scattering spray all over the kitchen and dripping little pools of water from their wet dresses.

Stella had ceased crying, but looked weak and ill. The other two, on the contrary, were capering about, unable to repress their enjoyment of this novel game.

Hearing the commotion, Grandma Sherwood came to the kitchen, and not unnaturally supposed it all the result of some new prank.

"What HAVE you been doing?" she exclaimed. "Why didn't you stay at Stella's and not try to come home through this rain?"

Marjorie, drenched as she was, threw herself into her grandmother's arms.

"Oh, if you only knew!" she cried; "you came near not having your bad little Mopsy any more! And Stella's mother came nearer yet! Why, Grandma, we were in the tree-house, and it was struck by lightning, and Stella was killed, at least for a little while, and the ladder broke down, and we couldn't get down ourselves, and so we sent off rockets of distress, I mean firecrackers, and then Carter came and rescued us all!"

As Marjorie went on with her narrative, Grandma Sherwood began to understand that the children had been in real danger, and she clasped her little grandchild closer until her own dress was nearly as wet as the rest of them.

"And so you see, Grandma," she proceeded, somewhat triumphantly, "it wasn't mischief a bit! It was a -- an accident that might have happened to anybody; and, oh, Grandma dear, wasn't it a narrow squeak for Stella!"

"Howly saints!" ejaculated Eliza; "to think of them dear childer bein' shtruck be thunder, an' mighty near killed! Och, but ye're the chrazy wans! Whyever did ye go to yer tree-top shanty in such a shtorm? Bad luck to the botherin' little house!"

"Of course it didn't rain when we went there," said Marjorie, who was now dancing around Eliza, and flirting her wet ruffles at her, in an endeavor to tease the good-natured cook.

But even as they talked, Mrs. Sherwood and Eliza were taking precautions against ill effects of the storm.

Mrs. Sherwood devoted her attention to Stella, as the one needing it most, while Eliza looked after the other two.

The three children were treated to a hot bath and vigorous rubbings, and dry clothes, and in a short time, attired in various kimonos and dressing-gowns from Marjorie's wardrobe, the three victims sat in front of the kitchen range, drinking hot lemonade and eating ginger cookies.

As Marjorie had said, there had been no wrongdoing; not even a mischievous prank, except, perhaps, the breaking down of the ladder, and yet it seemed a pity that Stella should have suffered the most, when she never would have dreamed of staying at the tree-house after it began to look like rain, had it not been for the others.

However, there was certainly no scolding or punishment merited by any one; and Grandma Sherwood was truly thankful that the three were safe under her roof.

After the storm had entirely cleared away, Carter carried Stella home, and Mrs. Sherwood went with them to explain matters. Molly went skipping home, rather pleased than otherwise, to have such an exciting adventure to relate to her mother.

When Uncle Steve came home he was greatly interested in Midget's tale of the tragedy, and greatly pleased that small heroine of the occasion by complimenting her on her ingenuity in using the firecrackers. The breaking of the ladder, he declared, was an accident, and said a new and stronger one should be put up. Furthermore, he decreed that a telephone connection should be established between "Breezy Inn" and Grandma's house, so that victims of any disaster could more easily summon aid.

"That will be lovely," said Marjorie, "but they say telephones are dangerous in thunderstorms; so, perhaps, it's just as well that we didn't have one there to-day."



Chapter XVII

Pennyroyal


It was several days before the children went to "Breezy Inn" again, but one pleasant sunshiny morning found them climbing the new ladder as gayly as if no unpleasant experience were connected with its memory.

Carter had cleaned up the veranda, though powder marks still showed in some places.

"Why, girls," exclaimed Marjorie, "here's our pennyroyal extract! I had forgotten every single thing about it. The high old time we had that day swept it all out of my head."

"I remembered it," said Molly, "but I thought it had to extract itself for a week."

"No, four days is enough. It must be done now; it smells so, anyway."

The girls all sniffed at the pails of spicy-smelling water, and, after wisely dipping their fingers in it and sniffing at them, they concluded it was done.

"It's beautiful," said Marjorie; "I think it's a specially fine extract, and we'll have no trouble in selling heaps of it. Don't let's tell anybody until we've made a whole lot of money; and then we'll tell Grandma it's for the Dunns, and she'll be so surprised to think we could do it."

"Where are the bottles?" asked Stella. "I can finish up the labels, while you girls are filling the bottles and tying the corks in."

"Let's tie kid over the top," suggested Molly, "like perfume bottles, you know. You just take the wrists of old kid gloves and tie them on with a little ribbon, and then snip the edges all around like they snip the edges of a pie."

"Lovely!" cried Midget, "and now I'll tell you what: let's all go home and get a lot of bottles and corks and old kid gloves and ribbons and everything, and then come back here and fix the bottles up right now."

"You two go," said Stella, who was already absorbed in the work of making labels; "that will give me time to do these things. They're going to be awfully pretty."

So Midge and Molly scampered off to their homes, and rummaged about for the materials they wanted.

They had no trouble in finding them, for the elder people in both houses were accustomed to odd demands from the children, and in less than half an hour the girls were back again, each with a basket full of bottles, old gloves, and bits of ribbon.

"Did your mother ask you what you wanted them for?" said Mops to Molly.

"No; she just told me where they were, in a cupboard in the attic; and told me to get what I wanted and not bother her, because she was making jelly."

"I got mine from Eliza, so Grandma doesn't know anything about it; and now we can keep it secret, and have a lovely surprise."

What might have seemed work, had they been doing it for some one else, was play to the children then; and Midge and Molly carefully strained their precious extract from the leaves and bottled it and corked it with care. They tied neatly the bits of old gloves over the corks, though it was not an easy task, and when finished did not present quite the appearance of daintily-topped perfume bottles.

And Stella's labels, though really good work for a little girl of eleven, were rather amateurish. But the three business partners considered the labels admirable works of art, and pasted them on the bottles with undisguised pride. Though pennyroyal was spelled with one n, they didn't notice it, and the finished wares seemed to them a perfect result of skilled labor.

"Now," said Marjorie, as she sat with her chin in her hands, gazing proudly at the tableful of bottles, "it's dinner-time. Let's all go home, and then this afternoon, after we're dressed, let's come here and get the bottles, and each take a basketful, and go and sell them."

"We'll all go together, won't we?" asked Stella, whose shyness stood sadly in the way of her being a successful saleswoman.

"Yes, if you like," said Marjorie; "we'd get along faster by going separately; but it will be more fun to go together, so that's what we'll do."

About two o'clock, the three met again at "Breezy Inn." Each was freshly attired in a spick-and-span clean gingham, and they wore large shade hats.

"I thought Grandma would suspect something when I put my hat on," said Marjorie, "because I always race out here without any, but, by good luck, she didn't see me."

"Mother asked me where I was going," said Molly, "and I told her to 'Breezy Inn.' It almost seemed deceitful, but I think, as we're working for charity, it's all right. You know you mustn't let your left hand know what your right hand is up to."

"That isn't what that means," said Stella, who was a conscientious little girl; and, indeed, they all were, for though inclined to mischief, Midge and Molly never told stories, even by implication.

"But I think it's all right," went on Stella, earnestly, "because it's a surprise. You know Christmas or Valentine's day, it's all right to surprise people, even if you have to 'most nearly deceive them."

And so with no qualms of their honest little hearts, the three started off gayly to peddle their dainty wares for the cause of charity.

"Let's go straight down to the village," suggested Molly, "and let's stop at every house on the way, -- there aren't very many, -- and then when we get where the houses are thicker we can go separately if we want to."

"I don't want to," insisted Stella; "I'll stay with one of you, anyway."

"All right," said Midget, "and we'll take turns in doing the talking. This is Mrs. Clarke's house; shall I talk here?"

"Yes," said Molly, "and I'll help you; and if Stella doesn't want to say anything, she needn't."

The three girls with their baskets skipped along the flower-bordered walk to Mrs. Clarke's front door and rang the bell. The white-capped maid, who answered the door, listened to their inquiries for Mrs. Clarke, looked curiously at the bottles, and then said: "Mrs. Clarke is not at home."

"Are you sure?" said Marjorie, in a despairing voice. It seemed dreadful to lose a sale because the lady chanced to be out.

"Yes," said the maid shortly, and closed the door in the very faces of the disappointed children.

Troubled, but not disheartened, the girls walked back along the path, a little less gayly, and trudged on to the next house.

Here the lady herself opened the door.

"Do you want to buy some pennyroyal extract?" began Marjorie, a little timidly, for the expression on the lady's face was not at all cordial.

"It's fine," broke in Molly, who saw that Midge needed her support; "it's lovely for mosquito bites, you just rub it on and they're all gone!"

The lady seemed to look a little interested, and Stella being honestly anxious to do her share, so far conquered her timidity as to say in a faint little voice, "We made it ourselves."

"Made it yourselves?" exclaimed the lady. "No, indeed, I don't want any!" And again the cruel door was closed upon the little saleswomen.

"It was my fault," wailed Stella, as they went away with a crestfallen air; "if I hadn't said we made it ourselves, she would have bought it. Oh, girls, let me go home and make labels. I don't like this selling, much."

Midge and Molly both felt sure that it was Stella's speech that had stopped the sale, but they were too polite to say so, and Midge answered:

"Never mind, Stella dear, I don't think she was very anxious for it, anyway, but, perhaps, at the next house you needn't say anything. You don't mind, do you?"

"Mind! No, indeed! I only said that to help along, and it didn't help."

So, at the next house, Stella was glad to stand demurely in the background, and this time Molly took her turn at introducing the subject.

A young lady was in a hammock on the veranda, and as they went up the steps she rose to greet them.

"What in the world have you there?" she said, gayly, flinging down the book she was reading and looking at the children with interest.

"Pennyroyal extract," said Molly, "perfectly fine for mosquito bites, bruises, cuts, scarlet fever, colds, coughs, or measles."

The young lady seemed to think it very amusing, and sitting down on the top step, began to laugh.

"It must be, indeed, handy to have in the house," she said; "where did you get it?"

The girls were dismayed. If they said they made it themselves, probably she wouldn't buy any. They looked at each other uncertainly, and said nothing.

"I hope you came by it honestly," went on the young lady, looking at them in surprise; "you couldn't have -- of course, you didn't -- "

"Of course we didn't steal it!" cried Molly, indignantly, "if that's what you mean. It's ours, our very own, every drop of it! But -- we don't want to tell you where we got it."

"It sounds delightfully mysterious," said the young lady, still smiling very much, "and I don't really care where you did get it. Of course I want some, as it seems to be a very useful article, and I'm quite liable to attacks of -- measles."

Marjorie looked up quickly to see if this very pretty young lady was not making fun of them, but she seemed to be very much in earnest, and, indeed, was already selecting a bottle from each of the three baskets.

"I'll take these three," she said; "how much are they?"

The girls looked at each other. Not once had it occurred to them to consider what price they were to ask, and what to say they did not know.

"Why," began Marjorie, "I should think -- "

"Twenty-five cents apiece," said Molly, decidedly. She knew it was a large price, considering that the extract cost nothing, but she wanted to swell the charity funds.

"Well, that's very reasonable," said the young lady, who still seemed very much amused; "I will give you the money at once," and she took some change from a little gold purse which hung at her belt. "But if I may advise you," she went on, "you'd better raise your price. That's really too cheap for this most useful article."

The children were so astonished at this speech that they made no reply, except to thank the kind young lady, and bid her good-by.

"Now, THAT'S something like!" exclaimed Marjorie, as they reached the road again. "Wasn't she lovely? And to think, she said we ought to ask more money for the extract! This is a splendid business."

"Fine!" agreed Molly; "we'll sell off all this to-day, and to-morrow we'll make another lot and sell that. We'll get lots of money for the Dunns."

"We'll make more next time," said Midge, "and I'll get Carter to drive us round so we won't have to carry it; for we may sell two or three hundred bottles every day."

"But I can't make so many labels," said Stella, aghast at the outlook.

"Of course you can't," said Molly; "but I'll tell you what! We'll ask them to give the bottles back as soon as they've emptied them, and then we can use them over again, you know."

Midge was a little dubious about asking for the bottles back, but just then they turned into the next house.

It was Marjorie's turn to speak, and greatly encouraged by their late success, she began: "Would you like to buy some pennyroyal extract? For mosquitoes, burns, and bruises. It's only fifty cents a bottle, and we'll take the bottles back."

The lady, who had opened the door, looked at the children as if they were escaped lunatics.

"Don't come around here playing your tricks on me," she exclaimed; "I won't stand it. Take your bottles and be off!"

She did not shut the door upon them, but so irate was her expression that the girls were glad to go away.

"Wasn't she awful!" exclaimed Stella, with a troubled face. "Truly, girls, I don't like this. I'm going home."

"No, you're not, either!" said Marjorie. "Of course, it isn't all pleasant, but when you're working for charity, you mustn't mind that. And, besides, like as not the people at the next house will be lovely."

But they weren't; and one after another the people, to whom they offered their wares, refused even to look at them.

At last, when they were well-nigh discouraged, a kind lady, to whom they offered the extract, seemed a little more interested than the others.

"Why," she said, looking at Stella, "aren't you Guy Martin's little girl?"

"Yes'm," said Stella, meekly, wondering if this fact would interfere with the sale of the goods.

"Well, then, I must surely buy some," said the lady, smiling; "how much is it?"

"Fifty cents a bottle, if you give the bottle back," said Stella, who felt that the lady's friendliness toward her demanded that she should answer?

"Fifty cents a bottle!" exclaimed the lady. "Surely you can't mean that! Why, pennyroyal extract isn't worth a cent a quart!"

The girls looked genuinely disturbed. This was a different opinion, indeed, from that advanced by the pretty lady who had bought three bottles!

Marjorie suddenly began to feel as if she were doing something very foolish, and something which she ought not to have undertaken without Grandma's advice.

"Is that all it's worth, truly?" she asked, looking straightforwardly into the lady's eyes.

"Why, yes, my dear, -- I'm sure it could not have a higher market value."

"Then we don't want to sell you any," said Marjorie, whose sense of honesty was aroused; and picking up her basket from the porch, she turned toward the street, walking fast, and holding her head high in the air, while her cheeks grew very red.

Molly followed her, uncertain as to what to do next, and Stella trailed along behind, a dejected little figure, indeed, with her heavy basket on her arm.



Chapter XVIII

Welcome Gifts


"It's all wrong!" declared Marjorie. "I didn't see it before, but I do now. That lady was right, and we oughtn't to try to sell anything that's worth less than a cent for fifty cents, or twenty-five either."

"Shall we go home?" asked Molly, who always submitted to Marjorie's decisions.

"I don't think it's wrong," began Stella. "Of course the pennyroyal isn't worth much, but we worked to get it, and to make it, and to fix it up and all; and, besides, people always pay more than things are worth when they're for charity."

Marjorie's opinion veered around again. The three were sitting on a large stepping-stone under some shady trees, and Marjorie was thinking out the matter to her own satisfaction before they should proceed.

"Stella, I believe you're right, after all," she said. "Now I'll tell you what we'll do: we'll go to one more place, and if it's a nice lady, we'll ask her what she thinks about it, for I'd like the advice of a grown-up."

This seemed a fair proposition, and the three wandered in at the very place where they had been sitting on the stone.

With renewed courage, they rang the door bell. It was Marjorie's turn to speak, and the words were on the tip of her tongue. Being somewhat excited, she began her speech as the door began to open.

"Don't you want to buy some pennyroyal extract?" she said rapidly; "it's perfectly fine for mosquitoes, measles, and burns, and scarlet fever! It isn't worth a cent a quart, but we sell it for fifty cents a bottle, if you give the bottles back. But if you don't think it's right for us to sell it, we won't."

Marjorie would not have been quite so mixed up in her speech but for the fact that after she was fairly started upon it, she raised her eyes to the person she was addressing, and instead of a kind and sweet-faced lady she beheld a very large, burly, and red-faced gentleman.

Not wishing to appear embarrassed, she floundered on with her speech, though in reality she hardly knew what she was saying.

"Well, upon my soul!" exclaimed the red-faced gentleman, in a loud, deep voice, "here's a pretty kettle of fish. Young ladies peddling extract at decent people's houses!" He glared at the girls with a ferocious expression, and then went on, in even louder tones: "What do you MEAN by such doings? Have you a license? Don't you know that people who sell goods without a license must be arrested? I've a notion to clap every one of you in jail!"

As might have been expected, Stella began to cry, while Midge and Molly gazed at the red-faced old man as if fascinated. They wanted to run away, but something in his look held them there; and, anyway, they couldn't go and leave Stella, who had dropped in a little heap on the floor of the piazza and hidden her face in her arms, while convulsive sobs shook her slender little frame.

At sight of Stella's tears, a sudden and wonderful change seemed to come over the old gentleman. His ferocious expression gave way to an anxious smile, and, stooping, he picked Stella up in his arms, saying: "There, there, baby! don't be frightened; that was only my joking. Why, bless your heart, I wasn't a mite in earnest. There, there, now, don't cry; I'll buy all your extract, -- every single drop, -- and pay any price you want; and I'll give you back all the bottles, and all the baskets, and all the extract, too, if you want it, and some lovely peaches into the bargain! There, brace up now, and forgive your old Uncle Bill for teasing you so! Jail, indeed! I'll take you into the house instead, and find some plum-cake for you!"

Carrying Stella in his big, strong arms, the strange old gentleman ushered Midge and Molly into the house and made straight for the dining-room.

"Folks all gone away," he went on, still in his gruff, deep tones, but somehow they now sounded very kind; "gone away for an all-day picnic, and left me alone to shift for myself. Jolly glad to have company -- jolly glad to entertain you. Here's peaches, here's cake. Have a glass of milk?"

The old man bustled around and seemed so anxious to dispel the unpleasant impression he had made at first that Molly and Midge met him halfway, and beamed happily as they accepted the pleasant refreshments he set out.

"Fall to, fall to," he said, rubbing his big hands together, as he watched the children do justice to the feast.

The girls suddenly discovered that they were both tired and hungry, and the old gentleman's hospitality put them in a much pleasanter frame of mind.

"Now, what's all this about pineapple extract?" he inquired. "I didn't half get the hang of it, and I was only joking you when you all seemed to get scared to death."

So Marjorie told him the whole story from the beginning and asked his opinion as to the wisdom of the plan.

The old man's eyes twinkled. "I've nothing to say about that," he replied, "but I'll tell you what I'll do: I'll buy your whole stock of pennyroyal tea, -- or whatever it is, -- and I'll pay you ten dollars for the lot. It isn't a question of what the stuff is worth in itself, but a question of its value to me; and I'll rate that at ten dollars, and here's your money. You can spend it yourselves, or give it to your poor people, whichever you like."

"Of course we'll give it to the Dunns," declared Marjorie, "that is, if we take it, but I'm not sure that we ought to take it."

"Go 'long," cried the old man; "take it? Of course you'll take it! and give those children a feast or something. I know you, little Miss Curly Head, you're Steve Sherwood's niece, aren't you?"

"Yes," said Marjorie; "do you know Uncle Steve?"

"Know him? I should say I did! You just tell your Uncle Steve that old Bill Wallingford wanted to make a contribution to charity and he took this way! Now, little ladies, if you think you've enough for one day, nothing will give me greater pleasure than to hitch up and take you home."

The girls were glad to accept this invitation, for they had walked nearly three miles in all, with their heavy baskets; and much of the time with heavy hearts, which are a great hindrance to pedestrians.

So old Uncle Bill, as he instructed the children to call him, harnessed a pair of horses and drove the three young business women back to their respective homes.

"Well, Marjorie Maynard, where HAVE you been?" exclaimed Grandma, as Midge made her appearance.

And, then, without further delay, Marjorie told the whole story.

Uncle Steve lay back in his chair and roared with laughter, but Grandma Sherwood was not entirely amused.

"What WILL you do next, Marjorie?" she cried. "Didn't you know, child, that it is not becoming for a Maynard to go around the streets peddling things?"

"Why not, Grandma?" asked Marjorie, to whom it had never occurred there could be any objection to the occupation. Her only doubt had been as to the price they ought to ask for their goods.

"I'm not sure that I can make you understand," said Grandma, "and it isn't really necessary that you should, at present. But never again must you go out selling things to strangers."

"But we sold things for the Dunns at the bazaar," argued Marjorie.

"You can't understand the difference, my dear, so don't try. Just obey Grandma and don't ever undertake such a big enterprise as that without asking me beforehand. Why, I'm ASHAMED that you should have gone to the Clarkes' and the Fosters' and the Eliots' on such an errand! Really, Marjorie, you ought to have known better."

"But, Grandma, I thought you would be pleased, and it would make you a happy surprise."

"I am surprised, but not at all pleased. However, Mopsy, it wasn't wilful wrong on your part; it was only one of those absurd mistakes that you seem to be continually making."

"You showed a pretty good business instinct, Midget," said her uncle; "if you were a boy I'd expect you to grow up to be one of the Kings of Finance. But, after this, when you're inclined to start a large business enterprise, invite me to go in with you as partner."

"I will, Uncle Steve; but, anyway, we have ten dollars and seventy-five cents from our extract, and I don't think that's so bad."

"Indeed, it isn't," said Uncle Steve, his eyes twinkling; "whoever can get money for charity out of old Bill Wallingford is, indeed, pretty clever! I think, Grandma, that since Midge has earned this herself, she and the other girls ought to have the pleasure of spending it for the Dunns, in any way they choose."

Grandma agreed with Uncle Steve in this matter, and the result was that the next day he took the three girls to town to spend their hard-earned money.

It was always fun to go anywhere with Uncle Steve, and this occasion was a particularly joyful one, for it combined the elements of a charitable excursion and a holiday beside.

They drove first to a large shop, where they bought some clothes for the Dunns.

The girls thought that a few pretty garments, as well as useful ones, would be the nicest way to use their money. So they bought pretty straw hats and cambric dresses for the children, and a blue worsted shawl for Mrs. Dunn, and a little white cap for the baby.

"I don't suppose these things are so awful necessary," Midget confided to Uncle Steve, "but it will be such fun to see how glad they'll be to get them." Molly, who was more practical, advised some aprons and shoes and stockings, while Stella's preference was for toys.

"They don't need so many clothes in summer time," she said, "and something to amuse them will make them forget how hot it is."

It was wonderful how long that ten dollars lasted, and how many things it bought! Marjorie lost count of their expenditures, but every time she asked Uncle Steve if there was any money left, he answered, "Oh, yes, quite a bit more," and so they bought and bought, until the carriage was overflowing with bundles.

At last, Marjorie said: "Now, I'm sure the money is all gone, and I do believe. Uncle Steve, you've been adding some to it; but there are two more things I do want to buy most awfully -- and they're both pink."

"I'd hate to have two pink things left out," declared Uncle Steve, "and I'm sure there's just money enough left for the two. What are they, Mopsy?"

"Well, one is a pink parasol for that Elegant Ella. Not a silk one, you know, Uncle, but a sateen one, with a little ruffle around it, and a white handle. She'd be so delighted, she'd just go crazy!"

"Let's send her crazy, then, by all means. Where do you purchase these sateen affairs?"

"Oh, at any dry-goods shop. We'll pick one out."

Into a large department store the girls went, and soon found a parasol, which, though inexpensive, was as dainty and pretty as the higher-priced silk ones. They already had a gayly-dressed doll for Hoopy Topsy, and toys for the little children.

"Now, what's the other pink thing, Midget?" asked Uncle Steve, as they all piled into the carriage again.

"Don't laugh, Uncle, but you see, it's such an awfully hot day and I really think it would comfort them to have -- "

"A pink fan apiece, all 'round?"

"No, Uncle, not that at all; something much cooler than that. A can of pink ice cream!"

"Just the thing, Mops! How did you ever come to think of it? We'll take it right along with us, and after we've bestowed all this load of luggage on the unsuspecting Dunns, we'll come back here and get another can of ice cream for ourselves; and we'll take it home to a nice, little green porch I know of, and there we'll all rest after our labors, and regale ourselves."

This plan met with great favor in the eyes of the three young people most concerned, and Uncle Steve drove to the caterer's, where he bought a good-sized can of the cold comfort to add to their charitable load.

And maybe the Dunns weren't pleased with their gifts!

The tears stood in Mrs. Dunn's eyes as she thanked Marjorie and the other girls over and over for their thoughtful kindness. The Dunns were often accounted shiftless, but the poor woman found it difficult to take care of her growing family and by her industry provide for their support.

Nor had she much help from the oldest daughter. The Elegant Ella was, by nature, self-centred and vain; and though a good-natured little girl, she was not very dependable in the household.

But she was enormously pleased with her pink parasol, and after enthusiastic thanks to the donors, she raised it, and holding it over her head at a coquettish angle, she walked away to a broken-down rustic seat under a tree, and, posing herself in what she felt sure was a graceful attitude, proceeded to sit there and enjoy her welcome gift.

But when, last of all, the can of ice cream was presented, the joy of the Dunn children found vociferous expression. Hoopsy Topsy turned somersaults to show her delight, while Dibbs yelled for very glee. Carefully putting down her parasol, and laying it aside, the Elegant Ella sauntered over to where the family were gathered round the wonderful can. "Don't be in such haste," she said, reprovingly, to the boisterous children, "sit down quietly, and I will arrange that the ice cream shall be served properly."

This was too much for the amused observers in the carriage, and, picking up the reins, Uncle Steve, with a hasty good-by, drove away.

The girls leaned out of the carriage to get a last glimpse of the Elegant Ella, and saw her still trying to quell the noisy impatience of the smaller children, but apparently with little success.

"Now our duty's done, and well done," said Uncle Steve, gayly; "and now we'll go for our justly-earned reward. You chickadees may each select your favorite flavor of ice cream and then we'll get a goodly portion of each, with a fair share thrown in for Grandma and myself."

The result was a very large-sized wooden tub, which they managed to stow away in the carriage somehow, and then they drove rapidly homeward that they might enjoy their little feast in Marjorie's porch.



Chapter XIX

The Old Well


During August the weather became excessively hot. Grandma Sherwood managed to keep the house cool by careful adjustment of awnings, blinds, and screens, but out-of-doors it was stifling.

Midge and Molly did not mind the heat much, and played out of doors all day, but Stella wilted under the sun's direct rays, and usually her mother kept her indoors until the late afternoon.

But one day the intense heat became almost too much even for the other two little girls. They had been romping in the barn, and finally sat down in the hay, very red-faced and warm.

"What can we do," said Molly, "to get cooler?"

"Let's go down by the river," said Marjorie; "it must be cooler by the water."

"Not a bit of it. The sun's too bright down there. Let's walk in the woods."

"The woods are so hot; there isn't a bit of breeze in there."

In sheer idleness of spirit the girls got up and wandered aimlessly about. Going down through the garden and across the chicken-yard, they paused a moment by the old well to get a drink.

As they turned the windlass and drew up a full bucket of water, while the empty one went down, Molly was seized with an inspiration.

"Mopsy Midget!" she exclaimed. "I'll tell you the very thing! Let's go down the well, and get cooled off!"

"How can we?" said Marjorie, who was quite ready to go, but couldn't see her way clear as to the means of transportation.

"Why, as easy as anything! You go down in one bucket, and I'll go down in the other."

"We can't get in these buckets."

"Of course not, goosey; but we can get our feet in, and then stand up, and hold on by the chain."

"We can't get our feet in flat, the buckets aren't wide enough." As she spoke, Marjorie stood on one foot and examined the sole of her other shoe, which was certainly longer than the diameter of the bucket.

"Oh, don't fuss so! We can stand on our toes a little bit. Come on -- I'll go first."

"All right," and Marjorie began to enter into the spirit of the thing; "there can't be any danger, because Carter said the water was low in the well."

"Yes, all the wells are low just now -- it's such dry weather. But, anyway, we won't go down as far as the water. Now listen: I'll get in this bucket and start down. You pull the other one up, and when you get it up here, pour out the water and get in yourself, and then come on down. But don't let my bucket go all the way down, because I don't want to go into the water. Put a stick through the chain when I holler up for you to do so."

"All right; hop in, it will be lots of fun, and we'll surely get cooled off."

So, while the bucket stood on the flat stones of the well-curb, Molly stepped in and wound her thin little arms around the chain.

"Push me off," she said to Marjorie, "and hang on to the other side of the chain so I won't go too fast."

"Yes, but who's going to push me off when I go down?"

"Oh, you can wriggle yourself off. Here, don't push me, I'll push off myself and show you how."

Grasping the other chain and partly supporting herself by that means, Molly, with her feet in the bucket, wriggled and pushed until the bucket went off the edge of the curb and began to slide down the well. The other bucket came up from under the water with a splash, and as both girls held the upcoming chain, Molly did not go down too fast.

"It's great!" she exclaimed, as she went slowly down. "It's perfectly lovely! It's as cold as an ice-box and the stones are all green and mossy. Look out now, Mops, I'm coming to the other bucket."

The two buckets bumped together, and Molly grabbed at the other one as it passed.

"Now, look out, Mopsy," she said, "I'm going to let go of this other bucket and then I'll only have my own chain to hang on to, so you manage it right and stick the stick through the chain when I tell you to."

The plan worked pretty well, except that it was not easy for Marjorie to keep the water-filled bucket back to balance Molly's weight. It required all her strength to pull on the upcoming chain, and she was glad, indeed, when Molly told her to push the stick in.

A stout stick pushed through a link of chain held the windlass firmly, and as Marjorie lifted the bucket full of water up on to the curb, rash little Molly swung daringly deep in the well below.

"It's awfully queer," she called up, "and I don't like it very much so low down. Gracious, Marjorie, you spilled that water all over me!"

For Marjorie had thoughtlessly emptied the water from the bucket back into the well instead of pouring it out on the ground, and though Molly's bucket swung to one side of the well, yet the child was pretty well splashed with the falling water.

But undaunted by trifles of that sort, Molly proceeded gayly to give her orders. "Now, Midget," she went on, "if your bucket's empty, set it near the edge, and get in and come on down."

Though not as absolutely reckless as Molly, Midget was daring enough, and, placing the empty bucket on the very edge of the curb, she put her feet in, and, standing on her toes with her heels against the side of the bucket, she wound her arms about the chain as Molly had done, and twisted about until the bucket fell off the edge.

Had the girls been more nearly of equal weight, their plan would have worked better; but as Marjorie was so much heavier than Molly, the laws of gravitation claimed her, and she went swiftly down.

The instant that she started, Molly realized this, and her quick wits told her that, unless stopped, Marjorie's bucket would dive deep into the water.

It was a critical situation, and had it not been for Molly's presence of mind a tragedy might have resulted. As it was, she bravely grasped at Marjorie as she passed her; and with a sudden bump, as the two buckets hit together and then fell apart, Molly clutched at Marjorie, and the buckets paused side by side, while the girls shivered and shook, partly with fear and partly with fun.

"What are we going to do?" said Molly. "If I let go of you, you'll go smash into the water, and I'll fly up to the top!"

"Keep hold of me, then," replied Midget, who had a wonderful power of adapting herself to a situation.

And so the two girls, each with one hand grasping a bucket chain and their other hands tightly clasped, stood face to face half-way down the old well.

"I don't think this is such an awfully nice place," said Marjorie, looking round at the slimy green walls which shone wet in the semi-darkness.

"Well, it's cool," retorted Molly, who was shivering in her wet clothing.

"Of course it's cool, but my feet ache, standing on my toes so long. I wonder if I couldn't sit down on the side of the bucket."

"Don't try!" exclaimed Molly, in alarm. "You'll keel over and upset us both into the water!"

"You said the water wasn't deep; perhaps it's only up to our knees; that wouldn't hurt us."

"Yes, and perhaps it's over our heads! I don't know how deep it is, I'm sure; but I must say it looks deep."

The girls peered downward and saw only a black, shining surface, with a shadowy reflection of themselves.

"Well, I've had enough of it," said Marjorie; "now, how are we going to get back again?"

"I don't know," said Molly, slowly, as if the idea had just occurred to her; "honest, Marjorie, I DON'T know."

Marjorie looked dismayed, and, indeed, so did Molly herself.

"You see," Molly went on, feeling as if she were responsible for the situation, "I forgot you're so much heavier than I am. You know the two buckets balance each other."

"Not when one is full and one is empty."

"No; but THEN there is somebody at the top to pull them up. If Carter or anybody was up there, he could pull one of us up."

"Yes, and let the other one go down in the water!"

"No; when one of us was nearly up, he could put the stick in the chain, like you did."

"Well, Carter isn't up there; I wish he was. We might scream for him, but, of course, he couldn't hear us from way down here."

"Let's try, anyway."

Both the girls screamed with all their might, separately and together, but they soon realized that their muffled voices scarcely reached the top of the well, let alone sounding across the fields to Carter.

"This is mischief, for sure," said Marjorie; "and Grandma won't like it a bit. I promised her faithfully I would try to keep out of mischief." The little girl's face was very troubled, for she had truly meant to be good and not indulge in naughty pranks.

"You didn't mean it for mischief," said Molly, consolingly; "I'm sure I didn't."

"Of course I didn't; but somehow I never seem to know what IS mischief until I get into it. But, oh, Molly, I can't stand on my toes any longer. If my feet were a little shorter, or the bucket a little wider, I could stand down flat."

"I don't seem to mind tiptoeing," said Molly; "can't you take off your shoes? Then, perhaps, you could stand flat."

"Perhaps I could," said Marjorie, doubtfully, "but I know I'll upset doing it."

But with Molly's help, and both holding carefully by the chains, Marjorie managed to get her shoes off, and tied them to the handle of the bucket by their strings.

"Well, that's a comfort," she exclaimed, as she stood firmly on the soles of her stockinged feet.

But as the minutes passed away, the girls rapidly became aware of the discomforts of their position. Their hands became bruised with the chains, their bodies grew stiff and cramped, and the damp, cold atmosphere seemed almost to stop the blood in their veins.

The two little white faces looked at each other in the glimmering twilight of the well, and all the fun faded out of the escapade, and despair gradually crept over them.

Two big tears rolled down Marjorie's cheeks as she said:

"I'm not going to cry, Molly, because there's no use of it; but, oh, Molly, what ARE we going to do?"

"I don't know, Mops. There isn't a thing to do but to stay here until Carter or somebody happens to come to draw water. You won't faint or anything, will you?"

"I don't know," said Marjorie, almost smiling at Molly's alarmed expression; "I don't believe I will, because I don't know how to faint. If I knew how I s'pose I would, for I don't think I can stay like this much longer."

Marjorie's head began to sway back and forth, and Molly, thoroughly frightened, seized her by the shoulder and shook her vigorously.

"Marjorie Maynard!" she exclaimed. "If you faint and tumble out of this bucket, I'll never speak to you again as long as I live!"

Her excited tones roused Marjorie from the faintness that was beginning to steal over her.

"I don't want to fall into the water," she said, shuddering.

"Well, then, brace up and behave yourself! Stand up straight in your bucket and hang on to the chains. Don't look down; that was what made you feel faint. We're here and we must make the best of it. We can't get out until somebody comes, so let's be plucky and do the best we can."

"Pooh! Molly Moss! I guess I can be as brave as you can! I'm not going to faint, or tumble into the water, or do anything silly! Now that I don't have to stand on tiptoe, I could stand here all day, -- and Carter's bound to come for water for the cows."

Then what did those two ridiculous girls do but bravely try to outdo each other in their exhibition of pluck!

Neither complained again of weariness or cramped muscles, and finally Marjorie proposed that they tell each other stories to make the time pass, pleasantly. The stories were not very interesting affairs, for both speaker and listener were really suffering from pain and chill.

At last Molly said: "Suppose we scream some more. If Carter should be passing by, you know, he might hear us."

Marjorie was quite willing to adopt this plan, and after that they screamed at intervals on the chance of being heard.

Two mortal hours the girls hung in the well before help came, and then Carter, passing near the well, heard what seemed to him like a faint and muffled cry.

Scarcely thinking it could be the children, he paused and listened.

Again he heard a vague sound, which seemed as if it might be his own name called in despairing tones.

Guided more by instinct than reason, he went and looked over the well-curb, and was greeted with two jubilant voices, which called up to him:

"Oh, Carter, Carter, pull us up! We're down the well, and we're nearly dead!"

"Oh, my! oh, my!" groaned Carter. "Are ye drowned?"



Chapter XX

An Eventful Day


"Not a bit," chirped Midget, who was determined to be plucky to the last; "we just came down here to get cooled off, and somehow we can't get up."

"Well, if ye aren't a team of Terrors!" exclaimed the exasperated Carter. "I've a good mind to let ye stay down there and GET cooled off!"

Carter was really frightened, but Marjorie's voice was so reassuring that his mood turned to anger at the children's foolishness. As he looked into the situation, however, and saw the girls clasping each other as they hung half-way down the well, his alarm returned.

"How CAN I get ye up, ye bad babies! Whichever one I pull up, the other one must go down and drown!"

The reaction was beginning to tell upon Molly, and her bravery was oozing out at her fingerends.

"Let me down," she wailed, brokenly; "it was all my fault. Save Marjorie and let me go!"

"No, indeed," cried Marjorie, gripping Molly closer; "I'm the heaviest. Let me go down and pull Molly up, Carter."

"Quit your nonsense, Miss Midget, and let me think a minute. For the life of me I don't know how to get ye out of this scrape, but I must manage it somehow."

"It's easy enough, Carter," cried Marjorie, whose gayety had returned now that a rescue seemed probable. "You pull me up first and let Molly go down, but not as far as the water, -- and when I get nearly up, there's a stick through the chain that will stop me. Then I'll get out, and you can pull Molly up after."

But Molly's nerve was almost gone. "Don't leave me," she cried, clutching frantically at Midge. "Don't send me down alone, I'm so frightened!"

"But, Molly dear, it's the only way! I'd just as leave let you go up first, but I'm so heavy I'd drop ker-splash! and you'd go flying up!" But Molly wouldn't agree to go down, and she began to cry hysterically. So Carter settled the question.

"It's no use, Miss Midget," he called down, in a stern voice, "to try to send Miss Molly down. She's in no state to take care of herself, and you are. Now be a brave little lady and obey my word and I'll save you both; but if you don't mind me exactly, ye'll be drowned for sure!"

Marjorie was pretty well scared at Molly's collapse, and she agreed to do whatever Carter commanded.

"All right, then," said Carter. "Do you two let go of each other and each hang tightly to her own chain, and push your buckets apart as far as you can, but don't hit the sides of the well."

Somewhat inspirited at the thought of rescue, Molly took a firm hold of her chain and pushed herself loose from Marjorie. Marjorie had faith in Carter's promises, but she felt a sinking at her heart as she began to descend the dark well and came nearer and nearer to the black water.

With great care, Carter drew up the bucketful of Molly, and when Midge's bucket was still at a safe distance above the water, he stayed the chain with a stick, and pulled Molly the rest of the way up merely by his own strong muscles.

He safely landed the bucket on the curb, and picking the exhausted child out, laid her on the grass, without a word.

He then went back to the well and spoke very decidedly to Marjorie.

"Miss Midget," he said, "now I'll pull ye up, but ye must do your share of helpin'. When ye reach the other bucket, shove it aside, that it doesn't hit ye. Stand straight and hold tight, now!"

Marjorie did as she was told, and, slowly but steadily, Carter pulled her up. At last she, too, was once again out in the sunlight, and she and Molly sat on the grass and looked at each other, uncertain whether to laugh or cry.

"It was a narrow escape," said Carter, shaking his head at them, "and what puts such wicked mischief into your heads, I don't know. But it's not for me to be reprovin' ye. March into the house now, and tell your Grandma about it, and see what she says."

"I'll go in," said Marjorie, "but if you'd rather, Molly, you can go home. I'll tell Grandma about it, myself."

"No," said Molly, "it was my fault. I coaxed you into it, and I'm going to tell your grandma about it."

"I was just as much to blame as you, for I didn't have to go down the well just because you coaxed me. But I'll be glad if you will come with me, for, of course, we can explain it better together."

Hand in hand the two culprits walked into the room where Mrs. Sherwood sat sewing.

They were a sorry-looking pair, indeed! Their pretty gingham frocks were limp and stringy with dampness, and soiled and stained from contact with the buckets and the moss-grown sides of the well.

Marjorie had been unable to get her shoes on over her damp, torn stockings, and as Molly's head had been drenched with water, she presented a forlorn appearance.

Grandma Sherwood looked at them with an expression, not so much of surprise, as amused exasperation.

"I'm glad you weren't killed," she said, "but you look as if you had come very near it. What have you been up to now?"

"We haven't been up at all, Grandma," said Marjorie, cheerfully, "we've been down -- in the well."

"In the well!" exclaimed Mrs. Sherwood, her face blank with surprise. "Marjorie, what can I do with you? I shall have to send you home before your vacation is over, unless you stop getting into mischief! Did you fall down?"

"It was my fault, Mrs. Sherwood," said Molly; "truly, I didn't mean mischief, but it was such a hot day and I thought it would be cool down the well -- "

"And it was," interrupted Marjorie; "and we had a pretty good time, -- only I was too heavy and I went down whizz -- zip! And Molly came flying up, and if we hadn't caught each other, I s'pect we'd both have been drowned!"

Grandma Sherwood began to realize that there had been not only mischief but real danger in this latest escapade.

"Molly," she said, "you may go home, and tell your mother about it, and I will talk it over with Marjorie. I think you were equally to blame, for, though Molly proposed the plan, Marjorie ought not to have consented."

So Molly went home and Mrs. Sherwood had a long and serious talk with her little granddaughter. She did not scold, -- Grandma Sherwood never scolded, -- but she explained to Marjorie that, unless she curbed her impulsive inclinations to do reckless things, she would certainly make serious trouble for herself and her friends.

"It doesn't matter at all," she said, "who proposes the mischief. You do just as wrong in consenting to take part, as if you invented the plan yourself."

"But, Grandma, truly I didn't see any harm in going down the well to get cooled off. The buckets are big and the chains are very strong, and I thought we would just go down slowly and swing around awhile and pull ourselves up again."

"Oh, Midget, will you never learn commonsense? I know you're only twelve, but it seems as if you ought to know better than to do such absurd things."

"It does seem so, Grandma, and I'll try to learn. Perhaps if you punish me for this I'll grow better. Punishment most always does me good."

Grandma Sherwood suppressed a smile.

"I always punish you, Midget, when you do wrong through forgetfulness, because I think punishment helps your memory. But I don't think you'll ever FORGET that you're not to go down the well again. But next time it will be some other dreadful thing; something totally different, and something that it would never occur to me to warn you against. However, I do want you to remember not to do things that endanger your life, so I think I shall punish you for this morning's performance. You may remain in your own room all the afternoon, -- at least, until Uncle Steve comes home."

Grandma's command was not so much for the sake of punishing Marjorie as the thought that the child really needed a quiet afternoon of rest after her experience of the morning.

Marjorie sighed a little, but accepted her fate, and after dinner went to her room to spend the afternoon. It was not a great hardship, for there was plenty of entertainment there, and had it been a rainy day, she could have occupied herself happily. But the knowledge that she was there as a punishment weighed on her mind, and depressed her spirits; and she wandered idly about the room, unable to take an interest in her books or toys.

Grandma looked in from time to time and gave her an encouraging smile and a few words of comfort; for, though intending to be strict with Midget, like all other grandmas, Mrs. Sherwood greatly preferred to be indulgent.

After a while Molly came over, and, as she seemed so penitent and full of remorse, Mrs. Sherwood told her that, if she chose, she might go up to Marjorie's room and share her imprisonment.

Nothing loath, Molly trotted upstairs, and the lonesome Marjorie was glad, indeed, to see her. After a short discussion of the affair of the morning, Marjorie said, with her usual inclination to keep away from disagreeable subjects: "Don't let's talk about it any more. Let's have some good fun up here. I'm so glad Grandma let you come up."

"All right," said Molly, "what shall we do?"

"Let's make paper dresses. Here's a stack of newspapers Grandma was going to throw away, and I saved them."

"Goody! What fun! Shall we pin or sew?"

"We'll pin till the pins give out, and then we'll sew."

"Paper dresses" was a favorite pastime with the children. Usually Stella was with them, and they depended a good deal on her taste and skill. But to-day they had to manage without her, and so the dresses, though fairly well made, were not the fashionable garments Stella turned out.

A whole double sheet of newspaper was long enough for a skirt, which, in a paper dress, was always down to the floor, like grown-up gowns, and usually had a long train. Sometimes they pasted the papers together, and sometimes pinned or sewed them, as the mood served.

The waists were often quite elaborate with surplice folds, and puffy sleeves, and wide, crushed belts.

So absorbed did they grow in their costumes that the time passed rapidly. At last they stood, admiring each other, in their finished paper gowns, with paper accessories of fans, hats, and even parasols, which were considered great works of art.

"Let's play we're going riding in an automobile," said Molly.

"All right; what shall be the automobile -- the bed?"

"No, that isn't high enough. I don't mean a private automobile, I mean one of those big touring things where you sit 'way up high."

"Let's get up on top of the wardrobe."

"No, that's too high, and the bureau isn't high enough. Let's get out on the roof and hang our feet over."

"No," said Marjorie, decidedly; "that would be getting into mischief; and besides, I promised Grandma I wouldn't leave the room. Come on, Molly, let's climb up on the wardrobe. There can't be any harm in that, and 'twill be lots of fun."

"How can we get up?"

Marjorie looked at the wardrobe and meditated. "Easy enough," she said after a moment: "we'll just put a chair on the table and climb up as nice as pie!"

The girls worked energetically, yet careful not to tear their paper costumes; and removing the things from a strong square table, they pushed it up to the wardrobe. On this they set a chair, and Marjorie volunteered to go up first, saying that, if it didn't break down with her, it surely wouldn't with Molly.

So Molly held the table firmly, while Marjorie climbed up and, though it required some scrambling, she finally reached the top of the heavy wardrobe, without more than a dozen tears in her paper dress.

"Bring up my parasol, Molly," she said, "I forgot it; and bring some papers and the scissors, and we'll make some automobile goggles."

Laden with these things, Molly briskly started to climb up. The light, wiry child sprang easily on to the table, and then on to the chair. Marjorie lent a helping hand, but just as Molly crawled up to the top of the wardrobe, her flying foot kicked the chair over, which in turn upset the table.

"Now, you HAVE done it!" said Marjorie. "How are we going to get down?"

"It seems to me," said Molly, grimly, "that we're always getting into places where we can't get down, or can't get up, or something."

"Never mind; Jane or somebody will come along soon and set the table up again for us."

It really was great fun to play they were on a high motor car seeing New York. But after a while the game palled, and their paper dresses became torn, and the girls wanted to get down and play something else.

But neither Jane nor any one else happened to come along, and though Marjorie called a few times, nobody seemed to be within hearing.

"I should think we could find some way to get down," said Molly. "Can't you think of any way, Mops?"

Marjorie considered. To jump was out of the question, as it would probably mean a sprained ankle.

"I wish we had a rope ladder," she said, "and, Molly, I do believe we can make one. Not a ladder, exactly, but don't you know how people sometimes escape from prisons by tying sheets together and letting themselves down?"

"Yes, but we haven't any sheets."

"I know it, but we can take our dress skirts. Not the paper ones, but our own gingham ones. They're strong, thick stuff, and we can tie them together somehow and let ourselves down that way."

Although obliged to work in somewhat cramped quarters, the girls managed to take off their dress skirts, and, as they were very full, one of them was really sufficient to reach far enough down the side of the wardrobe to make a jump possible.

"I'll tell you what," said Marjorie: "let's tie the two together at the corners like this, and then put it right across the top of the wardrobe, and each of us slide down on opposite sides."

When the full skirts were stretched out to their greatest width and tied together by their hems, at what Marjorie called a corner, the girls flung the whole affair across the top of the wardrobe, and sure enough, the skirts hung down on either side to within four or five feet of the floor, which was quite near enough to jump.

So thick and strong was the material, there was really no danger of tearing it, and in great glee the girls grasped their life-line and half slid, half clambered down.

They came down on the floor with a sudden thump, but in safety. All would have been well had they had sense enough to let go of their gingham skirts, but, doubled up with laughter, they clung to them, with the result that a sudden and unintentional jerk forward brought the whole wardrobe over on its face, and it fell crashing to the floor.

Such a racket as it made! It fell upon a small table, whose load of vases and bric-a-brac was totally wrecked. It also smashed a chair and very nearly hit the bird-cage.

And just at this moment, of all times, Uncle Steve appeared at the door!

Although dismayed at the catastrophe, Uncle Steve couldn't help laughing at the astonished faces of the two girls. For, jubilant at the success of their descent, the accompanying disaster had been thrust on them so suddenly that they scarcely knew what it all meant. And costumed as they were, in their little ruffled white petticoats, with hats and bodices made of newspaper, the sight was a comical one indeed.

"Marjorie Maynard!" exclaimed Uncle Steve, "you certainly DO beat the Dutch, and Molly lends you valuable aid. Would you mind telling me WHY you prefer the wardrobe flat on its face instead of in an upright position?"

"Oh, Uncle Steve it upset itself, and I'm so sorry!"

"Oh, well, if it upset itself I suppose it did so because it prefers to lie that way. Probably it was tired and wanted to rest. Wardrobes are a lazy lot, anyway. But do you know, I was stupid enough to think that you girls had something to do with its downfall."

"Oh, we did, Uncle Steve," declared Marjorie, and as by this time her uncle's arm was around her, and she realized his sympathetic attitude in the matter, she rapidly began to tell him all about it.

"We were playing automobile, you see -- "

"Oh, well, if it was an automobile accident, it's not at all surprising. Was it reckless driving, or did you collide with something?"

"We collided with the table," said Marjorie, laughing; but just then Grandma Sherwood appeared, and somehow the look of consternation on her face seemed to take all the fun out of the whole affair.

But Uncle Steve stood between Marjorie and a reprimand, and in consequence of his comical explanation of the disaster, Mrs. Sherwood fell to laughing, and the tragedy became a comedy.

And then, at Uncle Steve's orders, the girls were made tidy, and he took them out for a drive, while the long-suffering Carter was called in to remove all evidences of the dreadful automobile accident.



Chapter XXI

A Farewell Tea-Party


The summer, as all summers will do, came to an end, and at last it was the very day before Marjorie was to leave Haslemere and go back to her own home.

The three friends were having a farewell tea-party at "Breezy Inn," and very sad were the three little faces at the thought of parting.

"And the worst of it is," said Midget, "I can't come again for four years, and then I'll be sixteen years old, just think of that!"

"So will I," said Molly; "we'll be almost young ladies. Isn't it horrid?"

"At least we won't get into such mischief," said Marjorie, laughing as she remembered the scrapes they had been in all summer. "And next year it's Kitty's turn to come, and you'll have fun with her here in "Breezy Inn," and I won't be here."

At this pathetic announcement, Stella began to cry in earnest, and merry Molly tried to cheer the others up.

"Well, we can't help it," she said, "and I suppose, Marjorie, you'll be having a good time somewhere else."

"I s'pose so. They were all at the seashore this summer, and Kitty wrote to me that she had had a lovely time."

"Maybe she'll trade off with you," said Stella, "and let you come up here next summer, while she goes to the seashore again."

"Maybe she will," said Midget, brightening up; "I'd like that, but I don't believe Mother will let us. You see, we take regular turns spending the summer with Grandma. Baby Rosamond never has been yet, but when it's her turn again, she'll be old enough, and so that puts me off for four years."

"Don't let's talk about it," said Molly, as she took her eleventh ginger-snap from the plate; "we can't help it, and we may as well look on the bright side. Let's write letters to each other this winter; shall we?"

"Yes, indeed," said Stella; "I'll write you every week, Marjorie, and you must write to me, and we'll all send each other Christmas presents, and, of course 'Breezy Inn' will be shut up for the winter anyway, I suppose."

"I suppose it will," said Marjorie, "and I s'pose it's time for us to go now; it's six o'clock."

There was a little choke in her voice as she said this, and a little mist in her eyes as she looked for the last time at the familiar treasures of "Breezy Inn."

Stella was weeping undisguisedly, and with her wet little mop of a handkerchief pressed into her eyes, she could scarcely see her way down the ladder.

But Uncle Steve, who came across the fields to meet them, promptly put a stop to this state of things.

"That's enough," he said, "of weeps and wails! Away with your handkerchiefs and out with your smiles, every one of you! Suppose Marjorie IS going away to-morrow, she's going off in a blaze of glory and amid shouts of laughter, and she's not going to leave behind any such doleful-looking creatures as you two tearful maidens."

Uncle Steve's manner was infectiously cheery, and the girls obeyed him in spite of themselves.

And so, when the next morning Uncle Steve drove Marjorie to the station, the girls were not allowed to go with her, but were commanded to wave gay and laughing good-bys after her until she was out of sight.

And so, all through the winter Marjorie's last recollection of Haslemere was of Molly and Stella standing on her own little porch waving two handkerchiefs apiece and smiling gayly as they called out:

"Good-by, Marjorie! Good-by, Mopsy Midget! Good-by!"

<eob>

The Diary Of A Goose Girl

By

Kate Douglas Wiggin



Chapter I.


{Thornycroft House: p1a.jpg}

THORNYCROFT FARM, near Barbury Green, July 1, 190-.

{Picture of woman and goose: p1b.jpg}

In alluding to myself as a Goose Girl, I am using only the most modest of my titles; for I am also a poultry-maid, a tender of Belgian hares and rabbits, and a shepherdess; but I particularly fancy the role of Goose Girl, because it recalls the German fairy tales of my early youth, when I always yearned, but never hoped, to be precisely what I now am.

As I was jolting along these charming Sussex roads the other day, a fat buff pony and a tippy cart being my manner of progression, I chanced upon the village of Barbury Green.

One glance was enough for any woman, who, having eyes to see, could see with them; but I made assurance doubly sure by driving about a little, struggling to conceal my new-born passion from the stable-boy who was my escort. Then, it being high noon of a cloudless day, I descended from the trap and said to the astonished yokel: "You may go back to the Hydropathic; I am spending a month or two here. Wait a moment -- I'll send a message, please!"

I then scribbled a word or two to those having me in custody.

"I am very tired of people," the note ran, "and want to rest myself by living a while with things. Address me (if you must) at Barbury Green post-office, or at all events send me a box of simple clothing there -- nothing but shirts and skirts, please. I cannot forget that I am only twenty miles from Oxenbridge (though it might be one hundred and twenty, which is the reason I adore it), but I rely upon you to keep an honourable distance yourselves, and not to divulge my place of retreat to others, especially to -- you know whom! Do not pursue me. I will never be taken alive!"

Having cut, thus, the cable that bound me to civilisation, and having seen the buff pony and the dazed yokel disappear in a cloud of dust, I looked about me with what Stevenson calls a "fine, dizzy, muddle-headed joy," the joy of a successful rebel or a liberated serf. Plenty of money in my purse -- that was unromantic, of course, but it simplified matters -- and nine hours of daylight remaining in which to find a lodging.

{Life converges there, just at the public duck-pond: p3.jpg}

The village is one of the oldest, and I am sure it must be one of the quaintest, in England. It is too small to be printed on the map (an honour that has spoiled more than one Arcadia), so pray do not look there, but just believe in it, and some day you may be rewarded by driving into it by chance, as I did, and feel the same Columbus thrill running, like an electric current, through your veins. I withhold specific geographical information in order that you may not miss that Columbus thrill, which comes too seldom in a world of railroads.

The Green is in the very centre of Barbury village, and all civic, political, family, and social life converges there, just at the public duck-pond -- a wee, sleepy lake with a slope of grass-covered stones by which the ducks descend for their swim.

The houses are set about the Green like those in a toy village. They are of old brick, with crumpled, up-and-down roofs of deep-toned red, and tufts of stonecrop growing from the eaves. Diamond-paned windows, half open, admit the sweet summer air; and as for the gardens in front, it would seem as if the inhabitants had nothing to do but work in them, there is such a riotous profusion of colour and bloom. To add to the effect, there are always pots of flowers hanging from the trees, blue flax and yellow myrtle; and cages of Java sparrows and canaries singing joyously, as well they may in such a paradise.

{The houses are set about the Green: p5.jpg}

The shops are idyllic, too, as if Nature had seized even the man of trade and made him subservient to her designs. The general draper's, where I fitted myself out for a day or two quite easily, is set back in a tangle of poppies and sweet peas, Madonna lilies and Canterbury bells. The shop itself has a gay awning, and what do you think the draper has suspended from it, just as a picturesque suggestion to the passer-by? Suggestion I call it, because I should blush to use the word advertisement in describing anything so dainty and decorative. Well, then, garlands of shoes, if you please! Baby bootlets of bronze; tiny ankle-ties in yellow, blue, and scarlet kid; glossy patent-leather pumps shining in the sun, with festoons of slippers at the corners, flowery slippers in imitation Berlin wool-work. If you make this picture in your mind's-eye, just add a window above the awning, and over the fringe of marigolds in the window-box put the draper's wife dancing a rosy-cheeked baby. Alas! my words are only black and white, I fear, and this picture needs a palette drenched in primary colours.

Along the street, a short distance, is the old watchmaker's. Set in the hedge at the gate is a glass case with Multum in Parvo painted on the woodwork. Within, a little stand of trinkets revolves slowly; as slowly, I imagine, as the current of business in that quiet street. The house stands a trifle back and is covered thickly with ivy, while over the entrance-door of the shop is a great round clock set in a green frame of clustering vine. The hands pointed to one when I passed the watchmaker's garden with its thicket of fragrant lavender and its murmuring bees; so I went in to the sign of the "Strong i' the Arm" for some cold luncheon, determining to patronise "The Running Footman" at the very next opportunity. Neither of these inns is starred by Baedeker, and this fact adds the last touch of enchantment to the picture.

The landlady at the "Strong i' the Arm" stabbed me in the heart by telling me that there were no apartments to let in the village, and that she had no private sitting-room in the inn; but she speedily healed the wound by saying that I might be accommodated at one of the farm-houses in the vicinity. Did I object to a farm-'ouse? Then she could cheerfully recommend the Evan's farm, only 'alf a mile away. She 'ad understood from Miss Phoebe Evan, who sold her poultry, that they would take one lady lodger if she didn't wish much waiting upon.

In my present mood I was in search of the strenuous life, and eager to wait, rather than to be waited upon; so I walked along the edge of the Green, wishing that some mentally unbalanced householder would take a sudden fancy to me and ask me to come in and lodge awhile. I suppose these families live under their roofs of peach-blow tiles, in the midst of their blooming gardens, for a guinea a week or thereabouts; yet if they "undertook" me (to use their own phrase), the bill for my humble meals and bed would be at least double that. I don't know that I blame them; one should have proper compensation for admitting a world-stained lodger into such an Eden.

When I was searching for rooms a week ago, I chanced upon a pretty cottage where the woman had sometimes let apartments. She showed me the premises and asked me if I would mind taking my meals in her own dining - room, where I could be served privately at certain hours: and, since she had but the one sitting-room, would I allow her to go on using it occasionally? also, if I had no special preference, would I take the second-sized bedroom and leave her in possession of the largest one, which permitted her to have the baby's crib by her bedside? She thought I should be quite as comfortable, and it was her opinion that in making arrangements with lodgers, it was a good plan not to "bryke up the 'ome any more than was necessary."

"Bryke up the 'ome!" That is seemingly the malignant purpose with which I entered Barbury Green.



Chapter II


July 4th.

Enter the family of Thornycroft Farm, of which I am already a member in good and regular standing.

I introduce Mrs. Heaven first, for she is a self-saturated person who would never forgive the insult should she receive any lower place.

She welcomed me with the statement: "We do not take lodgers here, nor boarders; no lodgers, nor boarders, but we do occasionally admit paying guests, those who look as if they would appreciate the quietude of the plyce and be willing as you might say to remunerate according."

{Mrs. Heaven: p10.jpg}

I did not mind at this particular juncture what I was called, so long as the epithet was comparatively unobjectionable, so I am a paying guest, therefore, and I expect to pay handsomely for the handsome appellation. Mrs. Heaven is short and fat; she fills her dress as a pin-cushion fills its cover; she wears a cap and apron, and she is so full of platitudes that she would have burst had I not appeared as a providential outlet for them. Her accent is not of the farm, but of the town, and smacks wholly of the marts of trade. She is repetitious, too, as well as platitudinous. "I 'ope if there's anythink you require you will let us know, let us know," she says several times each day; and whenever she enters my sitting-room she prefaces her conversation with the remark: "I trust you are finding it quiet here, miss? It's the quietude of the plyce that is its charm, yes, the quietude. And yet" (she dribbles on) "it wears on a body after a while, miss. I often go into Woodmucket to visit one of my sons just for the noise, simply for the noise, miss, for nothink else in the world but the noise. There's nothink like noise for soothing nerves that is worn threadbare with the quietude, miss, or at least that's my experience; and yet to a strynger the quietude of the plyce is its charm, undoubtedly its chief charm; and that is what our paying guests always say, although our charges are somewhat higher than other plyces. If there's anythink you require, miss, I 'ope you'll mention it. There is not a commodious assortment in Barbury Green, but we can always send the pony to Woodmucket in case of urgency. Our paying guest last summer was a Mrs. Pollock, and she was by way of having sudden fancies. Young and unmarried though you are, miss, I think you will tyke my meaning without my speaking plyner? Well, at six o'clock of a rainy afternoon, she was seized with an unaccountable desire for vegetable marrows, and Mr. 'Eaven put the pony in the cart and went to Woodmucket for them, which is a great advantage to be so near a town and yet 'ave the quietude."

{Mr. Heaven: p11.jpg}

Mr. Heaven is merged, like Mr. Jellyby, in the more shining qualities of his wife. A line of description is too long for him. Indeed, I can think of no single word brief enough, at least in English. The Latin "nil" will do, since no language is rich in words of less than three letters. He is nice, kind, bald, timid, thin, and so colourless that he can scarcely be discerned save in a strong light. When Mrs. Heaven goes out into the orchard in search of him, I can hardly help calling from my window, "Bear a trifle to the right, Mrs. Heaven -- now to the left -- just in front of you now -- if you put out your hands you will touch him."

Phoebe, aged seventeen, is the daughter of the house. She is virtuous, industrious, conscientious, and singularly destitute of physical charm. She is more than plain; she looks as if she had been planned without any definite purpose in view, made of the wrong materials, been badly put together, and never properly finished off; but "plain" after all is a relative word. Many a plain girl has been married for her beauty; and now and then a beauty, falling under a cold eye, has been thought plain.

Phoebe has her compensations, for she is beloved by, and reciprocates the passion of, the Woodmancote carrier, Woodmucket being the English manner of pronouncing the place of his abode. If he "carries" as energetically for the great public as he fetches for Phoebe, then he must be a rising and a prosperous man. He brings her daily, wild strawberries, cherries, birds' nests, peacock feathers, sea-shells, green hazel-nuts, samples of hens' food, or bouquets of wilted field flowers tied together tightly and held with a large, moist, loving hand. He has fine curly hair of sandy hue, which forms an aureole on his brow, and a reddish beard, which makes another inverted aureole to match, round his chin. One cannot look at him, especially when the sun shines through him, without thinking how lovely he would be if stuffed and set on wheels, with a little string to drag him about.

{The Woodmancote carrier: p13.jpg}

Phoebe confided to me that she was on the eve of loving the postman when the carrier came across her horizon.

"It doesn't do to be too hysty, does it, miss?" she asked me as we were weeding the onion bed. "I was to give the postman his answer on the Monday night, and it was on the Monday morning that Mr. Gladwish made his first trip here as carrier. I may say I never wyvered from that moment, and no more did he. When I think how near I came to promising the postman it gives me a turn." (I can understand that, for I once met the man I nearly promised years before to marry, and we both experienced such a sense of relief at being free instead of bound that we came near falling in love for sheer joy.)

{Picture of toy on wheels: p14.jpg}

The last and most important member of the household is the Square Baby. His name is Albert Edward, and he is really five years old and no baby at all; but his appearance on this planet was in the nature of a complete surprise to all parties concerned, and he is spoiled accordingly. He has a square head and jaw, square shoulders, square hands and feet. He is red and white and solid and stolid and slow-witted, as the young of his class commonly are, and will make a bulwark of the nation in course of time, I should think; for England has to produce a few thousand such square babies every year for use in the colonies and in the standing army. Albert Edward has already a military gait, and when he has acquired a habit of obedience at all comparable with his power of command, he will be able to take up the white man's burden with distinguished success. Meantime I can never look at him without marvelling how the English climate can transmute bacon and eggs, tea and the solid household loaf into such radiant roses and lilies as bloom upon his cheeks and lips.



Chapter III


July 8th.

Thornycroft is by way of being a small poultry farm.

In reaching it from Barbury Green, you take the first left-hand road, go till you drop, and there you are.

It reminds me of my "grandmother's farm at Older." Did you know the song when you were a child? -- 

My grandmother had a very fine farm 'Way down in the fields of Older. With a cluck-cluck here, And a cluck-cluck there, Here and there a cluck-cluck, Cluck-cluck here and there, Down in the fields at Older.

It goes on for ever by the simple subterfuge of changing a few words in each verse.

My grandmother had a very fine farm 'Way down in the fields of Older. With a quack-quack here, And a quack-quack there, Here and there a quack-quack, Quack-quack here and there, Down in the fields at Older.

This is followed by the gobble-gobble, moo-moo, baa-baa, etc., as long as the laureate's imagination and the infant's breath hold good. The tune is pretty, and I do not know, or did not, when I was young, a more fascinating lyric.

{The sitting hens: p17.jpg}

Thornycroft House must have belonged to a country gentleman once upon a time, or to more than one; men who built on a bit here and there once in a hundred years, until finally we have this charmingly irregular and dilapidated whole. You go up three steps into Mrs. Heaven's room, down two into mine, while Phoebe's is up in a sort of turret with long, narrow lattices opening into the creepers. There are crooked little stair-cases, passages that branch off into other passages and lead nowhere in particular; I can't think of a better house in which to play hide and seek on a wet day. In front, what was once, doubtless, a green, is cut up into greens; to wit, a vegetable garden, where the onions, turnips, and potatoes grow cosily up to the very door-sill; the utilitarian aspect of it all being varied by some scarlet-runners and a scattering of poppies on either side of the path.

The Belgian hares have their habitation in a corner fifty feet distant; one large enclosure for poultry lies just outside the sweetbrier hedge; the others, with all the houses and coops, are in the meadow at the back, where also our tumbler pigeons are kept.

Phoebe attends to the poultry; it is her department. Mr. Heaven has neither the force nor the finesse required, and the gentle reader who thinks these qualities unneeded in so humble a calling has only to spend a few days at Thornycroft to be convinced. Mrs. Heaven would be of use, but she is dressing the Square Baby in the morning and putting him to bed at night just at the hours when the feathered young things are undergoing the same operation.

A Goose Girl, like a poet, is sometimes born, sometimes otherwise. I am of the born variety. No training was necessary; I put my head on my pillow as a complicated product of modern civilisation on a Tuesday night, and on a Wednesday morning I awoke as a Goose Girl.

{Hens . . . go to bed at a virtuous hour: p19.jpg}

My destiny slumbered during the day, but at eight o'clock I heard a terrific squawking in the direction of the duck-ponds, and, aimlessly drifting in that direction, I came upon Phoebe trying to induce ducks and drakes, geese and ganders, to retire for the night. They have to be driven into enclosures behind fences of wire netting, fastened into little rat-proof boxes, or shut into separate coops, so as to be safe from their natural enemies, the rats and foxes; which, obeying, I suppose, the law of supply and demand, abound in this neighbourhood. The old ganders are allowed their liberty, being of such age, discretion, sagacity, and pugnacity that they can be trusted to fight their own battles.

{Ducks and geese . . . would roam the streets till morning: p20.jpg}

The intelligence of hens, though modest, is of such an order that it prompts them to go to bed at a virtuous hour of their own accord; but ducks and geese have to be materially assisted, or I believe they would roam till morning. Never did small boy detest and resist being carried off to his nursery as these dullards, young and old, detest and resist being driven to theirs. Whether they suffer from insomnia, or nightmare, or whether they simply prefer the sweet air of liberty (and death) to the odour of captivity and the coop, I have no means of knowing.

{The pole was not long enough: p21.jpg}

Phoebe stood by one of the duck-ponds, a long pole in her hand, and a helpless expression in that doughlike countenance of hers, where aimless contours and features unite to make a kind of facial blur. (What does the carrier see in it?) The pole was not long enough to reach the ducks, and Phoebe's method lacked spirit and adroitness, so that it was natural, perhaps, that they refused to leave the water, the evening being warm, with an uncommon fine sunset.

{They . . . waddle under the wrong fence: p22.jpg}

I saw the situation at once and ran to meet it with a glow of interest and anticipation. If there is anything in the world I enjoy, it is making somebody do something that he doesn't want to do; and if, when victory perches upon my banner, the somebody can be brought to say that he ought to have done it without my making him, that adds the unforgettable touch to pleasure, though seldom, alas! does it happen. Then ensued the delightful and stimulating hour that has now become a feature of the day; an hour in which the remembrance of the table-d'hote dinner at the Hydro, going on at identically the same time, only stirs me to a keener joy and gratitude.

{Honking and hissing like a bewildered orchestra: p23.jpg}

{Harried and pecked by the big geese: p24.jpg}